Sherlock Holmes in Russia Read online

  The dining-room table was already set and Boris Nikolayevitch, still preserving a look of sadness on his face, invited us to partake of refreshments.

  In any wake, the faces of the guests begin by looking long and sad, but become merrier as the wine begins to flow until such time as the proceedings acquire the character of a proper binge.

  It must have been all of seven o’clock, because the sun was beginning to set, when the guests and clergy rose from the table. At this point Boris Nikolayevitch approached Holmes saying, ‘I’m at your disposal now. And if you so wish, we can go to my place together.’

  ‘I am ready,’ answered Holmes. ‘Mind you, I see no reason for staying on. What I was able to find in the dead man’s bedroom has little bearing on this scene and so, having rested at your place, we still have to return to Moscow, where I hope to find more reliable clues concerning this matter.’

  We didn’t have much to pack. Boris Nikolayevitch gave final instructions and we got into an elegant landau harnessed to a troika, three horses harnessed abreast. The sun set completely.

  The well cared for horses, energized by the cool evening air, rose to the occasion and our carriage sped merrily along the country road.

  It was less than five miles to the estate of Boris Nikolayevitch. At first, the road passed through open fields in which ears of grain were like dark waves. Then it entered the forest. This was thick with fir trees that hadn’t seen an axe for a long time, evidently protected for a long time by the late Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff.

  Now right, now left, the road wound through the dark forest lit by a patch of sky in which a myriad stars blazed. I don’t know how others might be affected, but this mystery-laden road only served to depress me with its gloom.

  We drove a mile and a half without encountering a living soul. There was something strange about this vast, unpopulated, silent country road which lay between the estate of the uncle and his nephew. I was unable to refrain from expressing my thoughts to Kartzeff who was sitting beside us.

  ‘What’s there to be surprised about?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This is a direct road joining our two estates and since time immemorial the peasants aren’t permitted to drive along it.’

  Emerging from the forest, we again drove along open fields and, at last, the tall contours of the Igralino estate rose before us.

  We were met by the friendly barking of dogs, but as soon as they heard their master’s voice, they fell silent. Our troika rolled up to the porch. An old retainer opened the door. He bowed low to his master, cast a suspicious look at the guests, let us through inside and helped us off with our outer garments.

  The house did not overwhelm us with its opulence but, notwithstanding that, a glance into any of its rooms and you would conclude that a scion of the old gentry lived here. Not only were their portraits preserved, but their way of life. The house itself was too ordinary to be described as palatial. But the furnishings in any of the rooms had been selected with remarkable good taste and were far from cheap.

  ‘First of all, gentlemen, abiding by a purely Russian tradition, I must show you to your quarters and then share with you whatever my humble abode is rich with,’ said the master of the house, cordially welcoming us.

  With these words, he led us through several rooms and in one of them said, ‘I hope you will be comfortable here for the night.’

  The room was fairly large. Apart from two beds, there was a wash basin, cupboard, a chest of drawers, a comfortable divan and several cushioned and ordinary chairs. Needless to say, we were very satisfied with the arrangements.

  We thanked Boris Nikolayevitch and followed him to the dining-room. It was decorated in the Russian style and dinner was already laid out. The cooking was out of the ordinary. Over dinner our host made every effort to appear bright and cheerful, but I couldn’t help noticing that the events of the day were still with him. This was not unusual and so neither Holmes nor I paid much attention to that.

  IV

  ‘You’re probably tired after such a day,’ said our host to Holmes, ‘which is why I don’t feel I ought to tire you for long. Frankly, the day has worn me out, too, and so, if you don’t wish to retire early, I’ll have to apologize for leaving you to your own devices so soon.’

  ‘I do understand,’ said Holmes sympathetically. ‘I, too, would like to rest. Silly of me not to have said so earlier.’

  ‘In that case, I wish you a very good night,’ said Kartzeff.

  He went off, leaving us to ourselves.

  Holmes shut the door and carefully examined the room and window. This was the only window in the room and as in Russian houses it had the usual hinged ventilation pane set inside it.

