Sherlock Holmes in Russia

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.’