Sherlock Holmes in Russia

by Alex Auswaks

  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.