  ‘Perhaps the owner doesn’t seem to be much bothered by draughts,’ Holmes said as if by the by, turning the catch now this way, now that. ‘It doesn’t lock and the slightest breeze will blow it open.’

  From a small leather case in his pocket he took several nails and nailed them securely into the frame of the window pane. After that he locked the door, leaving the key in the lock and began to undress. I did the same and a few minutes later I was fast asleep. I don’t recollect whether anything happened that night. All I know is that from the look on Holmes’s face sitting at the table when I woke, I could see he had spent a sleepless night.

  Seeing me open my eyes, he heaved a sigh of relief and then said in a tired voice, ‘Well, now, my dear chap, thank God that you’re awake. This will give me a chance for a little rest. Stay awake, there’s a good chap, and I suggest you pay special attention to this little window pane.’

  With these words he threw himself on the bed and a minute later he was already sleeping the sleep of the dead. Thoroughly puzzled, I sat there for a couple of hours, my gaze fixed on the window, but try as I might, I detected nothing suspicious.

  The sun was already high in the heavens when Holmes awoke. He jumped out of bed, washed quickly and said cheerfully, ‘Well, my dear chap, I can now stay up for a couple of nights. That tired feeling is gone. Such tiredness is unforgivable and just this once, accidental.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I suppose something unusual took place last night and you’ll tell me what it was all about,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll allow me, my dear chap, to refrain from a direct answer,’ said Holmes solemnly. ‘It is very likely that in a few hours you will know more than you expected, and then your curiosity is bound to be satisfied.’

  We chatted about various trifles and the time passed unnoticed. At nine there was a knock on the door. The door opened and Boris Nikolayevitch came in. His eyes were baggy and his face somewhat drawn. He greeted us, asked how we had spent the night and, receiving a positive answer, appeared contented enough.

  ‘Tea is served,’ he invited.

  We nodded our acceptance. Over tea, Holmes, who was at first withdrawn, livened up and jokes, anecdotes and witticisms poured from him. When we had drunk our tea, he announced that it was imperative for him to go to Moscow.

  ‘Surely you can stay longer,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch in a hurt tone.

  Holmes gave a sad shrug. ‘Alas, I cannot. I did warn you yesterday that it is essential for me to be in Moscow today for pressing business and I hope you remember my words. This is why I must ask you to have horses made available immediately to get us to the station.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ exclaimed Kartzeff. ‘I will give the necessary orders at once.’ He went off but wasn’t back for some considerable time.

  Holmes sat there without stirring, his head in the palms of his hands. The rest of the time before lunch and the lunch itself passed slowly. After lunch we were told that the horses were ready and, having bidden farewell to our host, we departed for the station.

  V

  Arriving in town, we made straight for Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris Nikolayevitch and whose address we had taken.

  ‘It seems a little strange,’ said Holmes pensively along the way, ‘that
the second nephew didn’t even wish to attend his uncle’s funeral.’

  ‘Yes, that is very strange,’ I agreed. ‘Could it be that we will find here some clues leading to the crime?’

  Nikolai Nikolayevitch lived right on the edge of town, just before Sokolniki, so that it took a while to get to him.

  Our ring was answered by a kindly sympathetic old woman, who asked the nature of our business. On being told that we had come to see Nikolai Nikolayevitch, she made a gesture expressing regret. ‘Oh, what a shame, what a really great shame that you missed him,’ she sighed good-naturedly. ‘We live so far away, and anyone who comes gets so upset when the master isn’t home.’

  ‘And you are his matushka?’ asked Holmes, using the Russian diminutive endearing form for mother.

  ‘Nanny, sir, his nanny,’ she answered with a warm smile. ‘Brought him up as a little boy, spent my life by his side. He’s such a good man, he is, and now he keeps me in my old age, where another would long since have thrown me out in the street.’

  ‘So where’s he gone?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Why, he left just before your arrival. He just got the news that his uncle had been strangled or was it knifed, in truth I don’t know which it was. His own brother didn’t tell him. I don’t suppose he had time, with all the stir it must have caused.’

