Sherlock Holmes in Russia

I

The search for a major criminal brought Sherlock Holmes and me to Kazan. We spent approximately a month here, returning by way of a two-berth cabin on a boat owned by a company called ‘The Flying Service’. We intended to sail along the Volga as far as Yaroslavl and catch a train to Moscow from there. It was peaceful sailing on the river. The weather was good. We spent all our time on deck, admiring the beautiful shores of the Volga.

Sherlock Holmes grew more cheerful and his ill humour at times vanished. I looked at my friend and was glad for him from the bottom of my heart. Several days passed in this way.

The boat sailed past Nijni-Novgorod and a day later we arrived at Kostroma. Here we were to load a large cargo and the captain announced we could rely on being there a good two hours.

‘Would you like a stroll through the town, my dear Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes suggested as our boat was made fast.

I readily agreed and we set off. But there was nothing of interest there, and after we had strolled about less than an hour, we returned to the pier.

Here all was bustle. A score of stevedores, carrying heavy bales, filed aboard the boat, bearing cargo from the warehouse on the pier.

We stopped at the entrance to the warehouse and silently watched all this activity. Twenty minutes or so went by. A few words, suddenly uttered behind us, caused us to prick up our ears and turn our heads.

The foreman was talking to a representative of the shipping line, ‘—hasn’t been collected for a while. I turned up yesterday – terrible smell. Couldn’t figure out where it came from. Seemed to come from some corner … This morning I turned over the whole warehouse, all the baggage, and found—’

‘What was it?’ asked the representative of the shipping line.

‘It came from a basket,’ answered the foreman. ‘Unbearable stink. A large basket sent as baggage to Kostroma from Kazan. It was unloaded five days ago, but the recipient hasn’t collected it.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ grumbled the representative of the shipping line unhappily.

Some instinct pulled us after them, and we followed them into the warehouse. The stink was something awful.

The representative of the shipping line made a face and spat frantically. ‘The devil knows what it is,’ he swore. ‘Turf out this disgusting basket. It’s probably full of rotting meat. A formal protocol will have to be drawn up, the river police called in and it has to be thrown away. Be a good chap, get the river police.’

The foreman ran out and was back soon with several river policemen of different ranks. The shipping line representative announced that the basket contained putrid cargo, that it had made the air in the warehouse foul, and that the basket would have to be opened. Interested in the goings-on, we approached the group. The basket was untied and the lid taken off. A loathsome smell came from it.

Inside the basket, a bale was tightly wrapped in a heavy tarpaulin. The tarpaulin was cut away on three sides and lifted off. Everyone jumped back in horror.

A corpse, chopped into pieces, was packed into the tarpaulin. There was no doubt that it was a human corpse. A wrist, sliced away from the corpse, lay on top.

‘The devil!’ said Sherlock Holmes, approaching the basket. ‘A cargo that’s been around for a while.’

‘I’ll ask you to get the hell out of here,’ a police officer, just noticing us, threw the words at us somewhat fiercely.

‘And why not simply say, “leave”?’ said Holmes lightly.

Such simple words maddened the policeman, unused to being reproved.

‘Just you wait and I’ll have you down at the police station,’ he yelled, and for some reason opened his briefcase, as if about to prepare a charge sheet.

‘You’re quite in order to do so,’ answered Holmes calmly. ‘Would you like my name? Sherlock Holmes.’

What a picture! The police officer was hopelessly embarrassed, confused and began to utter embarrassed apologies. As for the others, hearing the name of the famous detective, they silently examined him with wide-open eyes, forgetting all about the basket and its grisly contents. As if nothing untoward had occurred, Sherlock Holmes turned on his heels and left the warehouse without a word. I followed.

II

We returned to our boat and went to the dining room, intending to have a bite to eat. But hardly had our waiter approached us when the local Chief of Police, two policemen, and the police officer who had come down on us in the warehouse came hurrying in. Someone must have pointed us out, because the Chief of Police came straight over to our table.

‘I would like to proffer my deepest apologies for the slight lack of tact on the part of my subordinates,’ he said politely, addressing Holmes, ‘but in the heat of the moment and under similar circumstances, a man may lose his composure.’

‘Precisely what a policeman ought not to do,’ Holmes shrugged. ‘In England it is a severely punishable offence.’

