Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

  “We stayed a day longer in Saint Petersburg, as my mother and father tried to think what they could do. I wish dearly we had not. We had money enough to return to Pushkin but little else. Shame would not allow my father to go home under such circumstances, and as he left in search of another game, another bet to try and recoup whatever he could, my mother found where the grand duke was staying and went to confront him. Beg him, if necessary. With little choice, she took me with her, and gave me strict instructions to stay close and be quiet at all times.

  “He was not at his hotel when we called, so we waited outside most of the day. I remember it was cold, and my mother and I shivered. Evening began to draw in and at last we saw the grand duke returning. Managing to get past his manservant, my mother begged Konstantin to show us mercy. He did not know who she was at first, but deigned to listen. I hoped, though I did not understand everything that was happening, that he would take pity on us. I did not realise he meant to ridicule her. Instead of heeding her plight, he laughed. He said my father was a fool and had acted above his station, that he deserved what had been done to him. She pleaded, and said she would do anything to make amends on my father’s behalf. He looked at her then, the grand duke, and I felt suddenly afraid, though I could not say why. Seizing my mother’s wrist, he asked what she would be willing to do and I saw something hungry in his eyes, something wild. My mother recoiled, but he held her, and would not let go. I started to cry. In the end he warned her to stay away, that if he saw her or my father again it would go badly for us.

  “We returned to our own hotel in silence and found my father already there. He had been drinking, frittering away what little we had. When he saw my mother he flew into a rage and demanded she tell him what had happened. Though she did not want to, for fear of what my father would do, she could not lie but begged him to let the matter be done. Drunk and ashamed, my father left in a fit of anger. I was afraid for him. I wanted him to stay, to be safe. I said I would go and fetch pirozhki and sbiten’ for my mother and myself from the street vendors outside our hotel, but I lied. I went after my father instead. I wanted to call out, but I was afraid, so I followed him into the night.

  “I was angry too and wanted him to come back. I hoped if he saw me that he would, but a terrible purpose drove him and he knew the city, whereas I did not. I lost sight of him at one point, until I heard the rattle of sabres that I knew so well. I ran towards the sound, my heart beating fiercely, wanting desperately to shout out…”

  Here Irina paused, and I believe the memory was almost too painful for her to relate but she found the resolve to go on, her anger renewed by remembrance.

  “I saw him kill my father. The grand duke stabbed him in the heart. I almost cried out, but held my hands to my mouth, too afraid to move or breathe as I watched from the shadows. The grand duke and his man, they did not see me. No one ever knew I was watching. I slipped away, leaving my father dead in the street, for I dared not approach him or reveal myself.

  “When I returned to the hotel, my mother was angry. I said nothing, still afraid, hoping it had been some terrible dream. The next day when my father failed to return, I knew it was not.

  “I told my mother what I had seen, but I could not prove it. We were nothing, less than nothing, and the grand duke was a very powerful man. In the end, the police said he had been attacked in the street. Mugged. There was nothing we could do.

  “We left Saint Petersburg, almost penniless and my father’s death unsolved, the grand duke exculpated. His lawyer, Zyuganov, saw to this. No charges were laid, the matter of my father’s death ignored and forgotten by everyone except for my mother and me.

  “We went back to Pushkin, though the news of what had happened reached home before we did. It was hard for us after that. What little work my mother could find was menial. She would not hear of putting me to work, insisting I studied. I did. I was angry with my father for what he had done, and for leaving us alone. I fed this anger into my studies. Seven years passed like this. We still had my father’s sabre and I practised every day with it. I danced, I became an accomplished gymnast, my mother imparting everything she knew, I her determined and willing protégée. In the end, grief more than her labours wore her out, threadbare like an old cloak. She endured it for one more year, amassing all she had saved and selling my father’s sword so that I might leave Russia and find sanctuary elsewhere. We were all but pariahs in Pushkin now for everyone knew we had somehow displeased the grand duke and did not wish to share our shadow. She died and in her final moments told me of the meagre passage she had bought for me to England. Though much time had passed, I think she feared for me, for what the grand duke or those allied to him might do, especially without anyone to protect me. Another country… it was frightening, but at least I would be far away from him. Though I still craved revenge.