  ‘So how did he find out?’

  ‘The newspaper, my dear sir. That’s where he read it. It was all in the newspaper. Gentlemen, you will come in and rest a while. We may be poor, but there’s always a cup of tea. Happy to share what God has given. That’s how we do things. Should any friend of his not find him home, he’ll always come in for a cuppa.’

  ‘Thank you, nianushka,’ said Holmes, addressing her by the Russian diminutive endearment for nanny.

  We entered the apartment. It wasn’t very big, all of two small rooms, a kitchen and a tiny box room for the old woman. The furniture was not particularly ostentatious. There were only a few things, more the sort you would find in a country hut, anyway. It was all fairly typical of the domicile of a young artist.

  In one room there was a bed, a wash basin in poor condition, several chairs, a writing desk, canvas concealed the walls. Paints, brushes and other painter’s objects lay scattered everywhere.

  The other room was filled with easels, picture frames with canvas stretched on them. Completed paintings and rough sketches hung on the walls, showing that Nikolai Nikolayevitch might be at the start of his career, but already showed great promise.

  A great connoisseur, Sherlock Holmes examined the work of this beginner with considerable relish. The old woman was evidently very proud of her charge. She stood beside Holmes and with a smile watched him examine the work of her favourite.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, sirs,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll get the samovar going. It will boil in no time at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Holmes.

  And shaking his head sadly, he said, ‘And so the uncle dies! How come his own brother didn’t bother to tell him?’

  The old woman shook her head sadly, too, ‘He’s just a bad lot, is Boris Nikolayevitch, a bad lot. If he were a man like other men, of course he’d’ve told the master. I think he’s got nothing inside his head except for the wind whistling.’

  ‘A bad lot, you say!’

  The old woman gestured with her hand to show nothing could be done. ‘What is there to say,’ she sighed. ‘He’s a born gambler. First he inherited an estate and a sizable capital sum. The capital sum he gambled away. He may have been a good-for-nothing, but he certainly knew how to ingratiate himself. My Nikolai Nikolayevitch was done out of his fair share because he wasn’t one to bow and scrape. But the other fellow knew where and when to turn up and flatter relatives, who would give him a warm welcome. That’s what happened with their grandmother. She included him in her will and left out Nikolai Nikolayevitch!’

  ‘And did Nikolai Nikolayevitch often visit this departed uncle?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘On the contrary! You have no idea how often he was invited. Mind you, he did go twice, but didn’t stay long. No doubt he won’t get anything there, either. You’ll see, Boris Nikolayevitch will get the lot.’

  ‘To waste it on more carousing,’ said Holmes sympathetically.

  ‘For sure! For sure!’ said the old woman. ‘Nothing good will come out of the money that will come to him. He’ll waste it on mam’selles, as he always has in the past and that’s that! He did have a job, but got sacked for all those misdeeds.’

  ‘What was the job?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘He was a naval officer. Sailed as first officer on his own ship for some time. No less than ten years. And then he was kicked out. Thank God he wasn’t tried. Mind you, even then, everyone said he couldn’t evade being tried but luckily for him he wriggled out of that. They must’ve felt sorry for him.’

  She suddenly remembered the samovar and with a cry quickly ran out of the room. In no time tea appeared. We drank it with great pleasure and continued our interrupted conversation. Most of all, we spoke of Boris Nikolayevitch. The old woman spoke of him without evident rancour but in the sort of tone people use when speaking of someone of whom they disapprove.

  From what she said, we pieced together the information that Boris Nikolayevitch, the older brother of Nikolai Nikolayevitch, graduated from a naval academy and had sailed far and wide on a ship which had been part of a squadron of the Russian navy. Then, for improper conduct and some sort of financial peculation, he was dismissed. After that he spent some years sailing the Indian Ocean on British ships plying between Bombay and Calcutta. Two years ago, Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff returned to Russia and the gossip amongst his friends was that he had been dismissed even from the ships of the private line by which he had been employed. During those two years he had managed to squander the remains of his small capital. As for the estate that had been left him, he’d brought it to the point where it was threatened with going under the hammer.