‘You are completely in the right,’ agreed the Chief of Police. ‘But I do beg of you most earnestly to overlook this untoward occurrence.’

The Chief of Police sat down at our table and spoke so pleasantly and in such a friendly manner that Holmes finally gave up. ‘Very well, then. Consider it long forgotten. After all, travelling through Russia, if I were to remember every slight large or small, to which we English are subjected and to which we aren’t used – why, I would’ve had to leave long since.’

The atmosphere changed and the conversation turned to the crime. However, at that moment the third whistle was blown and we had to bid each other farewell. We left Kostroma and, a day later, were already in Moscow. But the events which had taken place continued to interest us very much. The newspapers gave daily reports, but the news only revealed that the investigation wasn’t progressing and the outcome was unlikely to be a positive one.

The investigation was simply unable to establish a motive for the murder. Nor was there any clue as to the identity of the victim, though it was hoped that would be discovered: the perpetrators had mutilated, but hadn’t had the time or simply hadn’t thought of destroying his clothes.

It was eventually established that the dead man was Count Piotr Vassilievitch Tugaroff. He owned a small estate in Kazan Province and a house in the city of Kazan itself.

When the newspapers had published news of the murder and described his clothes, it was expected that relatives or someone near would respond. The victim, as Holmes and I had anticipated, was identified by his wife, the Countess Tugarova. She had seen reports of the murder and had written a letter full of despair saying that her husband, living with her in Oriol, had vanished three weeks earlier. What little description there was, fitted him. Judging by the material from which the clothes were made and the gold chain round his neck, it was possible to assume the victim came from the moneyed classes. All else was a mystery.

Some days later, matters improved somewhat. But even this fresh information did not lead to any results. The investigation continued to tread water and there was no further progress.

III

That evening, Holmes and I had just returned from a stroll, and he was sitting down to write a letter to England, when there was a knock at the door.

I said, ‘Come in!’ and a lady dressed in elegant black with black crepe from head to toe came in.

She was about 20 or 25. She had a beautiful figure, dark complexion with regular features and black hair. She did not look Russian at all.

She looked us both over, bowed with a sad look on her face and addressed me. ‘Might one of you be Sherlock Holmes?’ she asked.

I gestured toward my friend.

‘Won’t you sit down, madam,’ Holmes said.

She sat down without further ado.

‘I am the Countess Tugarova,’ she said softly. Her accent didn’t sound at all Russian. ‘I was in Kostroma, where my husband’s body was found, and heard of you by accident. I was told you had gone to Moscow and this is where I finally found you, with the help of the local police.’

Sherlock Holmes gave a little bow.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. There was entreaty in her voice. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, so it isn’t surprising that I turn to you for help. As far as I can see, the investigation is hardly moving forward—’

She broke off what she was saying and began to speak English. ‘You must help me! Once, you and I were citizens of the same country. I owe so much to my husband, I am determined, at all costs, to bring the evildoer to justice.’

As soon as she began to speak, Holmes smiled, ‘Undoubtedly, you are of mixed race. From which side?’

‘You’re right,’ said the countess simply. ‘It was my mother who was English.’

‘Forgive me for the interruption,’ smiled Sherlock Holmes, ‘but I shan’t interrupt any more unless it is absolutely necessary. I am all ears. If you want me to take up this matter, you must tell me everything in order, not omitting the slightest matter.’

He made himself more comfortable in his armchair and repeated, ‘I am ready.’

IV

‘We came to Russia some time ago,’ began the Countess. ‘But if you must have a full account, I must begin with my own life story. I am now 21. My husband was 45 a little while ago. Originally, I was a foster child. On several occasions he told me that while travelling through India, he stopped off at Bombay, where he rented a small private residence. That’s where he got me for a present. To put it at its simplest, I was abandoned and left to him when I was 3. His first thought was to place me with the local police, because of the difficulty for a grown man of dealing with a child. But he changed his mind and decided to take me home to show off as a curiosity. I repeat this, as he told it to me himself, when sharing his own past with me. He was 23, when I was abandoned. During his stay in Bombay I was looked after by an old Indian woman who, naturally enough, told one and all of his intention to take me home. Before he left, the count received a letter from my father. In it, he said that he was of mixed race, and his wife had been an Englishwoman, who died in childbirth. But he was very poor and decided to foist the child on the count in the hope that, in good hands, she would have a better future than with a poor mulatto. He didn’t give his name. The count took me along on his travels, and when he returned to Russia handed me over to the old woman who had been his own nurse. That’s when, for some reason, I was brought up to call him “Papa”. Having handed me over to his nurse, he vanished again for several years and returned when I was 9. But in his letters to his steward and to the nurse, he often mentioned me and showed his concern for my education—’