  “With my mother’s death, I had little choice and no other relatives to shelter me. I fled, but the money she had saved was not quite enough and so my passage across the Baltic Sea was an uncomfortable one, and I arrived in London penniless. I was forced to live on the streets, but always returned to the docks as it became the closest thing I had to a home. Until Damian found me. You know the rest.”

  Holmes nodded. “And so you sought vengeance, to punish those who had wronged you, and the grand duke most of all.”

  “When I heard of his visit, I knew I had been granted a rare opportunity. Regardless of my father’s part in it, blood demanded blood, and suffering demanded suffering. I have failed, but I hope retribution finds him.”

  “Then let the law see to it,” Holmes implored, who kept his eyes on Irina as I cast mine nervously towards the edge of the bridge. “His wrongdoing shall be borne out. Be sure of that.”

  With a mournful look she said, “The law will see me hang for what I have done, or confine me to a gaol cell for the rest of my days. I came to England to be free.”

  Too fast, she leapt onto the balustrade and jumped.

  Holmes sprang for her, but succeeded only in grasping a feather from her swan’s garb. I ran to the balustrade and leaned over, only to be rewarded with the sight of a small white-clad body floating facedown in the water.

  “It is a poor end, Watson,” Holmes said, turning away to slump against the rail. “A poor and unsatisfactory end.”

  The snow had stopped, and the night’s chill waned along with it. Flakes had begun to melt, revealing the grime of London still clinging beneath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A LINGERING MYSTERY

  Some time later that evening, the police dredged Irina Laznovna from the black, unforgiving waters of the Thames. Her body had all the warmth of sleet in winter, her life summarily ended, her vengeance unfulfilled.

  “Any sign of Graves?” Gregson asked of one of the officers, who shook his head. “Must’ve been swept farther downriver,” he said, stroking the stubble on his chin. “If we haven’t found him by morning, he’ll be somewhere in the North Sea and we’ll never see him again. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes declined to reply. His gaze never left the river. Despite the weather, there were still boats on the water. Barges, schooners, the old ramshackle tug.

  “Mr Holmes?” Gregson pressed.

  “I expect you are right, Inspector,” he said curtly, and turned as sharp as a grenadier guard before stalking away. “Come, Watson. The good inspector has everything in hand. There is little more for us here, shivering like waifs by the riverbank.”

  I followed, bidding the inspector a good night and craving a warm supper and a dry bed.

  * * *

  The next morning we were summoned back to the Langham by the grand duke. Despite its ill provenance, he had taken possession of the portrait and had it proudly displayed in his sitting room, confronting us upon arrival.

  “It is not such a bad likeness, I think,” he said airily as his burly attendants saw us to our seats. I noted he had his arm in a sling.

  He regarded the piece
for a few silent moments before going on. “How can I express my gratitude?” he asked sincerely, no longer the aloof Russian aristocrat but merely a father who was grateful for the service we had done for him and his son. Though the boy being unharmed was cause to rejoice, the entire matter had left something of a bitter taste.

  I believe Holmes felt the same way.

  “Tell us how Arkady Laznovich died,” he said simply. “Irina Laznovna claims she saw you strike the killing blow.”

  The grand duke hid his surprise well. His mood then darkened and for a moment I thought Holmes might have overstepped. In the end, he slumped into the armchair opposite us and sighed.

  “Yes, he died by my hand; I am ashamed I did not confess to it at the time. I was young, a foolish and vainglorious man. I squandered my youth on self-aggrandising pursuits and abused the privileges of my position and power. I did not know Arkady Laznovich, but I thought I knew his kind. A proletariat scholar, seeking to reach the heights of his betters or at least bring them down to his level.

