Sherlock Holmes in Russia Page 8

  ‘So, my dear chap, what have you to say to that?’ asked Holmes putting down the newspaper.

  ‘I can say that the perpetrator carefully considered every possible way in and out,’ I answered.

  Holmes nodded, ‘I agree with you completely and, frankly, I wouldn’t have stopped upon this crime were it not for those strange references to abnormal traces left by the strangler firstly on the neck of the victim and then by the wall in the garden below.’

  ‘My dear Holmes, from what you have said before and your reading of this account, I conclude that you wish to take up this case,’ I said with a smile. Knowing full well the character of my friend and his inordinate interest in every sort of mysterious crime, I knew Holmes could not pass up such a case.

  ‘Do have in mind,’ I added, ‘that this case has intrigued not just you, but me as well. Hence, I volunteer in advance to be your assistant.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t have the least doubt on that score,’ exclaimed Holmes, gleefully rubbing his hands, ‘and anticipated that you would make the offer first and since you know me so well, you knew I would get on with it without more ado.’

  Instead of replying, I rose and began to put on my coat.

  Seeing this, Holmes smiled and picked up his hat. ‘You are an indispensable assistant, my dear chap,’ pronounced Holmes with one of those good-natured glances that so gladdened me, ‘and when I am with you, the work advances thrice as quickly as with any other person.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I asked, ‘are we going out of town now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘I have to look at the scene of the crime and see everything for myself. That’s why we are off to the Nikolayevsk station to undertake a short trip to not-so-distant parts.’

  Chatting thus, we went out and hired a hackney to take us to the station. We didn’t have to wait long for a local train. We were told to get off after two stops and that the estate of Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff was just over three miles from the station.

  II

  The journey passed swiftly. Getting off the train, we hired a coach to take us to Silver Slopes, the name of the estate belonging to Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff. We arrived to find everyone rushing hither and thither in a scene of total chaos. Last night’s crime was still too fresh in everyone’s mind and, moreover, the corpse was still there amidst the chaos and the bustle.

  The investigator was there, as were the local chief of police and Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, who had come from home when informed of his uncle’s sudden death.

  Boris Nikolayevitch turned out to be a handsome man, some thirty-five years of age, with the outward appearance of a rake and gadabout. He was tall, with dark hair, an energetic look and a muscular body. His uncle’s death had evidently upset him and he now issued orders nervously and absent-mindedly.

  A moment before we came in, Holmes whispered in my ear, ‘Remember, Watson, we mustn’t own up to our real names. Let’s pretend, say, that we are real estate agents here for the purchase of the estate. Dear uncle is dead, nephews are stepping into their inheritance, and this seems the appropriate moment to ask whether they are prepared to sell as soon as it is in their ownership.’

  I nodded in agreement.

  Our arrival was noted. Boris Nikolayevitch approached us first, asking who we are and what is our business.

  On being told we are real estate agents working on commission, he involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. ‘Aren’t you a little premature? You come to the funeral like carrion crows!’

  Somewhat rude, but under the circumstances, still understandable. In any case, something even a well-mannered man might say. But in the confusion round the corpse, we were soon ignored. This was enough for Holmes to start investigating. He left me to myself, bidding me to keep out of sight, and left to return all of an hour later. He took me by the elbow and said, ‘Let’s go, my dear chap. I’ve done everything I needed, but for the sake of appearances, let’s intrude on Boris Nikolayevitch with our original inquiry.’

  Boris Nikolayevitch was pacing hither and thither, so intercepting him did not take long. But when we posed the same question to him again, he looked at us irritably and replied sharply, ‘It wouldn’t come amiss if you were to make yourself scarce. But just in case, leave your address.’ Having said this, he looked intently at Holmes. He stared for some seconds, then his lips widened slightly in a little smile, ‘Perhaps I am wrong,’ he said, ‘but I suspect you are not whom you make yourselves out to be. There is something about you which reminds me of someone else I came across accidentally during my travels abroad.’

  For a few seconds Holmes was silent and now it was he who gazed intently at Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. ‘I’d be interested to know where,’ he finally said.

  ‘England,’ answered Kartzeff.

  ‘In that case, no point in concealing our identities any further,’ said Holmes. ‘You guessed correctly and it is a great tribute to your memory. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is’ – indicating me – ‘my friend Dr Watson.’

