Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg

by Daniel D Victor

  In it, Raskolnikov argued that the great men of history, the extraordinary men, got, as it were, a “free pass” to ignore the laws set out for the rest of us, the ordinary, inferior people of the world. (“The law is not for them,” as Mrs Garnett succinctly rendered it.) If necessary to further their own important goals, the great men - Napoleon or Isaac Newton, to cite but two of Raskolnikov’s examples - should be allowed to commit murder. For where would the world be without their notable accomplishments?

  According to Holmes, it was Porfiry Petrovitch’s belief throughout the investigation that Raskolnikov placed himself on a level with those extraordinary men. As a matter of course, it followed that Raskolnikov viewed the pawnbroker he murdered as nothing more than a louse.

  Suddenly, we heard loud voices and a heavy tramp of feet coming down the corridor. I replaced the papers just as the door opened; and Roderick Cheek, obviously aware that uninvited people were in his room, put only his head in to have a safe look-round. When he saw my familiar face, he pushed the door wide open, strutted in, and waved for his companion, William Arbuthnot, to join him.

  “Well, well, well,” he trumpeted, “what do we have here? Two robbers in need of a police escort to the clink? What do you propose, William? You’re reading for the law.”

  Holmes and I stood our ground. We had not been caught riffling through Cheek’s drawers, after all; and one cannot forget that the door had been left unlocked.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” announced my friend, “and I am working with the police to help solve the mystery of the murdered pawnbroker.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Cheek, “back to Dostoevsky.”

  “Have you searched the room for the hole in the wall yet,” William wanted to know, “the hidey where Raskolnikov first stashed the stolen jewellery?”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances. It was obvious that William too recalled the details of the crime in the novel.

  “And don’t forget,” added William, “that Raskolnikov had a sister who wanted to marry an unctuous cad just to gain money to help her brother.”

  “Like Priscilla,” snarled Roderick. “Except that I haven’t convinced her not to do so just yet.”

  “Her fiancé, Percy Farragut, is a banker,” said William. “Swells like him favour women who lack their own funds - just like that ass Luzhin in Crime and Punishment, who wanted to marry Raskolnikov’s sister. A woman’s poor provenance enables these toffs to act as lord-and-master. Priscilla is a case in point.”

  “Farragut’s a swine,” muttered Roderick. Then he blurted out some more of that high-pitched laughter before adding, “Maybe some foul play will come his way.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said William, “but I do know that your sister deserves better than Percy ‘bloody’ Farragut. Why, his only attraction is his money! I can tell you that if I had the funds that he does, I would be pursuing Priscilla myself.”

  “You and my sister?” laughed Roderick. “Don’t be daft.” And together the two of them broke into a cascade of silly laughter - just what one might expect from a pair of inebriated university students. Save that Roderick no longer attended, and neither one appeared drunk.

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “There’s nothing more to be learned from these two.” With a quick nod of his head that did nothing to interrupt the young men’s jollity, Holmes exited the room, and I followed.

  On our way out to the street, I insisted we stop in at Lindermann’s. Since first seeing the food shop more than a week before, I had developed a craving for halva, the honey-and-sesame-based confection, which I had discovered during my military service in Afghanistan. Hoping it would be available among the Jewish foods as well, I was pleased to discover that this turned out to be the case. Holmes turned down the portion I offered him in the hansom, and so I feasted by myself on the large, marbled chunk I had purchased for the two of us. It lasted for most of our drive back to Baker Street.

  * * *

  We arrived in our sitting room that Thursday afternoon to discover a thin, balding man in a smart though tight-fitting grey suit postured primly on our settee. He wore a Vandyke beard and peered up at us through a pince-nez clipped to the bridge of his nose. A black bowler perched on his right knee.

  “Mr Farragut, I presume,” said Holmes, “how good of you to come calling.”

  Why, we had just been discussing the fiancé of Miss Priscilla Cheek, and here sat that very personage. The man stood, his furrowed brow indicating how bewildered he was at being identified so easily. The bowler rolled to the floor.

