Sherlock Holmes in Russia (21 page)

‘That poor coachman. It was such an unexpected gift. He threw himself at the count’s feet. But at this moment the train drew into the station. We bought tickets, handed in our luggage and got into a separate compartment. We travelled for two, maybe two and a half days. The count calmed down at once and became gentle and cheerful. In this way, we arrived in Kharkov. We put up in a hotel for two days, at the end of which the count announced to me that I was enrolled in a really good boarding school where he would take me. The next day he took me to Madam Beckman’s boarding school, where he bade me farewell, asking me to behave and study well, so that he shouldn’t have to blush for me. And then he left. Nobody knew where. I didn’t see him till I was in the seventh grade. Nobody visited me. I had no relatives. During school holidays I stayed with one of my schoolmates. The count paid the school fees meticulously. He sent me affectionate letters and so much pocket money I was thought to be one of the richest pupils in the school. Up until the fifth grade I thought he was my father. But once, suddenly, when I was already in the fifth grade, he revealed in a letter what I have told you about my origins. Except he added that, God grant, my fate would soon be changed and I would find my real parents. He also enclosed his
portrait. The letter disturbed me considerably and I wept over it night after night. I was astounded by the thought that the count, in effect, was a total stranger where I was concerned. We southern girls develop too early and it was possible that even then I began to think as a woman. But at the time, I was not aware of it. I kept on looking at the portrait the count had sent me. The count was a very handsome man. Another two years passed. I was a good student and already in the seventh grade. Once, I was summoned to reception. There was the count! My first instinct was to throw myself round his neck, but suddenly it came to me, he is a man and a stranger. I stopped in confusion. But he looked at me in rapture, as if astonished by what he saw before him. Even then I understood that glance. After that, his visits became more frequent. He behaved like a relative, and yet, like a stranger also. At Christmas he came to fetch me and we went to Paris. We travelled about for a month and he brought me back. I finished seventh grade. Some decision had to be made as to what to do with me. The count avoided his own estate and never even mentioned it. As for me, I was at a loss; what was I to do? But just before I graduated, my fate was decided. After the final exam, I was allowed leave. I remember that day as if it were now … we took a picnic basket and went out into the country. In a little forest glade we spread a carpet, lit a fire, and cheerfully set about preparing lunch. After lunch, seeing that there was just the two of us, the count sat down beside me and said seriously, “I have to talk to you, Irra.” My heart began to beat faster and, involuntarily, I dropped my eyes. He began, “I don’t want to keep you in a state of uncertainty, Irra. Soon we have to part forever.” I screamed and fell unconscious. When I opened my eyes, the count was bending over me. Oh! His eyes gazed at me with such silent love, that everything within me began to quiver with joy. I threw my arms round his neck and covered him with kisses, begging him not to leave me, swearing I was ready for
anything! He asked very solemnly, “Do you love me, Irra?” “Yes,” I said. “And I love you too,” he said passionately. “That means we will be man and wife. But so that you shouldn’t reproach me in the future, I must tell you everything and the reasons why I wanted to part from you. I am being dishonourable. First, I should have returned you to your parents. Nor am I as good as you think I am. I have one sin on my conscience, a very considerable one—” But here I placed my hand over his mouth and asked him never to bring such matters up again. In the end, we decided to get married first and then, some time, to visit my parents. “Believe me, there is nothing mercenary in my seeking to marry you,” said the count to me. I burst out laughing. Two months later we were wed and lived happily in total harmony. That’s the story of my life. Not long before his death, the count got a letter from somewhere. It plunged him into such a fit of anxiety that for some time he went about as if he had been driven mad. Then suddenly he announced that he had to go to Kazan to sell the house and estate. “Whatever happens to me, don’t worry,” he said to me on parting, “Whatever happens will be for the best.” And away he went. That’s all I can tell you, Mr Holmes.’

The countess fell silent and large tears appeared in her eyes.