  ‘But he’s always been lucky, batiushki,’ she said. ‘Born under a lucky star, he was,’ she said. ‘No sooner do things get bad, then uncle dies.’

  ‘Yes, it isn’t the deserving who flourish on this earth,’ sighed Holmes.

  ‘How right you are!’ gestured the old woman. ‘Take our Nikolai Nikolayevitch. He doesn’t get any assistance from anywhere. Pays for his own studies. Supports himself and me. Wonderful, wonderful young man! While if ever a spare kopeck comes his way, it goes to a needy friend. He keeps nothing back for himself.’

  We sat there for a little while longer, thanked her for the welcome she had extended us, bade her farewell and left.

  ‘So, what do you think of the young man?’ Holmes asked me when we were outside.

  ‘That this is not where we will find the criminal,’ I answered. ‘I think this is all a false lead.’

  Holmes said nothing. He paced along quickly, deep in thought.

  Sokolniki was not a district with which we were familiar. We soon stopped a cabbie and Holmes directed him to take us to our hotel.

  ‘Any post?’ he asked the porter.

  The porter rummaged round in a drawer and handed him a letter. Holmes opened it, read the contents quickly and then, having carefully examined the envelope, handed me a sheet of paper.

  ‘Just look at this, if you please, my dear Watson,’ he said with a smile.

  I read the following, ‘Dear Mr Holmes, England has more than enough criminals of its own and your presence there would be immeasurably more beneficial for your fellow citizens than chasing fame in Russia. From the bottom of my heart, let me give you some good advice. Clear off home while you are still alive.’

  I glanced at the envelope and saw it had been posted locally.

  ‘Well, what do you say?’ asked Holmes with a disdainful smile.

  ‘It looks as if our presence here is upsetting someone, and it seems that the letter has some connection with the mysterious crime at the Silver Slopes estate.’

 
‘Very probably,’ said Holmes indifferently, as he climbed up the stairs. ‘We’ve got enough time to change and get back on the train.’

  ‘Dare I ask where we are going?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, we have to get back to Silver Slopes and Igralino once again. Nikolai Nikolayevich going there is just the perfect excuse for us.’

  Without further ado we changed and made our way to the station.

  VI

  Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff couldn’t conceal his astonishment at seeing us back.

  ‘What hand of fate brings you here?’ he exclaimed, coming out on the porch. ‘I must confess I thought you have long since been in town.’

  ‘We’ve been there, too,’ answered Holmes, jumping from the carriage and greeting the owner. ‘But we were told that your brother, Nikolai Nikolayevitch, was on his way here and since we were interested in asking him a few questions, we hastened back.’

  ‘Not even stopping off wherever you were staying?’

  ‘What’s to be done! In our profession it isn’t always possible to do as we please and it becomes necessary to accept the situation with all its inconveniences. I hope Nikolai Nikolayevitch is with you.

  ‘Unfortunately not. He went to his uncle’s graveside. But if you think it necessary, I’ll send a carriage after him at once.’

  ‘Oh, no, please don’t concern yourself. It’ll keep. If you were to allow it, we would like to spend the night here and go tomorrow.’

  ‘But, of course. You know perfectly well that I am really glad of your company,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch.

  Chatting away, we went in and sat down at the table which our host had ordered to be laid. At about four in the afternoon, Nikolai Nikolayevitch returned.

  Told who we are, he didn’t mince words, ‘Yes, it would be a good thing to catch the villain. I’d be the first to cut his throat with my own hands.’

  The death of his uncle had clearly affected him greatly.

  ‘Say what you will, but this murder is beyond me,’ he began. ‘If anyone could wish his death, it would only be the two of us, as we are both his heirs and in the will found amongst uncle’s things, his entire estate is to be equally divided between us. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t give me any pleasure to receive this damned inheritance, coming as it does in such a manner. As far as I am concerned, I have always been used to living within my own means since I was quite young and even as things stand, I can support myself.’