  “But how - ?”

  “Tosh, man,” said Holmes. “Your card lay in the brass platter downstairs just inside the outer door. It is where our landlady always places such items when she has allowed someone to wait for us.”

  “Oh, yes,” said he, stooping to pick up his hat. She did escort me up here. In fact, she kept quite the eye on me. Afraid I might upset some of your precious belongings, I shouldn’t doubt.”

  Presumptuous prig, I surprised myself by concluding on such short notice. Certainly not an appropriate suitor for a sensitive young lady like Miss Cheek. I had only just met the man, and yet I had taken an immediate dislike to him - even with the knowledge that such an attitude put me in the same singular camp as her brother and William Arbuthnot.

  Holmes seemed equally put off. How else to interpret the impatience in his tone? “Now that you can see I am no clairvoyant, Mr Farragut, you will understand that I have no way of divining the purpose of your visit. Dr Watson and I are in the midst of helping the police investigate a pair of brutal murders, and I suggest you tell us the nature of your business so we may go about pursuing our work.”

  Unruffled by Holmes’ directness, the man announced, “I am here to personally invite you gentlemen to join my fiancée, Miss Priscilla Cheek, and me for dinner tomorrow evening. I know she has been here to speak to you about her brother; and since my ‘business,’ as you so aptly put it, deals with the two of them, I thought a person like yourself, Mr Holmes, whom Miss Cheek obviously trusts, should be there to witness the terms I intend to put before her.”

  “Terms?” I repeated, my sense of gallantry offended. “Terms for your intended? Certainly, Mr Farragut, this is no way to begin a lifelong relationship - especially not with so clearly fair-minded a young lady as Miss Cheek.”

  Holmes allowed himself a quick smile at my remark before accepting the invitation. “Where and when, Mr Farragut? I believe I speak for Dr Watson when I say we both eagerly anticipate hearing what you have to say.”

  “We shall meet at Simpson’s tomorrow evening at 8,” Farragut announced. “I have booked a private room upstairs. I suppose it only fair to tell you that Miss Cheek wanted her brother to be present as well. I quashed the suggestion, of course. I have no use for the vagabond, and I told her so. More of this we shall discuss tomorrow evening.”

  With those final words, Farragut rose, leaned forward in a kind of farewell bow, and departed.

  “One wonders,” Holmes observed after we heard the outer door close, “if this fellow would have extended us the invitation had he known we consider Miss Cheek’s brother a possible suspect in a murder case.”

  Had the matter not been so grave, I might have categorised that look in the steel-grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes as a twinkle.

  * * *

  Though fall weather continued to chill the city that Friday, Holmes and I deemed the evening warm enough for an invigorating walk to the Strand. Simpson’s was always a desired destination. With its wood-panelled walls, marble floors, and rich-textured carpeting, the ambiance of its interior could almost make one believe that the restaurant was the centre of the Empire.

  Holmes and I arrived minutes before the arranged meeting-time and found Farragut and Miss Cheek waiting for us in the entryway. We ascended the stairs to the intimate room Farr
agut had hired and in a matter of minutes were seated before the establishment’s whitest linen, finest china, and most sparkling flatware.

  “A pre-prandial aperitif?” Farragut offered.

  It took the stomp of rapid footfalls on the nearby staircase but a moment to destroy the tranquillity. Seconds later, none other than the lady’s twin, a winded Mr Roderick Cheek, arrived at our table. Dressed in a well-worn grey coat, he kept it wrapped about himself when he grabbed a chair from next to the wall and, squeezing it between Miss Cheek and Holmes, collapsed onto the seat.

  The panting maître d’, who had come scurrying up the stairs behind young Cheek, hastened into our little room, obviously too astonished by the young man’s quick entrance to have kept him out.

  “Is there a problem, Mr Farragut?” the maître d’ asked, still breathing heavily.

  Before Farragut could utter a word, Miss Cheek spoke up. “Everything’s quite all right. I invited this man myself.”

