Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

  “He must have been quite the hunter then.”

  “As relentless as a Cossack, Watson.”

  “Still, she must have thought herself rid of him and let down her guard?” I suggested. “She is certainly accomplished with a blade, but perhaps not so artful as Damian Graves at subterfuge?”

  “It’s possible, but I find it more likely that she allowed him to follow her.”

  “But how could you know he came here, Holmes? I can see evidence of the girl’s panicked flight, but nothing that would suggest Andropov’s presence.”

  Here Sherlock Holmes gave a small smile. “Makhorka,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It is a tobacco, mainly grown in Russia, known for its coarse, strong flavour. This particular strain is unique, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg in the aroma. It is not uncommon for Muscovites to first grind and then spice their tobacco to a particular recipe, and Grigori Andropov was no exception. His fingertips you see, Watson, carried a potent scent of makhorka as well as the aforementioned spices. I detected the self-same aroma as we reached this apartment.”

  “Impressive, Holmes, given the overall stench.”

  “A small matter, Watson. At any account, I found traces of ash just outside the door.”

  “Grigori Andropov, waiting for the girl to come out.”

  “Precisely, but she had already left and not the way she entered.”

  “The window,” said I, “judging by those scuff marks and the piece of cloth I found.”

  Holmes nodded. “We already know his vigil was a long one, and had continued well into the night.”

  “He was afraid of her slipping through his fingers,” said I. “I believe Inspector Gregson described him as ‘tenacious’.”

  “And that he certainly was,” said Holmes, “for he did not leave until he saw his quarry again. Although this time, she was dressed in black after her night-time excursion to the Grayson Gallery, a cloak around her shoulders much like the one she abandoned during her escape.”

  I suddenly felt grave, and shook my head. “To think, she murdered that man on the same night she escaped us. Had only we been swifter…”

  “A fact we cannot change, Watson,” said Holmes, and I was thankful for his pragmatism. “Although I wish we had been able to prevent Grigori Andropov’s death, there is no doubt in my mind that he met his end that night. The rain and Molly Bugle’s testimony make it a certainty, I am afraid, not to mention the state of the corpse.”

  My brow furrowed as remembered facts came to mind. “Didn’t Molly Bugle also mention that the figure she saw wore a hood and cloak? It could not have been the same one left behind on Tavistock Street. She must have had a spare and would likely have had to return here to get it. Could she really have done that with Andropov waiting outside?”

  “I believe she did, Watson, and used the opportunity to bait the hook.”

  “Luring her hunter away.”

  “Yes. I think she returned to her apartment through the window and made certain Andropov would hear her. Surprising for certain, given he would have expected her to come to her door. But see here…” said Holmes, quickly striding to the door, “he hammered at the door, but Letitia Irwin had other plans and fled back through the window. Except she knew Andropov would follow her as soon as he heard her escaping, so she waited for him in the street. Allowing herself to be seen, she then led him to his death.” Holmes strode over to a corner of the room. “A small indentation, Watson.” He gestured to a mark, which I found difficult to discern until Holmes pointed it out, a rough nick in the floorboard. “Her blade stood here, taken once she decided upon her murderous course.”

  “Hence the reason she had no sabre when crossing our path.”

  “Perhaps it is fortunate for us that she did not, Watson.”

  “And the woman Price mentioned,” I realised, “that was Letitia Irwin too. She returned but was dissuaded from entering this building by the presence of your Irregular. No doubt Price was rather obvious in his sentry duty.”

  “Yes, Watson, I believe Price saw Irwin attempt to return to her abandoned lodgings for some reason.”

  “To deal with any remaining evidence, perhaps?”

  “If she had wanted to do that, she would have done it before,” said Holmes. “No, she took great risk by coming back. She had already been discovered once and had to kill a man to keep her identity and presence a secret.”

  “Then why come back, Holmes?”

  “I can think of only one possible explanation,” replied Holmes. “In her haste, she forgot something very important.”