Sherlock Holmes gestured for the countess to stop and asked, ‘Tell me, please, where exactly did the letters come from?’

‘I was too little then to be interested in such things, but later I discovered that the greatest number came from India, and two letters were stamped in Tonkin,’ she answered.

‘Thank you,’ Holmes bowed. ‘Pray, continue.’

‘Returning to Russia, he saw me,’ the countess continued. ‘At the time we were living on his estate. He was always affectionate towards me, was very satisfied with the progress I made in my studies, and at times examined me himself. But he never let me leave his side. This time he stayed a year in Russia, and I became very attached to him. Once, it was at the end of summer, he came to me pale and full of anxiety. ‘Irra,’ he said to me, ‘there’s a madman in the vicinity. He attacks people, bites and kills them. That’s why you mustn’t leave the house without me. I forbid it.’ I was terribly frightened. After that we always stayed together, even going out in the garden. Nurse told me that Father was afraid for me. He hired four watchmen and guard dogs were chained in the yard. Nurse told me he frequently got up at night and went round the estate with a gun. Once, as evening was approaching, I wanted to pick some fresh roses. I went to look for Father, but not finding him, decided I’d go by myself. I put on a kerchief and went out through the yard and into the garden. I don’t know what made me do this, probably because I was frightened by the count’s warning, but I didn’t open the gate straight away. So first I peeked through a chink in the fence. And there, behind a shrub, was a human head. I screamed and ran back without so much as a look at the face of the man in hiding. Hearing my outcry, the count rushed out of the stables. I told him what had happened. He went for his gun and, as if crazed, rushed into the garden. I hid in my room, frightened to death. He didn’t find anyone and came back very upset and angry. For a whole hour he upbraided the watchmen, and the very same day hired four more and armed them. That evening he told me that we were leaving. He collected his personal belongings and papers himself, and ordered me to pack only three dresses, six changes of underwear and my favourite knick-knacks. Till the very last minute, none of the staff knew we were leaving. At eleven he ordered the best troika to be harnessed to the largest carriage and spare horses to be tied to the back.’

The countess paused and asked for a drink. With the agility of a young man, Sherlock Holmes jumped from his armchair and poured a glass of very good wine with water.

‘Thank you,’ said the countess, taking the glass.

She drank a little and smiled sadly, ‘I hope I’m not boring you.’

‘On the contrary,’ Sherlock Holmes exclaimed with animation. ‘It is utterly romantic and intrigues me more and more. If I were a writer, I would turn it into a novel. It would create a sensation.’

‘In that case, I shall go on,’ said the countess sadly.

V

‘And so, by eleven o’clock that night, all was ready,’ the countess began again. ‘But first, the count called together all the watchmen. He ordered them to make a circle around the estate and move out in a radius. Half a kilometre away, they were to fire a shot.