Sherlock Holmes listened in silence, only raising his head when the countess ended her story. His brows were furrowed, his lips tightly pressed together. There was an enigmatic look in his eyes, which neither the countess nor I could comprehend. Suddenly he rose and began to pace the room nervously, occasionally stopping to look out of the window to cast a thoughtful look outside.

‘You didn’t see the letter which came to the count?’ he asked the countess.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘All my life I felt that there was some mystery involved. But since the count said nothing to me, I didn’t feel I had the right to ask questions.’

‘But did you notice whether, prior to his departure for Kazan, he set anything down on paper?’

‘Most probably he did. He spent half the night in his study.’

‘What did he say on leaving?’

‘I’ve already told you. In addition, he told me that he might be away for some time. Then he repeated several times that whatever happened to him, I wasn’t to worry.’

The countess opened her eyes wide as if a thought had struck her, ‘Do you know, Mr Holmes, it just came to me. Every time he repeated that phrase, he would stress it.’

For a moment only, Holmes’s eyes flashed. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked.

A ray of hope shone in the eyes of the countess, ‘Could he still be alive?’ she asked, her voice shaking. ‘Is this some sort of machination on somebody’s part?’

‘What about the scar on the left leg? And the clothes?’ Sherlock Holmes said thoughtfully.

‘Yes, yes, it’s so,’ the countess whispered, confused and bewildered. ‘There is no doubt that the leg belongs to him.’

‘In any case, we must hurry,’ said Holmes firmly. ‘Where are the count’s remains?’

‘As soon as the authorities had finished their investigation, they gave them back to me. I took them to Oriol and had them buried in the Trinity cemetery,’ answered the countess sadly.

‘You still have an apartment in Oriol?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case we go there by the very next train.’ Holmes turned to me. ‘Would you look up the train timetable for Oriol, my dear Watson. When is the next train?’

I looked up the timetable and said we had three-quarters of an hour.

‘Oh, we have enough time,’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Countess, can you meet us at the train?’

‘Of course, I have only to stop at the Northern Hotel to collect my things.’

We set off.

We were in Oriol the very next day.

‘My dear Watson, will you escort the countess home,’ Holmes asked me, as soon as we stepped off the train. ‘I’ll explore a little and join you presently.’

He wrote down her address and her husband’s burial place, but prior to leaving us asked, ‘When did the funeral take place?’

‘Two days ago,’ answered the countess. ‘As soon as the funeral was over, I set off for Moscow to find you.’

Holmes set off in one carriage and the countess and I in another. Our carriages parted by the Mariinsky Bridge.

The countess’s apartment wasn’t very spacious, but furnished richly and in great taste. I waited while she changed and we had tea together in the sitting room.

Sherlock Holmes joined us a couple of hours later. He didn’t say a word about where he had gone. He ate some pastry, drained a cup of tea quickly and without further ado asked to be taken to the late count’s study.

‘Nothing has been touched since the count left,’ said the young widow, leading us into a fairly large study. There were bookcases all round the walls, massive furniture, armchairs covered with dark yellow hide. Holmes stopped and silently examined the room. I, too, examined everything with great curiosity, seeking to penetrate whatever mystery was concealed here.

Evidently, the count had a wide range of interests. Several
works on a wide range of subjects by famous scholars lay on the desk. A naval globe stood on a large stand in one corner. Maps of different countries hung on stands, with handwritten notes on some of them, probably in the count’s own handwriting.

But what attracted most attention was the back wall of the study. A huge, fluffy carpet, evidently of Indian make, covered the entire wall. Over it, different weapons were arranged in beautiful order. The weapons consisted of ancient arrows, bows, quivers, tomahawks, shields of rhinoceros hide, halberds and boomerangs. Between them were unusual little axes with long handles, the official swords of the English, French and German navies, Japanese weaponry, revolvers, and different sorts of firearms, many of which were official weapons of various armed forces.

In the corner, touching the edge of the carpet, there were two tall, though not very deep cupboards with inlaid decorations. Inside them stood largely scholarly books.

Sherlock Holmes, having made a superficial examination of the study, began a detailed examination of the papers on the desk. The side drawers were unlocked, but held nothing out of the ordinary.

