Sherlock Holmes in Russia (22 page)

His apartment was in the same courtyard as his dye works. He took us there, introduced us to his wife and had the old newspapers brought to us.

The Times
newspapers for each year were neatly arranged separately, which made Holmes’s search so much simpler. Holmes thought for a moment and asked for those newspapers which had come out nineteen, twenty and twenty-one years ago.

Our gracious host ordered whisky and soda and we helped ourselves to an Englishman’s favorite tipple, while Holmes delved into the yellowed newspapers.

Over an hour passed. And then Sherlock Holmes joyfully struck the heap of newspapers with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed happily. ‘Come here, my dear Watson. Let me show you something very unusual, even though this newspaper is all of twenty years old.’

I hastened to his side.

‘In your opinion, my dear Watson, who could our beautiful client possibly be?’

‘The countess?’ I asked, my curiosity excited.

‘Yes!’

‘How am I to know?’ I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I expect you to say, a poor girl of mixed race, adopted by the count.’

‘Of course.’

Sherlock Holmes smiled enigmatically. ‘It would be a great mistake to think that,’ he answered. ‘Just imagine, Watson, that
in her own homeland hers was a much higher status, and that she would have been infinitely richer, despite being a countess here, than the count’s fortune.’

‘Damn me, if I follow what you are saying!’ I exclaimed.

‘All this I discovered very simply,’ said Holmes imperturbably. ‘Surely, Watson, in listening to the countess’s account of her origins, you must’ve sensed considerable strains and gaps.’

‘Of course I have,’ I admitted. ‘But, then, what can a woman say who knows nothing about herself and can only describe her past from someone else’s account.’

‘You are quite right,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But doesn’t that mean that whoever told her of her past, lied. If he hadn’t lied, her story wouldn’t have suffered from such defects.’

‘True.’

‘That’s just it! Listening to the countess, it immediately occurred to me that the greatest doubt came over me only when she gave her maiden name, Benaliradjewa. Isn’t it strange, to give such a name to a child who is to be taken away to Russia, baptized and given a Russian education? Besides, the surname is a genuine one; it wasn’t made up. I remember too well the name which resounded up and down India in its time. And here it is again. Let me read something to you from days gone by ‘

Holmes lifted a yellowing newspaper sheet and read:

Sherlock Holmes lowered the newspaper and looked at me.

I was visibly upset.

‘And you think—’ I began, but Holmes interrupted me.

‘Little Irra, daughter of Rajah Ben-Ali, kidnapped twenty years ago near Bombay, is found. The sole heiress of one of the richest men in India has become a Russian countess.’

Holmes fell deep into silent thought. Then, ‘Indeed, my dear Watson, we have to act with great care. There is a mystery attached to the life of this young woman and our task is to resolve it.’

Having spent a half-hour in the company of Mr Dewlay, we bade farewell to our cordial host and left.

But we didn’t return to our hotel. Outside, Holmes seemed to consider something. ‘First of all, we have to fortify ourselves with a good portion of roast beef or something else. Let’s find a restaurant, Watson, before night falls.’

We found a restaurant, where we ordered cold roast beef and
fried chicken with rice. Our appetite satiated, Holmes turned to me, ‘I shall ask you, my dear Watson, to spend the night at the home of the countess. Say nothing of our discovery. Watch the yard and street with great vigilance. I am off to the cemetery, and shall join you at the countess’s in the morning. She will have to tell the servants that you are a close relation of her husband and that you come from some other town.’

We parted. I carried out Holmes’s instructions to the letter. For some reason, it did appear to me that the countess was being watched, and I advised her to change her bedroom for the time being, to the other end of the apartment. She did as I suggested and moved into a small sitting room, which only opened into a second one.

At eleven she retired. I switched off all the lights, tested the locks and placed myself on watch. I took off my shoes and moved silently from room to room, diligently watching the yard and street.

I wasn’t the only one doing guard duty. Outside, there were two sizable Alsatians that could have handled a bear. During the day, they were chained up, while at night they were let loose. They let nobody pass, except the count, countess and the cook, who fed and chained them up or released them as necessary.

I passed from room to room, looking out for anything suspicious. The street was like any street. An occasional late passer-by disturbed the silence and finally all was still. Dawn began to break and carts from the villages broke the stillness on their way to market. Morning, and the town took on its usual appearance.

Holmes appeared at eight. I could see from his face that he had achieved nothing. I reported that I, too, had seen nothing. He announced, however, that he was persevering with his original plan and suggested we catch up on our sleep at our hotel.

No point in describing the next four days in detail. They were all the same. Holmes spent day and night at the cemetery, while I stayed in the apartment of the countess. She acceded to
Holmes’s advice not to leave the house, confining herself to a brief turn round the yard.

Came Saturday. It was the fifth day of our uninterrupted watch, and I felt somewhat tired. Evening approached. All these days I had only slept in fits and starts. It was with less than pleasure that I looked forward to another sleepless night. Moreover, the young countess was beginning to look as if she was weary of our futile efforts. She had even begun to scoff at Sherlock Holmes’s genius. Yet more and more her voice held notes of sadness.

That evening she read some French novel and retired early. I was about to switch off the lights, when I suddenly heard her voice. ‘Mr Watson! Mr Watson!’ she cried out anxiously.

I hastened into the sitting room beside her bedroom. She stood in the middle of the room, pale and trembling, dressed in a pale blue housecoat which she had hastily thrown on.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Were you in my bedroom?’ she asked, looking me in the eye.

‘Whatever for?’ I asked in surprise.

‘What about Mr Holmes?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘Mr Holmes was here at the break of dawn today. He merely said a few words to me and left immediately,’ I said.

‘And nobody, but nobody else, entered the house?’

‘I can confirm that.’

