Sherlock Holmes in Russia

The foreman ran out and was back soon with several river policemen of different ranks. The shipping line representative announced that the basket contained putrid cargo, that it had made the air in the warehouse foul, and that the basket would have to be opened. Interested in the goings-on, we approached the group. The basket was untied and the lid taken off. A loathsome smell came from it.

Inside the basket, a bale was tightly wrapped in a heavy tarpaulin. The tarpaulin was cut away on three sides and lifted off. Everyone jumped back in horror.

A corpse, chopped into pieces, was packed into the tarpaulin. There was no doubt that it was a human corpse. A wrist, sliced away from the corpse, lay on top.

‘The devil!’ said Sherlock Holmes, approaching the basket. ‘A cargo that’s been around for a while.’

‘I’ll ask you to get the hell out of here,’ a police officer, just noticing us, threw the words at us somewhat fiercely.

‘And why not simply say, “leave”?’ said Holmes lightly.

Such simple words maddened the policeman, unused to being reproved.

‘Just you wait and I’ll have you down at the police station,’ he yelled, and for some reason opened his briefcase, as if about to prepare a charge sheet.

‘You’re quite in order to do so,’ answered Holmes calmly. ‘Would you like my name? Sherlock Holmes.’

What a picture! The police officer was hopelessly embarrassed, confused and began to utter embarrassed apologies. As for the others, hearing the name of the famous detective, they silently examined him with wide-open eyes, forgetting all about the basket and its grisly contents. As if nothing untoward had occurred, Sherlock Holmes turned on his heels and left the warehouse without a word. I followed.

II

We returned to our boat and went to the dining room, intending to have a bite to eat. But hardly had our waiter approached us when the local Chief of Police, two policemen, and the police officer who had come down on us in the warehouse came hurrying in. Someone must have pointed us out, because the Chief of Police came straight over to our table.

‘I would like to proffer my deepest apologies for the slight lack of tact on the part of my subordinates,’ he said politely, addressing Holmes, ‘but in the heat of the moment and under similar circumstances, a man may lose his composure.’

‘Precisely what a policeman ought not to do,’ Holmes shrugged. ‘In England it is a severely punishable offence.’

‘You are completely in the right,’ agreed the Chief of Police. ‘But I do beg of you most earnestly to overlook this untoward occurrence.’

The Chief of Police sat down at our table and spoke so pleasantly and in such a friendly manner that Holmes finally gave up. ‘Very well, then. Consider it long forgotten. After all, travelling through Russia, if I were to remember every slight large or small, to which we English are subjected and to which we aren’t used – why, I would’ve had to leave long since.’

The atmosphere changed and the conversation turned to the crime. However, at that moment the third whistle was blown and we had to bid each other farewell. We left Kostroma and, a day later, were already in Moscow. But the events which had taken place continued to interest us very much. The newspapers gave daily reports, but the news only revealed that the investigation wasn’t progressing and the outcome was unlikely to be a positive one.

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.