  “Know this,” said Konstantin, pausing in his account, “I will not admit publicly to my crimes. I won’t subject Sergei to such scandal. I am a different man to the one I was, and I am trying to make amends for any past indiscretion. I beat Arkady at cards. He was not cheated, he was merely overconfident. The fact he accused me of such would have been enough for a severe remonstration, but I let it pass. I had humbled him, and this was enough for me. I told him to return to his family. This he did, for I think, even as drunk as he obviously was, he knew I had showed lenience.

  “In truth, it rankled that I had been accused of cheating him, and I thought of little else the next day. When his wife came to beg for their money back and my continued mercy, I saw a chance to make her pay for her husband’s behaviour. I was cruel, and it was only when I saw the girl with her that I realised what I had been about to do. I let her go, and she crawled back to her husband.

  “I thought no more of it, truly. I believed the matter done with. It was later that evening, outside of a gentlemen’s club, that Arkady found me again. Still drunk, though sobered by anger, he accused me of attacking his wife. This was true, though not to the extent he made out. He demanded retribution, said I was a coward and a dog for hurting a woman. I could not let that stand, for twice now he had called my honour into question. I had been fencing earlier in the day, and when he saw Grigori with my foils and sabres, he challenged me. I use real swords when I fence, and he wanted a duel,” Konstantin gave a little incredulous chuckle, “can you imagine that?

  “I complied. I wished to truly shame this man, to show him he had erred. I wanted to punish him, see him ridiculed. I had not thought he might actually be an accomplished swordsman. He had no blade of his own, so I loaned him the use of one of mine.”

  “And then what happened?” I asked, as keen as Holmes to learn of the deed that had spurred this entire horrid affair.

  “We fought. I had thought to cut him,” Konstantin ran a finger across his cheek, “here perhaps, give him a scar he would not soon forget.” He shook his head. “But he was… ferocious. Unskilled ferocity is not so hard to counter, that I expected, but he knew how to fight. I quickly realised he meant to kill me. Grigori saw this too and tried to intervene. Laznovich cut him,” the grand duke gestured to his chest, “and I made the most of my opponent’s distraction. I ran him through the heart. I did not wish for it, but I feared it would be him or me dead at the end of a sabre. What choice did I have but to conceal the matter? I returned to my hotel in need of strong vodka. Grigori, he made sure the body would be found in a less… salubrious part of the city. As soon as I had calmed my nerves, I sent a message to Pavel Zyuganov, my lawyer, who took care of the rest. I did not know the girl saw me. I thought her accusations an act of desperation.

  “I became a different man after that night, Mr Holmes. I met my wife, and we had Sergei. I forgot my past and hoped it would forget me.” He turned again to the portrait. “I will keep it, I think, as a reminder, though it pains me to look upon it, I will admit.”

  He said nothing further, and his attendants made it abundantly clear that our audience was at an end.

  “We shall bid you a good morning, Grand Duke,” said Holmes, rising. Konstantin nodded, but did not favour us with a look as we left him to his troubled thoughts.

  “Is there nothing we can do, Holmes?” I asked as we were leaving the Langham. “A man has committed murder and is also indirectly responsible for the deaths of nearly forty innocent men and women. Yet he walks free.”

  “Gregson has made overtures to the Russian police, and we can only hope justice shall find the grand duke there. The scandal of it will not be something he can easily ignore. Regardless of what Gregson’s efforts might yield, I feel certain the grand duke will be the maker of his own punishment, and in that at least Irina Laznovna can find some peace I hope. Guilt shall be his shackles, remorse his cell. Grand Duke Konstantin will not soon find himself free of that, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” said I. “At least it is an end to it, I suppose.”

  “Not quite,” Holmes said. “For there is one final thing still to be done.”