  “Perhaps it was my pocket watch?” I suggested indignantly.

  “As fine as your pocket watch is, Watson, I do not think so. No, I believe it was an item of a much more personal nature.”

  Casting about the room, I could see nothing that matched that description at first. I then glanced over at the bed that we had just pulled away from the wall and the area of floor exposed beneath.

  “Another nook, Holmes?” said I with burgeoning realisation. “Something hidden under the floorboards?”

  “Given the appropriate encouragement, Watson,” said Holmes, “we shall make a detective out of you yet.”

  I raised my eyebrows at this, and went over to the suspect floorboards. “It is well hidden,” said I, noting that the shadows in the room were at their thickest in the spot nearest the bed, but a faint split along the floorboard was visible if one looked hard enough for it. I managed to get the tips of my fingers into the shallow gap—a feat made easier for Miss Irwin, I imagined, for her digits would be slighter—and lifted up the board. The hollow beneath it was small, barely a few inches in length, and not very deep. An object lay within, wrapped in a piece of cloth in order to protect it. Tentatively, I opened the cloth and saw to my surprise a photograph of a man and woman, with whom I assumed was their daughter in front of them.

  The edges of the photograph were ragged and the image faded by age and exposure to sunlight, but it still depicted a picturesque winter scene. Snow lay on the ground and clung to the trees in thick, virginal clumps. The family was standing in a communal square of some kind, though not one I recognised. In the background I could make out a statue raised upon a stepped dais but badly obscured by distance and the degradation of the photograph. Farther in the distance was an austere but grand-looking building. The family’s attire marked them out as Russian, with their long thick woollen coats and fur-trimmed hats. The three were smiling, the father with his right hand on his daughter’s shoulder, his other hand clasping the mother’s.

  “A family portrait,” I said. “It could only be her, Holmes, surely.”

  Although the photograph was several years old, the girl with fair hair peeking from beneath her hat looked to be a younger version of the woman we knew as Letitia Irwin. I had not got a particularly good look at her on Regent Street, but I remembered enough to draw a strong comparison.

  “A keepsake,” Holmes replied, “forgotten in her hurry, but one precious enough to risk returning for it. A plan put to naught by the presence of Price.”

  “I suppose it is not unusual for a visitor to a foreign land to cling to that which reminds them of their home and family,” I said.

  “It’s Alexandrinsky Square,” said Holmes, indicating the photograph, “and that is a statue of Empress Catherine the Great. A trip to the theatre, perhaps,” he added, “for that is the Alexandrinsky in the background.” He paused. “Given the nature of our case, I thought it prudent to do a little research into Russian culture.” He gestured to the photograph. “Turn it over, if you would, Watson.”

  I did so. On the back of the photograph in faded ink something had been written in Cyrillic, for by now I was familiar enough with the alphabet that I could at least identify it.

  “What does it say, Holmes?” I asked, passing him the photograph.

  “Saint Petersburg, Laznovich,” replied my companion. “There are three names beneath—Arkady, Varvara a
nd Irina.”

  “Father, mother and daughter?”

  “I hardly think they could be anything other, Watson.”

  “From Letitia Irwin to Ivor Lazarus to Irina Laznovich,” said I, and I confess I felt a surge of relief at finally knowing the name of our murderess.

  “To be precise, Watson, Irina Arkadyevna Laznovna, for the name is different for females.”

  “Fascinating, Holmes; you are indeed the industrious student, but in either case we have her at last.”

  “Indeed we do, Watson. Now all we must do is stop her,” said Holmes, who, despite the victory, still appeared to be rather perturbed.

  “Is something wrong, Holmes? Is this not the breakthrough in the case we have been waiting for?”

  “It is, Watson, it is.”

  “And yet, your demeanour is decidedly troubled.”

  “I am missing something, Watson, some key fact I have overlooked. We have her name, true, but we do not have her method.”