‘When the watchmen had gone off, the count summoned his steward, gave him a packet with instructions and announced to all that he was leaving. At this moment, we heard shots fired in the distance. That was the watchmen scaring off whoever it was, on the orders of their master. Our belongings were loaded and secured. With the staff looking at us in bewilderment, we drove through the gate and tore along the road as if we were crazed. The count personally indicated the route to be taken. We turned at the first crossroads and sped ahead, turning right and left by the minute, as if to cover our tracks. We covered about seventy kilometres, allowing the horses only a brief respite. When the horses were too weak to go on, the count ordered the spare horses to be harnessed and we sped off again. As the morning wore on, the coachman begged several times for the horses to be allowed to rest (the first troika we had set out with had simply been abandoned along the road), but the count was adamant. We sped on till the shaft-horse collapsed. The count ordered the coachman to mount one of the others and find, for any amount of money, the best possible horses. The loyal coachman (he’d served the count’s father) galloped off and an hour and a half later was back with three horses of lesser quality and their owner. He was happy to accept two of our exhausted horses with three hundred roubles in exchange for his. Our dead horse was left on the road. The horses were changed and we flew like the wind. At about five we heard a whistle and soon got to some railway station. You should have seen the count’s look of joy when he saw a train. I remember neither the line nor the name of the station. The count jumped out of the carriage, ordered the porters to unload and then wrote something on a piece of paper to which he affixed his seal. Then, I remember, he called the coachman and said, “Listen, Dimitri! Go where you wish, but remember, this girl’s life depends on your silence. Rest here for a while, feed the horses, and go anywhere, where you can sell the carriage and horses. This note and your passport formally attest that they are yours. And here’s another two hundred roubles. Go to your native province of Orlov. I know your village and I’ll get in touch with you there. Should anyone ask after me or the girl, don’t say where you dropped us off. Say nothing about us. Farewell.” ‘

‘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.

VI

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.

VII

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.

VIII

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.’

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:

Telegram from the colonies.

India. Bombay.

The local population is tremendously upset by a particularly audacious theft which took place not far from Bombay from the palace of the rajah, Ben-Ali. Ben-Ali, much respected by all, famed for his riches and influence over the local population, went hunting, leaving his year-old daughter at home. Rajah Ben-Ali, a handsome man, is married to an Englishwoman from a good family. This is why Irra’s skin is more European than Indian. Irra, an only daughter, was worshipped by her family. When Ben-Ali was setting off for the hunt, Irra and her nurse were walking in the palace vicinity. When the nurse and baby hadn’t returned for some time, the alarm was raised. The nurse was found by the roadside, stabbed to death in her bosom. The baby had vanished. Now a full alarm was raised. Thousands of horsemen and men on foot were sent out in all directions, but in vain. Irra had vanished. The rajah returned, widened the search and offered a huge reward for his daughter’s return, but to no avail. The British police joined in the search.

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.

IX

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.

X

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.

XI

‘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 countess 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—’

‘What are you saying!’ exclaimed the countess.

‘He kills him, having lured him into a trap,’ Holmes continued imperturbably. ‘He dressed him in his own clothes, killed and placed him in a basket, having first mutilated his face and knowing full well that going by the gash on the leg and the clothes, the corpse would be taken for him. Why? Evidently, he reckoned that the third villain would fall for this. The death of the count would be trumpeted everywhere by the newspapers and the third one would come here to kidnap you. Of course, thinking the count dead, he wouldn’t be so careful—’

‘Sssh,’ I whispered at this moment, seeing the dark silhouette of a man walking back and forth across the road.

Sherlock Holmes abruptly stopped his account and ran to the curtain.

XII

‘Now, then, my dear Watson,’ he whispered, ‘redouble your attenton.’

To the extent that the darkness allowed it, we saw that the man appearing to wander aimlessly opposite the house was above average height, well built, wearing a light well-fitting suit. Twice he walked past the countess’s home, stopped and turned his head to the right, peering into the darkness.

A couple of minutes later, a wagon, the kind used to transport furniture, drove from around the corner. It stopped some way from the house, and a man came from it and approached the man standing on the pavement.

The two exchanged a few words, after which one returned to the wagon, while the other remained standing on the pavement.

There were no passers-by.

‘Look! Look!’ whispered Holmes. ‘Look at the fence opposite.’

I looked in the direction he had indicated. A dark, half-rounded silhouette crawled over the top of the fence.

‘Someone is watching the man on the pavement,’ I whispered.

‘Yes, indeed!’ answered Holmes. ‘Slip off your shoes in case we have to move quietly.’

Meanwhile, the man on the pavement looked carefully on all sides and then swiftly crossed the street. Now he was under the window next to ours.

We froze, listening for the slightest sound, taking our revolvers out of our pockets, just in case. The poor countess sat there, more dead than alive, her heart beating loudly in the stillness. We now heard the noise of a cut being made.

‘Diamond cutter,’ whispered Holmes.

The sound was repeated several times and the glass cracked. The curtain billowed as the air blew in and we heard a rustle. Holmes jerked me nervously by the sleeve. I looked out on the street and saw a silhouette waist-high by the fence. The silhouette froze and a shot rang out.