Once he had finished with the desk, Holmes began to examine the floor. He moved the furniture, shelves, poked about under the bookcases with a stick, bringing out papers and all sorts of rubbish.

He examined every bit of paper with especial interest. Suddenly, he gestured me to come close. ‘Please look at this,’ he said, handing me a torn envelope. This was an ordinary envelope, of average shape and size, addressed to the count from Calcutta. The address was written in English. The handwriting was poor, but the writing instrument had been pressed hard on the paper. There was a British colonial stamp. But what hit the eye was a strange seal on the envelope. It was elliptical in shape, just over an inch in length. In the middle, there were three left
legs, with long lines below the knees on every single one.

‘What does this seem to you?’ asked Holmes.

‘A very strange seal,’ was all I could say.

‘And you find nothing about it to tie it to the count?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘There were three of them,’ said Holmes, deep in thought.

‘Three of whom or what?’ I asked.

‘Three people with scars on their left leg,’ Holmes answered seriously. ‘Those long lines across the legs evidently stand for scars. But then, the late count also had a scar on his leg—’

For a minute he was deep in thought, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Tadjidi!’

‘What’s that?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Oh, it’s all fully come back to me. In India, my dear Watson, there is a small tribe called Tadjidi. They live not far from Bombay, and are distinguished by their bloody rites. Blood accompanies every rite of passage in their lives. At birth, the baby’s ears and nostrils are pierced for decoration. Bride and groom, on marriage, have symbolic signs of loyalty cut into their skin. At burial, the widow is burnt alive on a pyre, and so on. There is a ritual, which consists of an oath not to reveal mutual secrets. Those who undergo this ritual of mutual secrecy have to cut long and deep gashes on their left leg. The count had been in Bombay at some point and it is very likely that he is bound by oath with two other people, of whom at least one belongs to the Tadjidi tribe.’

Holmes placed the envelope in a notebook and resumed his searches.

For some time he stood before the cupboards examining the inlays, looking at the cupboards from all sides. Next he tried to open the drawers in the desk that were locked, using the master keys he always carried with him. He failed and stepped back. ‘Well, enough for today,’ he said and went up to the countess. ‘Before leaving, I have a question.’

‘I am at your service,’ answered the young woman. She had paid minute attention to his every word.

‘What was your maiden name?’

‘Benaliradjewa,’ she answered.

Sherlock Holmes and I both looked at her in amazement.

‘What an unusual surname?’ muttered Holmes. ‘You and the count carried different surnames and till his letter arrived, couldn’t you have guessed he was not your father?’

‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said the countess. ‘I was far too naïve, and I’d never heard the count addressed by his surname, only by his first name and patronymic. I just assumed we had the same surname. The other pupils didn’t seem to know anything. The headmistress probably knew, but said nothing.’

‘Aha!’ mumbled Holmes and made his farewells.

Leaving the countess, we strolled along Bolhovsky Street, booking into a hotel. Holmes asked for stationery and sat down to write letters to someone. He then went to the post office and when he came back, said to me, ‘My dear Watson, there’s night work for us today and every day this week. I hope you’ll agree to accompany me, if only to be a witness to the solution of one of the most mysterious murders ever committed.’

‘That would give me great pleasure,’ was my reply.

‘Splendid!’ Holmes nodded his head. ‘In the meantime, we must find a library or a reading room which not only subscribes to English newspapers but keeps them for reference.’

We went out in search of such an institution. But wherever we went, either English newspapers were unavailable or they were only kept for a year or two at most. Holmes was in despair.

But in one of the libraries we were advised to look up an elderly Englishman called Dewlay, who had spent most of his
life in Oriol. He had been a chemist, and then opened a chemical dye works, which allowed him a good income. We got the address and made our way to him. Very soon, quite unceremoniously, we introduced ourselves to him, much to his joy.

When we told him what we needed, old Mr Dewlay nodded smugly. ‘Oh, in rereading our old newspapers, I find consolation in this barbaric land,’ he said with pride. ‘I’ve been getting
The
Times
for twenty-eight years, and not a single page is missing.’