  “The painting, Holmes, surely,” said I. “Damian Graves is Ivor Lazarus’s patron and it seems only logical that Ivor Lazarus is Irina Laznovna.”

  “The method she employed at the gallery required very precise conditions,” Holmes replied, pensively. “Replicating such a crime at the Royal Opera House would be much more difficult, if not impossible.”

  “And the death toll far greater,” I said, unable to hide my alarm at the thought.

  “There could be some other poisonous agent at work, I suppose, one transferred through touch or mere proximity, but it is imprecise and if she has her victim then why leave such a thing to chance? And then there is the warning to consider…”

  “‘The legacy of your deeds’,” I said. “You said yourself, Holmes, she means to make the grand duke suffer for some reason, and she has already demonstrated she is willing to commit mass murder to kill one man. The woman is capable of near anything, I would say. Would she not consider using the same method as she employed at the gallery?”

  “I believe she would, but it is almost beyond impractical. Do not forget, Watson, she is both a gifted gymnast and swordfighter. Why not simply attack the grand duke at the Langham?”

  “It would be incredibly public at the Royal Opera House.”

  “Yes, and she had made statements before, promises of torture and penance… but for what? I must know, Watson, for it is the very key to the case.”

  “Let us at least send word to Scotland Yard. I’m sure Inspector Gregson would have returned to London by now.”

  “And tell him what, Watson? That we believe a painting to somehow be involved in a fiendish plot to assassinate the Grand Duke Konstantin, but that we do not know how or when? The fact remains that if we act now and tip our hand before we have all the facts we will most certainly lose.”

  “It is not a game, Holmes,” I said, my tone admonishing.

  “Not it is not, for the stakes are life and death, and a potential calamity that could tarnish British and Russian relations for years to come.”

  “What then do you suggest?” I asked, exasperated.

  “Quite simply, Watson, there is only one person who we must seek out now. It is long overdue that we pay Damian Graves another visit and ask him what he knows of Irina Laznovna. She will not return here now after that first aborted attempt. The fine attire Price saw her wearing, it is much more in keeping with a woman of Mayfair. I can think of no other place she could be at this moment. If she is not at the Berkeley Square residence then I am resolved to find evidence of where she has gone. We must not falter now, Watson. It is imperative that this horror be ended and the perpetrators brought to justice.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A GRAVE CONFRONTATION

  We did not tarry and fairly dashed across the Old Nichol, found a hansom on Threadneedle Street and were swiftly on our way. Holmes indulged a very brief diversion, requesting that the driver slow our carriage on Albemarle Street, just off Piccadilly. Poking his head from the carriage window, Holmes had a terse encounter with another of his young street urchins. I did not recognise the boy, though I confess I find it hard to tell one from another, but it was certainly not Price or Hobbers. No words were exchanged between them, for, even slowed, the carriage was moving too fast for a conversation, but it did give the urchin time to slip Holmes what I took to be a small, dull marble, pale in colour as to be almost white. As soon as my companion had taken possession of the item, the little fellow scurried off into the shadows and we were back at full pelt towards Mayfair.

  Sherlock Holmes had a glint in his eye, and turned to me, brandishing the marble.

  “It is a simple enough system, for many of the Irregulars cannot read or write.”

  “I am intrigued, Holmes,” said I.

  “A bag of marbles, half black, half white. The former indicates a negative response, the latter a positive one. All that remains then is to pose a question that I require the answer to. In this case, the message has come from Hobbers, the question relating to the presence of Damian Graves, who, you remember, I charged Hobbers with the surveillance of.”

  “I do, Holmes. So what, in this instance, does the message mean?”

  Sherlock Holmes gave a broad grin, holding the white marble up to his eye. “Black means our quarry is at large, white that he is in residence.”

  “I doubt he will be quite so genial this time.”

  “No, Watson,” said Holmes as the carriage fairly raced into Berkeley Square, “I do not think he will.”

  * * *

  Night had drawn in and the gala performance at the Royal Opera House was only an hour or so hence; I felt the hourglass had turned against us.

