Sherlock Holmes in Russia

He examined every bit of paper with especial interest. Suddenly, he gestured me to come close. ‘Please look at this,’ he said, handing me a torn envelope. This was an ordinary envelope, of average shape and size, addressed to the count from Calcutta. The address was written in English. The handwriting was poor, but the writing instrument had been pressed hard on the paper. There was a British colonial stamp. But what hit the eye was a strange seal on the envelope. It was elliptical in shape, just over an inch in length. In the middle, there were three left legs, with long lines below the knees on every single one.

‘What does this seem to you?’ asked Holmes.

‘A very strange seal,’ was all I could say.

‘And you find nothing about it to tie it to the count?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘There were three of them,’ said Holmes, deep in thought.

‘Three of whom or what?’ I asked.

‘Three people with scars on their left leg,’ Holmes answered seriously. ‘Those long lines across the legs evidently stand for scars. But then, the late count also had a scar on his leg—’

For a minute he was deep in thought, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Tadjidi!’

‘What’s that?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Oh, it’s all fully come back to me. In India, my dear Watson, there is a small tribe called Tadjidi. They live not far from Bombay, and are distinguished by their bloody rites. Blood accompanies every rite of passage in their lives. At birth, the baby’s ears and nostrils are pierced for decoration. Bride and groom, on marriage, have symbolic signs of loyalty cut into their skin. At burial, the widow is burnt alive on a pyre, and so on. There is a ritual, which consists of an oath not to reveal mutual secrets. Those who undergo this ritual of mutual secrecy have to cut long and deep gashes on their left leg. The count had been in Bombay at some point and it is very likely that he is bound by oath with two other people, of whom at least one belongs to the Tadjidi tribe.’

Holmes placed the envelope in a notebook and resumed his searches.

For some time he stood before the cupboards examining the inlays, looking at the cupboards from all sides. Next he tried to open the drawers in the desk that were locked, using the master keys he always carried with him. He failed and stepped back. ‘Well, enough for today,’ he said and went up to the countess. ‘Before leaving, I have a question.’

‘I am at your service,’ answered the young woman. She had paid minute attention to his every word.

‘What was your maiden name?’

‘Benaliradjewa,’ she answered.

Sherlock Holmes and I both looked at her in amazement.

‘What an unusual surname?’ muttered Holmes. ‘You and the count carried different surnames and till his letter arrived, couldn’t you have guessed he was not your father?’

‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said the countess. ‘I was far too naïve, and I’d never heard the count addressed by his surname, only by his first name and patronymic. I just assumed we had the same surname. The other pupils didn’t seem to know anything. The headmistress probably knew, but said nothing.’

‘Aha!’ mumbled Holmes and made his farewells.

VIII

Leaving the countess, we strolled along Bolhovsky Street, booking into a hotel. Holmes asked for stationery and sat down to write letters to someone. He then went to the post office and when he came back, said to me, ‘My dear Watson, there’s night work for us today and every day this week. I hope you’ll agree to accompany me, if only to be a witness to the solution of one of the most mysterious murders ever committed.’

‘That would give me great pleasure,’ was my reply.

‘Splendid!’ Holmes nodded his head. ‘In the meantime, we must find a library or a reading room which not only subscribes to English newspapers but keeps them for reference.’

We went out in search of such an institution. But wherever we went, either English newspapers were unavailable or they were only kept for a year or two at most. Holmes was in despair.

But in one of the libraries we were advised to look up an elderly Englishman called Dewlay, who had spent most of his life in Oriol. He had been a chemist, and then opened a chemical dye works, which allowed him a good income. We got the address and made our way to him. Very soon, quite unceremoniously, we introduced ourselves to him, much to his joy.

When we told him what we needed, old Mr Dewlay nodded smugly. ‘Oh, in rereading our old newspapers, I find consolation in this barbaric land,’ he said with pride. ‘I’ve been getting The Times for twenty-eight years, and not a single page is missing.’

His apartment was in the same courtyard as his dye works. He took us there, introduced us to his wife and had the old newspapers brought to us.

The Times newspapers for each year were neatly arranged separately, which made Holmes’s search so much simpler. Holmes thought for a moment and asked for those newspapers which had come out nineteen, twenty and twenty-one years ago.