The man on the windowsill gave a loud shriek and we heard his body collapse heavily on the pavement. At this moment, Sherlock Holmes swiftly flung the window open, leapt out and made for the fence.

I couldn’t very well leave him, so I threw myself after him, shouting to the countess, ‘Call the servants! Tie up the man lying outside if he’s lightly wounded! Send after that wagon!’

A moment later we were over the fence in pursuit of the killer. We were so quick that he was unable to run as far as the opposite end of the yard before we caught up with him. But to my surprise, he didn’t point his gun at us. On the contrary, he turned the barrel down towards the ground, waiting for us proudly, evidently not intending to defend himself.

Holmes aimed his revolver with one hand, and with the other took a torch out of his pocket and pointed the beam at the face of the criminal. The man who stood before us was of noble bearing with a handsome open face. He was pale as a sheet, but looked at us with the calm look of a man who had fulfilled his duty. It was the look of a man who had killed an opponent in a duel for insulting someone close or wounded his honour.

‘Count Piotr Vassilievitch Tugaroff, I arrest you,’ said Sherlock Holmes loudly and clearly, lowering his revolver.

‘I surrender,’ answered the count, ‘but I would like to know who I am dealing with.’

‘Of course,’ said Holmes, ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend, Dr Watson.’

The count’s eyes lit up joyfully, ‘I am glad that it is you I have to deal with,’ he exclaimed. ‘You will understand me better than most. Let’s go to my house and should you still have any doubts about me, feel free to summon the police. I only ask that you hear my story before I am led away to prison.’

And he threw his weapon down.

‘I do believe you,’ said Holmes unexpectedly. ‘Let’s go. As for the police, they’re bound to be here any minute.’

We made our way to the count’s house. The shot had already disturbed the quiet street. In the distance we heard the trill of a police whistle. At the front door Holmes gave a strong pull at the bell.

‘Who’s there?’ asked the countess.

‘Holmes and Watson,’ answered the former.

The door opened and we entered the well-lit hallway. Seeing her husband, the countess started back, then, with a loud sob, threw herself at him. He embraced her silently, while tears cascaded from her eyes.

XIII

It was a good half-hour before the countess calmed down.

‘I would like to tell all first and then I shall ask you to summon the police,’ said the count at last. ‘But where is the man I shot?’

‘He is heavily wounded and we’ve carried him inside,’ answered Irra.

‘All the better,’ the count nodded his head. ‘But let Irra be the first to know her past.’

‘I already know,’ she murmured and blushed.

‘How?’ he answered upset.

Holmes gave a brief account of his investigations.

‘Hmm! Your fame still doesn’t do you justice,’ said the count, staggered by what he heard. ‘But what convinced you it wasn’t me in that grave?’

‘That was very simple,’ explained Holmes. ‘I dug up the corpse at night and tried your boot on its leg. Moreover, a swarthy man came to the cemetery watchman and asked to see your grave. I saw him. He read the inscription on the tombstone and when he was convinced that you were buried there, he smiled happily and left. A minute later I saw you flash through the greenery.’