  The maître d’ rose to his full height, which in truth was not so grand, eyed Roderick’s threadbare coat with disdain, and then huffed his way out the door and back down the stairs.

  Now it was the waiter’s turn to approach our table, but Farragut waved him away. Rather, he addressed himself to Miss Cheek. “I specifically ordered you not to invite your brother to this engagement.”

  “Ordered”? Has this fellow no sense of boundaries?

  “You also said you that wished to speak to me about him, Percy,” replied Miss Cheek calmly, “and I saw no reason why he should not be present to hear what you have to say. After all, to marry me is to marry into my family.”

  Roderick’s eyes burned with fever as he listened to the exchange. Sick as he appeared to be, I wondered if the man might nonetheless be capable of inflicting bodily harm upon Farragut. A silver trolley off to the side was filled with joints of beef waiting to be carved. I knew it also maintained a fine selection of the finest blades. Not counting the occasional cough, however, all Cheek actually did was to continue sitting quietly.

  “Well then, Priscilla,” said Farragut. “Let me say it to you clearly. In fact, I invited Mr Holmes and Dr Watson for dinner to serve as witnesses. I did not want your brother here tonight, and I forbid you from seeing him once we are married. It is a condition of our nuptials - you must choose between him and me. Him or me.”

  The young woman patted the back of her brother’s hand and then took hold of it. “I’m sorry you feel so antagonistic towards Roderick, Percy; but you must never ask a sister to disown her brother, especially not her twin.”

  Miss Cheek’s loyalty obviously stimulated her brother. Ill or not, he directed his remark to Farragut. “She only wanted to marry you for my sake,” he proclaimed. “She hoped to get enough money from you, old man, to help return me to the study of law. She has never loved you - as if anyone ever could.”

  After a moment of awful silence, Percy Farragut picked up his white serviette. Although he had eaten nothing at table, he blotted his lips, and rising dramatically, addressed the following words to Miss Cheek: “I was hoping you would see things my way, Priscilla; but since you have not, then I must wish you good evening.” He took a step in the direction of the exit and paused. Turning round to face her once more, he added, “Good-bye, actually.” And then he was gone.

  Where - or if - the murder of the Gottfrieds fit into this family drama I did not know. I can only say that I was happy to see the back of Percy Farragut. For a moment, the four of us sat quietly though I did cast a surreptitious glance at Miss Cheek and her brother to determine if they - she in particular - seemed content with Farragut’s departure. I was rewarded with the sight of their hands clasping as Roderick placed a kiss on his sister’s cheek.

  “I won’t stay, Pris,” muttered Roderick. “I just wanted to hear you say the right thing.” He pushed back his chair, stood up; and then he too, albeit slowly, exited the room. How he had got himself from Goulston Street to the Strand that night and then back again I never learned.

  “Under the circumstances, gentlemen,” said Miss Cheek, “I hope you will forgive me for desiring to leave as well. I’ve had quite a shock this evening.”

  “Of course,” said I, speaking for Holmes. “I shall see you to a cab.” Yet to my friend I whispered, “I say, Holmes, let us not allow this private room to go to waste. I propose that we enjoy the bill of fare upon my return.”

  I escorted Miss Cheek downstairs and through the restaurant. Once outside I was able to hail her a hansom. When I returned to the table, I was pleased to see Holmes in negotiations with the white-suited carver who manned the silver trolley. A savoury cut of beef appeared to be the topic of discussion.

  Chapter Nine: Incognito

  In spite of the nagging chill, the night had remained warm enough for Holmes and me to walk the two miles back to Baker Street. There were not many people about, and spotting the Orthodox Jew who seemed to be following us required no great skills of detection.

  He was attired in a wide-brimmed, black top hat beneath which his brown side locks spiralled downward like a pair of oversized corkscrews. In traditional long black coat and white stockings, he was difficult not to notice. Such a figure might go unmarked in the Old Jewry section of the city, but in the Strand he could not be missed.