  * * *

  It would be our last visit to Berkeley Square and the mansion of Damian Graves, presumed to have met a grim end in the darkness of the Thames.

  Gregson had deployed several constables to search the house for any further evidence, though with both suspects dead, it would prove to be something of a moot gesture. Holmes and I had kindly been given licence to look over the house, perhaps in the hope of my companion revealing some hitherto overlooked scrap of evidence or possibly simply out of courtesy for the service he had rendered unto the law.

  I had expected to discover nothing of import, so it was with gathering incredulity and not a little alarm that we noted several items of value we had seen on our previous visits were now, inexplicably, missing.

  Holmes said nothing of this to the constables and bade me to follow his example. It was only later in the comfort of 221B Baker Street that we spoke of the matter.

  “Is it possible, though, Holmes?” I asked, sitting in my favourite chair by the fire, nursing a warming brandy and smoking a cigar.

  Holmes’s countenance was lit only occasionally by the pale orange flame of his pipe. Night had drawn in again, the two of us having spent almost all of the day in Berkeley Square.

  “A great deal, though improbable, is perfectly possible, Watson,” he answered, standing ramrod straight by the window, pipe in his hand. He had no drink and I wondered if his Morocco case was nearby. “One only has to consider all of the facts.”

  “But to survive such a swim, and wounded to boot,” said I. “Could Graves’s house not have been robbed?”

  Holmes took a deep pull on his pipe, and held it for a moment before releasing a thick wreath of aromatic smoke.

  “A man such as Graves, in his prime, a slave to fitness and physical perfection. A man such as this could make that dive and live. As for his wounding, all we know is that he bled, and but a little. For all we know it was a graze, nothing more, allowing him to swim. His pistol, left unfired, demonstrates his unwillingness to engage in a fight. He did not, and so we are left with but one possibility—a desire to escape by feigning his own death, and what better opportunity would come his way? None, I think. This when taken together with the items removed from his home, items of rare value and small enough to be transported easily in a simple travelling case, leads me to one conclusion. Damian Graves is not dead.”

  “You have convinced me, Holmes,” I said. “And at least the same can be said for the grand duke’s son,” I added. “In that the boy yet lives. A sorry business, all in all.”

  “Quite so, Watson, for that at least we can be thankful.”

  “And what of the painting then, not poisoned after all.”

  “Early on I began to suspect the painting was but the means and not the method. The sheer size of the Royal Opera House and the difficulty in
recreating the exact same conditions of the Grayson Gallery was, by any scientific method, a practical impossibility. My own experiments revealed as much to me. What then the purpose of it? A ruse, Watson, a lure for the trap; death delivered by the girl’s hand to Konstantin’s heir. Suffering of the cruellest kind. Getting the grand duke to the Opera House required an altogether more artful solution.” He smiled at this.

  “Very droll, Holmes, very droll. But how could you be certain she was there, one of the dancers? She could have secreted herself in the audience.”

  “I admit that detail almost escaped me, Watson, and it was not until I placed the distinct aroma of rosin powder that I realised what our killer intended.”

  “The dust on her cloak and at the gallery,” said I, catching hold of the thread at last.

  “Quite so, Watson. I initially believed it could be chalk, used for grip.” Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “In that at least, I was half right. Rosin powder, however, has something of a faint pine odour, which I detected but could not rightly attribute until I saw the half-finished painting of Arkady, Varvara and young Irina Laznovich. A faded photograph, ravaged by time, obscures and omits much. Not so a rendering of the selfsame image in exacting detail upon the canvas, whereupon I saw the ballet shoes and my error. Lavender again covered the odour a little but made it distinctive enough from the other performers to betray her presence. To her disguise then, a swan amongst the flock. How to roust the bird, eh? I reasoned she would not have heard the names Arkady and Varvara in quite some time; not only that, but she would be unprepared for such an emotional jolt and hence her reaction.”

  “Really rather brilliant, Holmes.”