  A look of unutterable joy came over the face of Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. ‘So I was right. The reason that I recognized you was that I saw you in London when you were a witness in an important case. But I felt too embarrassed to say so right away, and then I was completely taken aback by your superb Russian.’

  He came close and shook our hands warmly.

  ‘But since this has happened and since you are here at your own initiative, it seems fate has brought you to our help and I cannot tell you how relieved I am, knowing full well that the villain who perpetrated this foul deed will not escape you. As of this moment, you are the most welcome, the most longed-for guests in this house, and I now beg your permission to present you to our investigator and the police authorities who are here.’

  Holmes bowed his consent. With an exchange of pleasantries we went into the dining-room which was full of people.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ Boris Nikolayevitch said loudly.

  Our names created a sensation. Investigators and police jumped to their feet as if we were their superior officers. Compliments rained on Sherlock Holmes’s head.

  ‘This gives us fresh hope!’ was heard on all sides.

  We joined the company and the conversation soon turned to the murder. As was to be expected, there were many presuppositions, but they were to such an extent without foundation that neither Homes nor I paid much attention to them.

  From their conversation, we learned that several people had been arrested, amongst them the valet, cook and maid.

  ‘Are you sure that the valet and the cook together smashed a door definitely locked from within?’ Homes asked the investigator.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the man answered with total conviction. ‘There is absolutely no doubt, as you will see for yourself from so much as a glance. Only a locked door could have been mangled in such a way.’

  ‘Then why did you arrest them?’ Holmes asked in astonishment.

  ‘More as a matter of form,’ was the answer. ‘I’m sure we’ll have to let them go in a few days.’

  Having questioned the investigator and police chief concerning certain details, Holmes asked whether he could examine the dead man’s room without wasting any further time. Needless to say, the request was granted, though I couldn’t help but notice the smirk that appeared momentarily on both their faces.

  We all went to the dead man’s bedroom. It was just as we had been told. The door was smashed in and the key still stuck from the lock on the bedroom side.

  Having examined this closely, Holmes said softly, ‘Yes, there is no doubt the bedroom was locked from inside and the door smashed in, in its locked form. This is apparent from the fact that the lock is twisted and the key is so jammed as a result that it would only be possible to take it out if the lock were to be taken apart.’

  Having done with the door, Holmes next approached the bed in which Sergey Sergeyevitch had been strangled and, taking his mag
nifying glass out of his pocket, he proceeded to examine the bedclothes closely. Knowing my friend as well as I did, I couldn’t help noticing that he looked puzzled as he examined them.

  Some minutes later he bent down to the floor and again began to examine something the others had missed. From the barely perceptible nod he gave, he had evidently found something.

  We all watched with intense curiosity. From the bed he moved to the window. Here he pottered about for quite a while. It would appear he examined every little bit, even a little spot left by a fly. Gradually his face became more puzzled and more serious. And when Holmes finally moved away from the window, I could see that he was intensely absorbed.

  Questions came at him from all sides.

  ‘Not just yet, not just yet,’ Holmes said absent-mindedly as he turned to his questioners.

  ‘Surely you don’t intend to keep us in such a state of uncertainty?’ asked Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘We’re all closely connected to each other and to the case.’

  ‘There are certain matters it is sometimes premature to discuss,’ Holmes answered.

  ‘But at least can you not point to anything suspicious, which may be a clue?’ the investigator asked impatiently.

  ‘Yes, there are one or two things,’ said Holmes enigmatically. ‘But, gentlemen, I repeat that, owing to certain considerations, I must refrain from further explanations.’

  Everyone shrugged at this reply and a brief look of distrust appeared once again on the faces of the investigator and the police chief.

  And so silently and evidently very unhappy with Holmes, everyone returned to the dining-room. The rest of the evening passed in conversation to which neither Holmes nor I paid any attention. After eleven o’clock Holmes asked for us to be assigned a room and we retired.

  III

  When I awoke the following morning, Holmes wasn’t in the room, although it was still early. As I had expected, he had been up at five, gone off somewhere and only returned at nine. This I found out only later from his own words. When he returned, I was awake.

  ‘My dear chap, I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said. ‘You were sleeping so soundly and so peacefully, I had no wish to disturb your slumber, but now that you are awake, I must ask you to dress quickly.’

  Much as I would have wanted to go on sleeping, I could hardly do so in the face of his demand. I jumped out of bed, washed and we sat down to breakfast which had been sent up to our room.

