Alex Auswaks - Sherlock Holmes in Russia

‘Oh, yes, sir! You can hear it moaning,’ whispered the old man enigmatically.

‘What is it that is moaning?’ asked a surprised Holmes.

‘Whatever is locked in that chest. Some folk say that a man who has lost his mind is hidden inside. Someone possessed. Might be related to the master!’

‘Where do you get all that from?’

‘I’ll tell you where from. Sometimes at night you can hear someone grunting or snarling. It is neither a human sound nor an animal’s either.’

‘Maybe someone got frightened and just said it,’ suggested Holmes.

‘Out of fright!’ said the old man, this time truly aggrieved, ‘I heard it myself.’

Holmes approached the door and looked at the lock. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘this is no ordinary lock. You wouldn’t easily find a key to fit it. In any case, if I were to decide to open it for myself, it would take a considerable while.’ He turned suddenly and looked at the big house.

I don’t know what made me, but I automatically followed his example and that very moment I noticed the figure of Boris Nikolayevitch jumping back from the window as soon as we turned around. Actually, I don’t know whether this was so or merely appeared so to me, but the expression on the nephew of the dead man was on this occasion particularly strange. It seemed to me that his eyes looked at us with an unnatural anger. But all this was only momentary.

Holmes turned away calmly from the mysterious shed and we continued on our way still interrogating the old man about any old trivia. Our stroll didn’t last more than an hour. When we had had enough of the yard, we went in again and this time, meeting nobody, went to our room.

We had just about retired, when there was a knock at the door. It was Boris Nikolayevitch, come to ask whether we’d like to have supper before retiring for the night. He looked perfectly content to accept our refusal, wished us a good night and departed.

We began to undress, but before we went to bed, Sherlock Holmes locked the door, leaving the key in the door and, approaching the window, began to look out carefully at the grounds. He stood like that for nigh on a quarter of an hour. Then he reached into his pocket for his leather case, took out a few nails and once again very carefully nailed them into the frame of the pane.

Next he put out the light, came up to my bed and leaning down to my ear whispered very softly, ‘My dear Watson, have your revolver at the ready and under no circumstances let go of it. In the meantime, I suggest that you part the curtains carefully and give your attention to anything that occurs anywhere near our window.’

We tiptoed towards the curtains, parted them ever so slightly and put our eyes to the gap. A pale moon had risen and cast its mysterious light over the park. We tried to stand so quietly that the slightest move would not betray our vigil. A considerable time must have passed. I couldn’t check the time in the dark, but it must have been all of two hours.

I became bored by the long silence and finally just had to ask Holmes, albeit softly, ‘What do you suppose is going on?’

‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘This is no time for conjecture. We’ll know everything in the morning.’

And once again, hour after hour stretched past. My legs became numb from prolonged standing and I lost all sense of where I stood.

Suddenly, some object appeared at the window. A pole with an attachment! Holmes indicated I was to increase my vigilance, but my nerves were already stretched taut as it was. The pole was being slowly guided from below by some unseen hand and the attachment stopped at the level of the pane.

Whoever was below came nearer and the outer latch of the pane was now in the groove of whatever was on the end of the pole. It turned. Clearly, someone was trying to unlock it from down below. But now, just as it must have happened last time, the nails that Holmes had fixed with his usual foresight, proved too much of an impediment.

Someone below was trying hard to open the pane, but it would not give way. The effort lasted for nearly half an hour. The man seemed desperate to carry out his intention but eventually the pole was lowered beneath the level of the windowsill. We heard a slight noise from outside and below and then all was still. We waited in vain while another hour passed and then moved away from the window.

‘There you are,’ said Sherlock Holmes, ‘you and I, my dear Watson, proved to be wiser, and as it seems to me, this time escaped certain death.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

‘Someone was intent on opening the pane to let in a strange creature capable of squeezing through such a narrow aperture. Undoubtedly, it could not be a human being. The pane would have been too narrow.’

He was silent for a moment and then added, ‘In any case, the morning brings wiser counsel, so it would be better for us to sleep. I’ll tell you everything in the morning.’

I was dying of curiosity, but I knew perfectly well that Holmes would never say anything till such time as he was good and ready, and so I did not insist.

Next morning, for a change, I was up before my friend. But I had hardly swung out of bed when Holmes opened his eyes. He was a remarkably light sleeper. No matter how tired out he had been, the slightest movement served to waken him.

‘Aha, my friend,’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘I’m not quite myself this morning. Surely you couldn’t have wakened before me.’ I gave an involuntary smile.

We began to dress. Our movements and voices must have come to the attention of the household. Hardly twenty minutes had gone by when there was a knock on the door. A servant had come to ask whether we’d like tea served up in our room.

‘No thanks, my dear chap,’ Holmes answered. ‘We’ll have it in the dining-room.’

He waited till the servant had gone before giving me a look fraught with meaning, saying ‘It’ll be safer this way, especially being able to see the host drink first.’

Having completed our toilet, we entered the dining-room, where Boris Nikolayevitch and Nikolai Nikolayevitch were already sitting at breakfast.

There most probably had been a slight tiff between the brothers, at least judging from the end of the sentence uttered by Boris Nikolayevitch, ‘—you cannot possibly lay claim to any part of the inheritance. After all, you never paid so much as a visit to our uncle and he was entirely in my care.’

‘A will represents the will of the departed,’ Nikolai Nikolayevitch answered coldly. ‘Whether I visited him or not is beside the point. Since he left me a part of his estate, this is how it must be.’

Boris Nikolayevitch was about to say something, but noticing our arrival, broke off the conversation abruptly, greeted me very cordially and offered tea. ‘I hope you slept well,’ he addressed us both.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I slept like a log till morning.’

‘And I, too,’ said Holmes. ‘Country air does predispose one to sleep, especially after an energetic stroll. And we must’ve strolled round your place at least a full hour before retiring.’

‘You have such a lovely nanny,’ he added, turning to Nikolai Nikolayevich.

‘Oh, indeed!’ answered the young man smiling happily. Evidently, he liked having the old lady praised. His face lit up with a kind and sympathetic smile. ‘I do love the old lady,’ he said tenderly, ‘for I have neither father nor mother. She is all I have left as the only loving reminder of my happy childhood.’

The brothers reminisced about their childhood, their capers and pranks. Our presence didn’t seem to divert them from their memories. However, when breakfast was over, before leaving the table, Boris Nikolayevitch turned to my friend, ‘You will allow me to ask a question, Mr Holmes?’