Sherlock Holmes in Russia

The sun was already high in the heavens when Holmes awoke. He jumped out of bed, washed quickly and said cheerfully, ‘Well, my dear chap, I can now stay up for a couple of nights. That tired feeling is gone. Such tiredness is unforgivable and just this once, accidental.’

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I suppose something unusual took place last night and you’ll tell me what it was all about,’ I said.

‘You’ll allow me, my dear chap, to refrain from a direct answer,’ said Holmes solemnly. ‘It is very likely that in a few hours you will know more than you expected, and then your curiosity is bound to be satisfied.’

We chatted about various trifles and the time passed unnoticed. At nine there was a knock on the door. The door opened and Boris Nikolayevitch came in. His eyes were baggy and his face somewhat drawn. He greeted us, asked how we had spent the night and, receiving a positive answer, appeared contented enough.

‘Tea is served,’ he invited.

We nodded our acceptance. Over tea, Holmes, who was at first withdrawn, livened up and jokes, anecdotes and witticisms poured from him. When we had drunk our tea, he announced that it was imperative for him to go to Moscow.

‘Surely you can stay longer,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch in a hurt tone.

Holmes gave a sad shrug. ‘Alas, I cannot. I did warn you yesterday that it is essential for me to be in Moscow today for pressing business and I hope you remember my words. This is why I must ask you to have horses made available immediately to get us to the station.’

‘Most certainly,’ exclaimed Kartzeff. ‘I will give the necessary orders at once.’ He went off but wasn’t back for some considerable time.

Holmes sat there without stirring, his head in the palms of his hands. The rest of the time before lunch and the lunch itself passed slowly. After lunch we were told that the horses were ready and, having bidden farewell to our host, we departed for the station.

V

Arriving in town, we made straight for Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris Nikolayevitch and whose address we had taken.

‘It seems a little strange,’ said Holmes pensively along the way, ‘that the second nephew didn’t even wish to attend his uncle’s funeral.’

‘Yes, that is very strange,’ I agreed. ‘Could it be that we will find here some clues leading to the crime?’

Nikolai Nikolayevitch lived right on the edge of town, just before Sokolniki, so that it took a while to get to him.

Our ring was answered by a kindly sympathetic old woman, who asked the nature of our business. On being told that we had come to see Nikolai Nikolayevitch, she made a gesture expressing regret. ‘Oh, what a shame, what a really great shame that you missed him,’ she sighed good-naturedly. ‘We live so far away, and anyone who comes gets so upset when the master isn’t home.’

‘And you are his matushka?’ asked Holmes, using the Russian diminutive endearing form for mother.

‘Nanny, sir, his nanny,’ she answered with a warm smile. ‘Brought him up as a little boy, spent my life by his side. He’s such a good man, he is, and now he keeps me in my old age, where another would long since have thrown me out in the street.’

‘So where’s he gone?’ Holmes asked.

‘Why, he left just before your arrival. He just got the news that his uncle had been strangled or was it knifed, in truth I don’t know which it was. His own brother didn’t tell him. I don’t suppose he had time, with all the stir it must have caused.’

‘So how did he find out?’

‘The newspaper, my dear sir. That’s where he read it. It was all in the newspaper. Gentlemen, you will come in and rest a while. We may be poor, but there’s always a cup of tea. Happy to share what God has given. That’s how we do things. Should any friend of his not find him home, he’ll always come in for a cuppa.’

‘Thank you, nianushka,’ said Holmes, addressing her by the Russian diminutive endearment for nanny.

We entered the apartment. It wasn’t very big, all of two small rooms, a kitchen and a tiny box room for the old woman. The furniture was not particularly ostentatious. There were only a few things, more the sort you would find in a country hut, anyway. It was all fairly typical of the domicile of a young artist.

In one room there was a bed, a wash basin in poor condition, several chairs, a writing desk, canvas concealed the walls. Paints, brushes and other painter’s objects lay scattered everywhere.

The other room was filled with easels, picture frames with canvas stretched on them. Completed paintings and rough sketches hung on the walls, showing that Nikolai Nikolayevitch might be at the start of his career, but already showed great promise.

A great connoisseur, Sherlock Holmes examined the work of this beginner with considerable relish. The old woman was evidently very proud of her charge. She stood beside Holmes and with a smile watched him examine the work of her favourite.

‘Why don’t you sit down, sirs,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll get the samovar going. It will boil in no time at all.’

‘Thank you,’ said Holmes.