  ‘Are we leaving?’ I asked.

  ‘Not entirely,’ answered Holmes. ‘It is very likely that we’ll have to return, but in the meantime, I’d like to accept the kind invitation extended by Boris Nikolayevitch for us to visit his estate.’

  Chatting away, we drank several glasses of tea and when, at last, Boris Nikolayevitch knocked on our door, we were ready to leave.

  Boris Nikolayevitch still appeared depressed, but was courteous and attentive. ‘I hope you slept well,’ he said, entering the room.

  ‘Oh, yes, for which we wish to thank you,’ Sherlock Holmes answered on behalf of both of us.

  ‘Is there anything else you would like,’ he asked. ‘Perhaps you are used to a hearty breakfast in the morning.’

  ‘I must confess that ham and eggs wouldn’t go amiss,’ Holmes answered with a smile.

  Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff was all attentiveness and a few minutes later returned with a servant carrying our breakfast and a bottle of sherry.

  Thus fortified, we thanked our cordial host and rose from the table.

  ‘Do you wish to come with me today,’ asked Kartzeff, ‘or do you wish to rest a while?’

  ‘With your permission, we’d like to accept your invitation this very day,’ answered Sherlock Holmes. ‘We are very pressed for time and it is very likely that we have to return to England in a few days.’

  ‘In that case, I shall give instructions for the horses to be made ready as soon as the funeral is over,’ said our cordial host.

  As he was about to leave, Holmes stopped him, ‘Another little request. With your permission, I’d like to see your late uncle again before we leave.’

  ‘But, of course,’ answered Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘Shall we do so this very minute?’

  Holmes nodded. We left our room and made our way into the hall where the funeral service was in preparation.

  Approaching the coffin, Sherlock Holmes carefully lifted the muslin cloth over the face of the dead man and proceeded to examine the corpse. Several minutes passed before he tore himself away. But when he moved away, one couldn’t gather anything from the expression on his face.

  Then the priests arrived and the usual service for that sort of event began. The reader began his doleful chant. The priest recited the service monotonously. And all was as if it was being done on a factory floor, unhurriedly, in a fixed manner but yet to some mysterious beat. Not particularly involved in the sacred service, we each stood sunk in his own thoughts.

  The service over, we went out for some fresh air into the garden round the house. The garden was over ten hectares, i.e. nigh on ten acres in area. It was fully planted with fruit trees and truly magnificent. Here and there flowerbeds were scattered from which brightly coloured blossoms struck the eye. Yellow sand neatly covered the pathways and sculptures added to the sense of proportion of this lordly manor garden. We strolled silently through the alleyways and, from the look of intense concentration on the face of Sherlock Holmes, I could sense that a secret thought had lodged like a thorn in his brain.

  A half hour later Boris Nikolayevitch followed us out. After the funeral service his mood seemed to have lifted. ‘I hope you won’t refuse to attend the burial today,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We don’t intend to let it drag on for long, especially as there will be no women present. I’m not particularly sentimental and am always against the dead being detained for long in the house of the living.’

  ‘How right you are,’ said Holmes. ‘The presence of the dead in a home is depressing, and as far as we in England are concerned, we always try to remove the body as quickly as possible to its place of burial.’

  ‘I’m sure you will excuse me for leaving you now,’ Kartzeff apologized. ‘I’m sure you will understand that all funeral arrangements are exclusively my responsibility.’

  ‘Oh, but of course,’ Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘We’ll stay here while you see to your duties and I beg you not to concern yourself with us.’

  Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff bowed himself away politely, while we continued our aimless meandering.

  Several hours passed. At about two in the afternoon Boris Nikolayevitch again reappeared and said that the body would be carried out in a quarter of an hour. We followed him inside.

  We saw the corpse lifted up on a long piece of cloth and, accompanied by the clergy and choir, the sad procession moved to the village cemetery.

  I won’t describe the details of the burial as they are too well known to all. To the sad strains of the service and the wailing of the choir, the body was lowered into the ground. Heavy clods of damp earth thudded on the coffin lid and soon it vanished from sight. More and more damp earth was unevenly heaped over the grave and then, under the skilled hands of the gravediggers, evened out into the usual tidy mound.

  The last note of the burial psalm and then all those present quietly trudged away, for some reason speaking of the departed in soft undertones. Sherlock Holmes and I also returned.