Alex Auswaks - Sherlock Holmes in Russia

‘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.

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.

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.