Sherlock Holmes in Russia

And shaking his head sadly, he said, ‘And so the uncle dies! How come his own brother didn’t bother to tell him?’

The old woman shook her head sadly, too, ‘He’s just a bad lot, is Boris Nikolayevitch, a bad lot. If he were a man like other men, of course he’d’ve told the master. I think he’s got nothing inside his head except for the wind whistling.’

‘A bad lot, you say!’

The old woman gestured with her hand to show nothing could be done. ‘What is there to say,’ she sighed. ‘He’s a born gambler. First he inherited an estate and a sizable capital sum. The capital sum he gambled away. He may have been a good-for-nothing, but he certainly knew how to ingratiate himself. My Nikolai Nikolayevitch was done out of his fair share because he wasn’t one to bow and scrape. But the other fellow knew where and when to turn up and flatter relatives, who would give him a warm welcome. That’s what happened with their grandmother. She included him in her will and left out Nikolai Nikolayevitch!’

‘And did Nikolai Nikolayevitch often visit this departed uncle?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.

‘On the contrary! You have no idea how often he was invited. Mind you, he did go twice, but didn’t stay long. No doubt he won’t get anything there, either. You’ll see, Boris Nikolayevitch will get the lot.’

‘To waste it on more carousing,’ said Holmes sympathetically.

‘For sure! For sure!’ said the old woman. ‘Nothing good will come out of the money that will come to him. He’ll waste it on mam’selles, as he always has in the past and that’s that! He did have a job, but got sacked for all those misdeeds.’

‘What was the job?’ asked Holmes.

‘He was a naval officer. Sailed as first officer on his own ship for some time. No less than ten years. And then he was kicked out. Thank God he wasn’t tried. Mind you, even then, everyone said he couldn’t evade being tried but luckily for him he wriggled out of that. They must’ve felt sorry for him.’

She suddenly remembered the samovar and with a cry quickly ran out of the room. In no time tea appeared. We drank it with great pleasure and continued our interrupted conversation. Most of all, we spoke of Boris Nikolayevitch. The old woman spoke of him without evident rancour but in the sort of tone people use when speaking of someone of whom they disapprove.

From what she said, we pieced together the information that Boris Nikolayevitch, the older brother of Nikolai Nikolayevitch, graduated from a naval academy and had sailed far and wide on a ship which had been part of a squadron of the Russian navy. Then, for improper conduct and some sort of financial peculation, he was dismissed. After that he spent some years sailing the Indian Ocean on British ships plying between Bombay and Calcutta. Two years ago, Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff returned to Russia and the gossip amongst his friends was that he had been dismissed even from the ships of the private line by which he had been employed. During those two years he had managed to squander the remains of his small capital. As for the estate that had been left him, he’d brought it to the point where it was threatened with going under the hammer.

‘But he’s always been lucky, batiushki,’ she said. ‘Born under a lucky star, he was,’ she said. ‘No sooner do things get bad, then uncle dies.’

‘Yes, it isn’t the deserving who flourish on this earth,’ sighed Holmes.

‘How right you are!’ gestured the old woman. ‘Take our Nikolai Nikolayevitch. He doesn’t get any assistance from anywhere. Pays for his own studies. Supports himself and me. Wonderful, wonderful young man! While if ever a spare kopeck comes his way, it goes to a needy friend. He keeps nothing back for himself.’

We sat there for a little while longer, thanked her for the welcome she had extended us, bade her farewell and left.

‘So, what do you think of the young man?’ Holmes asked me when we were outside.

‘That this is not where we will find the criminal,’ I answered. ‘I think this is all a false lead.’

Holmes said nothing. He paced along quickly, deep in thought.

Sokolniki was not a district with which we were familiar. We soon stopped a cabbie and Holmes directed him to take us to our hotel.

‘Any post?’ he asked the porter.

The porter rummaged round in a drawer and handed him a letter. Holmes opened it, read the contents quickly and then, having carefully examined the envelope, handed me a sheet of paper.

‘Just look at this, if you please, my dear Watson,’ he said with a smile.

I read the following, ‘Dear Mr Holmes, England has more than enough criminals of its own and your presence there would be immeasurably more beneficial for your fellow citizens than chasing fame in Russia. From the bottom of my heart, let me give you some good advice. Clear off home while you are still alive.’

I glanced at the envelope and saw it had been posted locally.

‘Well, what do you say?’ asked Holmes with a disdainful smile.