She raised her beautiful hand and proffered me a small unsealed envelope. ‘In that case, you may be able to explain what this letter means and how it came to be on the pillow on my bed.’

Bewildered, I accepted the letter. The address was typewritten.

‘Countess,’ wrote its anonymous author, ‘although you don’t know me, nonetheless I am your friend. Circumstances, which came about because of your husband’s trust in me, have entangled me in your family secrets. I beg of you, by all that’s sacred, please listen to me. You are in the most terrible danger. Don’t leave the house, not by so much as a step. Not even in the yard. And always carry a weapon. Just in case, beware even of the servants. I know that some detective is living in your house. Please tell him to be more careful and not show himself so openly at windows. He can watch over you just as well with dimmed lights and drawn curtains. Have courage. All will be for the best. Your well-wisher.’

I had hardly opened my mouth to say something, when I was shaken to hear a noise at my back. The countess screamed and held on to a chair for support. I turned quickly. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, a look of glee on his face.

‘Dear God, how you frightened me!’ exclaimed the countess, recognizing him.

‘Forgive me, but there was an important reason why I came in without ringing the doorbell,’ he answered.

‘But how did you manage to get in?’ wondered the countess.

‘No need for any special talent,’ answered Holmes with a shrug. ‘My friend Dr Watson does not possess the talent of a detective. Here he is guarding the house, yet he left a window open in the corridor. Anyone could get in easily from the street.’

I was too disconcerted to say anything.

‘There we are, then!’ exclaimed the countess. ‘At least I now know who entered the house and slipped a letter on my pillow. Mr Holmes, you did that most skillfully.’

A puzzled look appeared on Holmes’s face. ‘Do I take it that
you are insinuating I was here and slipped you a letter surreptitiously?’ he asked.

‘So you weren’t here?’ the countess asked sarcastically.

‘I don’t suppose you’d let me have a look at the letter,’ Holmes said, a solemn note in his voice.

I handed him the letter. Holmes examined every line carefully, then looked again through a magnifying glass and for some reason even gave it a lick with his tongue.

The countess and I watched him with curiosity.

‘Whoever wrote this letter, wept over it,’ he said suddenly.

The full meaning of this sentence hadn’t penetrated when suddenly Holmes looked at the countess fixedly and said slowly, ‘This letter was written by … your husband.’

A piercing scream burst from the young woman’s bosom. And if I hadn’t managed to get to her side in time to support her, she would have collapsed on the floor.

It took some minutes to calm her. As soon as she had recovered, she asked, ‘My husband? My God! For God’s sake, explain immediately what you mean by that.’

‘Nothing more or nothing else than that he is alive, that nobody cut him into pieces,’ said Holmes speaking with great clarity.

The countess pressed one hand to her heart and with the other frantically seized Holmes by the hand, ‘It can’t be! For God’s sake … it’s about time you told everything.’

‘First of all, calm yourself and sit down,’ Holmes said.

The countess obeyed and sank into a chair in agitation.

‘And so, listen,’ Holmes began speaking seriously. ‘I don’t know the details, but I shall relate the whole course of events to you in general terms as I am sure they happened. Watson, do listen, but at the same time watch the street. Extinguish the lights and let’s move to the dining room. And so, I begin,’ he started again as soon as his instructions had been followed and I had sat down by the drawn curtains, while he and the count
ess sat down beside me. ‘Unlike the count, I see no reason to make a secret of your origins. Twenty years ago, you, the year-old daughter of the famous Rajah Ben-Ali was kidnapped by three evildoers, one of whom was the count himself.’

‘Oh, no!’ moaned the young woman.

‘Whether the count was an evildoer or fell into their company inadvertently, we’ll soon know. All I know is that the count was bound by oath to the other two, one of whom belonged to the Tadjidi tribe. Of course, I could be wrong but, judging by the weapons with which the count’s study is hung, he had something to do with pirates. Those little axes with the long handles are their favourite weapons for fighting at close quarters.’

‘Oh, God! Oh God!’ wept the young countess.

‘Oh, there’s no need to upset yourself so,’ Sherlock Holmes tried to calm her. ‘After all, what I am saying is mere supposition. In addition, the extent of the count’s guilt is not clear at all and, for some reason, it seems to me that he suffered some great sorrow in his life, which vindicates him. Today’s letter demonstrates that he fears for you and has been doing all these things because he wants to save you, but not to escape justice, else he would have referred to the detective with hatred.’

Hope and joy now came into the voice of the young countess as she murmured softly, ‘Of that I am sure! He is too noble.’

‘And so I continue,’ Sherlock Holmes resumed softly in the darkness. ‘Bound by oath, they kidnapped you. How you fell into the hands of the count, I don’t know. But the very fact that you were with him aroused the jealousy of the others, and they decided, at all costs, to take you from him. It is probable that the count received a letter with the seal of Tadjidi and one of the other two members of the enterprise sought him out in Russia. The count refused to give you up and decided simply to kidnap you. You were then already 9 years old. But the count was fortunate
enough to escape this person, carrying you away on that memorable night. Seven years went by and the count, having given you an education and turned you into an exceptionally cultivated young woman, wanted to return you to your parents, but he fell in love. Love, and the fear that you might not wish to surrender yourself to him, that’s what caused him to conceal the mystery. He married you and decided to visit your parents when you had finally grown close to each other. Their status and wealth was of no consideration to him. Mind you, he must have known that after your disappearance Rajah Ben-Ali had offered a reward of ten thousand pounds sterling, the equivalent of a hundred thousand roubles, to whoever found you. Five years later, the unhappy father doubled the reward. It is very likely that the possibility of earning such a huge reward gave no peace to the other two, which is why they didn’t give up their search for the count. The count got a letter and then vanished. One of the invisible enemies arrives in Russia and the count kills him—’