  I knew that Friday nights marked the onset of the Jewish Sabbath; but as far as I was aware, there was no admonition against walking in one’s own neighbourhood. Whilst the man followed us along Shaftesbury Avenue and then into St Giles High Street, I said nothing to Holmes. But when he made the turn into Oxford Street moments after we had, I asked Holmes if he had noticed him as well.

  “The chap with the black hat, Watson? If you are referring to the same person who watched us enter Simpson’s and who has been trailing us ever since we left the restaurant, then, yes, old fellow, I am indeed aware of him. Take no notice. We shall find out his business in due time.”

  It was close to 11 when we reached Baker Street and just a few minutes later when we entered our sitting room. No sooner had we removed our coats than an obviously disturbed Mrs Hudson knocked at our door. “There is-” she searched for the appropriate word “-a person to see you, Mr Holmes. It is rather late and I-”

  His quick response surprised me. “That’s all right, Mrs Hudson. I know the gentleman in question. Please show him in.”

  With the same disdainful eye she reserved for anyone she failed to regard as “English,” Mrs Hudson opened wide the door and allowed into our sitting room the same Jewish fellow who had been following us all evening. With a slow shake of her head, she then disappeared. As for our visitor, a plump little man with a sallow complexion, in spite of his unique haberdashery, what most stood out was the hint of merriment in his frequently blinking eyes.

  I was about to wish him a “Good Sabbath,” as I believe is the Friday-night custom among Jewish people, when Holmes sprang up to shake his hand. But much to my surprise - and, I might add, to my friend’s discomfort - not only did the stranger embrace him but also planted kisses on each of Holmes’ cheeks. It was then I began to suspect that the figure before me, apparently already recognised by Holmes, was not as spiritual as he was disguised to appear.

  “Watson,” said Holmes after breaking free from the visitor’s arms, “may I present to you a man of many disguises. Mr Porfiry Petrovitch, the grand investigator from St Petersburg. Like me, when the situation presents itself, he cannot resist making a dramatic entrance.”

  I remembered Porfiry Petrovitch’s disguise when he hounded Raskolnikov. In greasy hat and great long coat, he rattled the suspect by anonymously addressing him as “murderer.” This evening he was at it again - only this time, just as I had contemplated at the Gottfried’s funeral, in religious garb.

  In salutation, the Orthodox Jew - though now I knew he was anything but - doffed not only his top hat but also the tangles
of dark-brown hair attached to it, and bowed in my direction. As he leaned forward, his bald crown fringed in grey reflected the light. It was, as Dostoevsky rightly described, a head too large for the man’s short, round frame.

  “Iss pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” said he extending a hand. “Holmes has told me much about you, and I look forward to reading the account he tells me is coming soon.”

  “A Study in Scarlet,” I said proudly. “In a Christmas magazine due to be published in just a few days - Monday, in fact.” Not only did the man know how to charm, he could do so in serviceable English.

  “Shall we mark the occasion with a glass of port?” I asked.

  Porfiry Petrovitch raised his hand. “Not for me. Alcohol is not to my taste.” Indeed, I remembered hearing of the tea he and Holmes had enjoyed in St Petersburg. “Permit me to enjoy my vice,” the Russian added, “cigarettes.”

  I was about to offer him one my own - from Bradley of Oxford Street - but with a sheepish smile, he reached inside his black coat and produced a small package. “For years, doctor tell me, stop.” Holding up an ill-shaped, dark-papered cigarette, he said, “You see result - heh, heh, heh. Makhorka. I - how to say? - roll them myself.”

  Holmes offered Porfiry Petrovitch a box of Vestas, and we seated ourselves before the fire as the Russian struck a match. “Watson,” said Holmes “you and I shall have the wine if Porfiry does not object.”

  With a nod and a smile, our guest offered his encouragement, and I filled two small glasses with dark-red port for Holmes and me. In spite of the foul-smelling cigarette smoke clouding the room, the three of us made quite the congenial group. It would be difficult for an outsider to discern that we were in the middle of an investigation involving two murderous attacks with an axe.