  The mansion at Berkeley Square was much as I remembered it. Holmes did not bother to knock and when he tried the knob, to my great surprise, the door opened.

  We exchanged a glance, my expression prompting Holmes to say mildly, “It appears we are expected.”

  He then strode in through the entrance hall and made his way up the stairs, with me close on his heels. We both held our walking sticks at the ready, for who could say what reaction our accusations would provoke in a man like Graves, especially given his thinly veiled threats after he discovered me following him to the Old Nichol.

  We found him in his exercise room, dressed in a fine black woollen suit, his jacket draped on a nearby chair. I saw no top hat, but assumed he had this somewhere to finish off the ensemble. Wherever he was headed, I thought it could not be the gala, or, if it was, then perhaps we had been mistaken about Miss Laznovna’s intention to repeat what she had done at the Grayson Gallery on a much larger scale. If he thought anything of this, Sherlock Holmes gave nothing of it away in his expression or manner but maintained his absolute composure.

  Graves glanced over as we entered the room, his mood seeming to prove Holmes’s theory about us being expected. He was evidently trying to straighten his bow tie but ended up making quite the hash of it.

  “I do find the tying of knots confounding without the benefit of a mirror,” he said, undoing his previous effort. “Or the assistance of a second pair of hands.”

  “Have you no servants to assist you, sir?” asked Holmes.

  “Regrettably, I have had to dismiss them from my service. I will no longer have need of them. My business demands that I shortly leave the city. I would ask one of you fine gentlemen to assist me, but I suspect you might not be in the generous mood. Tell me,” he added, letting his tie hang loose about his neck as he turned towards us, “to what do I owe this visit? Are we to engage in more subterfuge?”

  He did not, I noted, react in any way to the fact we both carried a stick, and I believed then he also expected a fight.

  “It appears we caught you in the midst of preparing for an evening on the town,” said Holmes genially, to which Graves pursed his lips and gave a little shake of the head.

  “Oh, come now, Mr Holmes, are you really going to keep playing games? I think you know where I am bound this evening.”

>   “One can only assume you are headed to Bow Street for the gala.”

  Again, Holmes gave no reaction that might betray what he had learned.

  “Right again, Mr Holmes. Your cognitive abilities truly are all they are claimed to be. Most of the well-to-do in London are also for the opera this evening,” he went on, his feeble attempt at sarcasm doing him no credit at all. “Scarcely of interest, though, I am sure. I note you have yet to answer my question or explain your presence here in my home.” He looked to our weapons, brandished as they were. “Armed. Are you come to arrest me?”

  I bristled at this remark, the feigned indignation of the man, who knew precisely what we were about and still had the audacity to try and dissemble.

  “Are you expecting to be apprehended, sir?” I snapped, my choler rising with every passing moment.

  “Not by you.”

  “Lavender and rose hip,” Holmes replied, before my temper got the better of me.

  Graves frowned, diminished in confidence for the first time since we had arrived. “I am afraid you have me at a loss, sir.”

  “Your dealings are known to us, Graves,” said I, stepping in, unable to contain my anger any longer.

  “My dealings?” He laughed dismissively. “I have a great many. To which are you referring?”

  “A great many,” Holmes echoed, “but principally concerning a young woman who goes by the name of Letitia Irwin, but whose true identity is Irina Laznovna.”

  I saw Graves stiffen at Holmes’s mention of the name, and there was an angry curling of his lip.

  Holmes went on. “You are her patron, Mr Graves, and, I believe, her accomplice. Lavender and rose hip,” he repeated, “a most distinctive scent and one unfamiliar to this manse when first we visited, but now all too prevalent in the air. I have a nose for such things, you might say, and I detected this very same aroma but a few nights ago. It belonged to a murderer and a thief, upon a garment she left in her wake as we chased her across Tavistock Street. Is she here now, Graves? I would advise you to be forthcoming, for it might go better for you in the long run.”