‘That’s true,’ said the count solemnly. ‘But let me begin at the beginning. To explain my connection with these two men, I have to tell you that I was orphaned at 17 and set off to travel. For over a year everything went well, but towards the end of the second year, when I was sailing from Calcutta to America, we were attacked in the Indian Ocean by the corsair Daudalama. During the attack, I fell into the sea. Luckily for me, the leader, Daudalama of the tribe of Tadjidi fell with me. He had a severe head wound and would have gone down but, driven by pity, I held him up, not knowing I had saved the life of such a villain. The pirate ship came by and fished us out. For having saved the life of their leader, I was allowed to live. Daudalama, who seemed to be like a cat with nine lives, soon recovered. He promised that my life would be spared, but with this proviso, that I was to swear an oath not to reveal his misdeeds. Otherwise, I would die. There was one other prisoner. He was a proper villain himself. He actually asked to be admitted as a member of the pirate crew. What was I to do? I decided to accede to the demand and escape at the first opportunity. The oath and the slashing of the legs was administered. I, Hammer (the other prisoner) and Daudalama swore to be blood-brothers. I spent two years with the pirates. Unfortunately, my passport was with me and the pirate discovered my name. He attacked ships and killed everyone on board, but that wasn’t enough to satiate him. I was present but did not take part. I was closely watched. Daudalama had a deadly enemy. This was Rajah Ben-Ali, who had hanged his father, also a bandit, after whom his son took. And so the pirate decided to avenge himself. The rajah worshipped his daughter, little Irra. Daudalama’s idea was to kidnap the little girl, hold her to ransom and then, having dishonoured her, to return her to her father. He told me I was to be his partner in this conspiracy. Hoping to escape, I agreed. And so, Hammer and Daudalama and I set off for Bombay. The rest of the story you know. On the way back, at night, I escaped with the little child. For twelve days we were at sea in a plain Indian boat till a ship picked us up. To what authority was I to hand over the child? In any case, I was sure Daudalama would kidnap her all over again. That’s why, returning to Russia, I sent a letter to the rajah telling him not to worry about the child. I intended to bring her up and then return her to her father, hoping that by that time justice would overtake the pirate. As for me, I kept an eye on his whereabouts and misdeeds. That’s how it was till Irra was nine. But now Daudalama, by some twist of malign fate, discovered my whereabouts. Together with Hammer, he arrived in Russia to kidnap little Irra and carry out his revenge. He warned me in a threatening letter, saying I had best give the lass up voluntarily. But I didn’t answer. And so they appeared, lying in wait for her like beasts on the prowl. Hammer gave himself away when Irra was approaching the gate. I managed to put a bullet through his side but, despite the wound, he escaped. I suspect Daudalama didn’t want to leave his wounded partner behind. Nobody else knew what had happened. When Irra grew up, I wanted to return her to her father myself, but I … I fell in love. I was so afraid to lose the woman I loved I didn’t dare tell her her real name. Besides, I was afraid of the publicity and the fact that the world would ascribe mercenary ends to me. After all, the rajah was rich beyond the dreams of avarice. I thought the bandit had vanished, when the blow fell. Daudalama found me a second time and sent Hammer here. He wrote to me, saying that unless I give up Irra, his vengeance would fall on me too and, in any case, Irra would not escape dishonour. This was the second letter carrying the mark of Tadjidi. So I thought of a trap. I set off to meet Hammer in Kazan, where he was to arrive after going through Persia and the Caucasus. We met in Kazan. I told Hammer that I intended to give up Irra and asked him to write to Daudalama to this effect, that we were on our way to Oriol to fetch her and would he join us there. Hammer’s clothes were too light for the Russian climate, so I gave him mine. I lured him to a spot I had prepared, killed him, cut him up into pieces, put the remains in a basket and hid myself away. Everything was as I expected. Daudalama read of my death in the newspapers. On the one hand, this reassured him. On the other, he was at a loss as to Hammer’s whereabouts. Perhaps he’d fallen into the hands of the police! Daudalama thought it through and decided he had nothing left to worry about. Running into me was no longer a risk. He could walk about freely and was getting ready to make off with Irra quite openly, which was why I was able to put a bullet into him.

The count fell silent.

Noises came in from the street.

The count spoke again, ‘And now, for the final proof.’

He went into his study and opened a secret compartment in one of the inlaid cupboards by pressing on one of the stones.

‘Here is my diary,’ he said, handing Holmes a thick notebook. ‘You will recognize that it was written long, long ago from the handwriting and ink. Here are the bandit’s letters, and here is my last will and testament, made ten years ago, in which I reveal Irra’s real name and leave her, in the event of my death, my entire estate. And now, I ask you to hand me over to the police.’

Sobbing, the countess fell at the feet of her husband and embraced his knees.

We stood there, not knowing what to do.

XIV

A month passed. The trial was over and he was found ‘not guilty!’

The wounded pirate was forced to confess to all his crimes. He was handed over to the British authorities and his life ended on the gallows.

Soon enough, Rajah Ben-Ali was told of his daughter’s fate. His joy knew no bounds. He sent quite a deputation to fetch his daughter and son-in-law.

Sherlock Holmes and I received generous rewards and for some time corresponded with the count and countess, till time and other concerns distanced this enigmatic affair in our memories.