Alex Auswaks: Sherlock Holmes in Russia

I wasn’t the only one doing guard duty. Outside, there were two sizable Alsatians that could have handled a bear. During the day, they were chained up, while at night they were let loose. They let nobody pass, except the count, countess and the cook, who fed and chained them up or released them as necessary.

I passed from room to room, looking out for anything suspicious. The street was like any street. An occasional late passer-by disturbed the silence and finally all was still. Dawn began to break and carts from the villages broke the stillness on their way to market. Morning, and the town took on its usual appearance.

Holmes appeared at eight. I could see from his face that he had achieved nothing. I reported that I, too, had seen nothing. He announced, however, that he was persevering with his original plan and suggested we catch up on our sleep at our hotel.

No point in describing the next four days in detail. They were all the same. Holmes spent day and night at the cemetery, while I stayed in the apartment of the countess. She acceded to Holmes’s advice not to leave the house, confining herself to a brief turn round the yard.

Came Saturday. It was the fifth day of our uninterrupted watch, and I felt somewhat tired. Evening approached. All these days I had only slept in fits and starts. It was with less than pleasure that I looked forward to another sleepless night. Moreover, the young countess was beginning to look as if she was weary of our futile efforts. She had even begun to scoff at Sherlock Holmes’s genius. Yet more and more her voice held notes of sadness.

That evening she read some French novel and retired early. I was about to switch off the lights, when I suddenly heard her voice. ‘Mr Watson! Mr Watson!’ she cried out anxiously.

I hastened into the sitting room beside her bedroom. She stood in the middle of the room, pale and trembling, dressed in a pale blue housecoat which she had hastily thrown on.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Were you in my bedroom?’ she asked, looking me in the eye.

‘Whatever for?’ I asked in surprise.

‘What about Mr Holmes?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘Mr Holmes was here at the break of dawn today. He merely said a few words to me and left immediately,’ I said.

‘And nobody, but nobody else, entered the house?’

‘I can confirm that.’

She raised her beautiful hand and proffered me a small unsealed envelope. ‘In that case, you may be able to explain what this letter means and how it came to be on the pillow on my bed.’

Bewildered, I accepted the letter. The address was typewritten.

‘Countess,’ wrote its anonymous author, ‘although you don’t know me, nonetheless I am your friend. Circumstances, which came about because of your husband’s trust in me, have entangled me in your family secrets. I beg of you, by all that’s sacred, please listen to me. You are in the most terrible danger. Don’t leave the house, not by so much as a step. Not even in the yard. And always carry a weapon. Just in case, beware even of the servants. I know that some detective is living in your house. Please tell him to be more careful and not show himself so openly at windows. He can watch over you just as well with dimmed lights and drawn curtains. Have courage. All will be for the best. Your well-wisher.’

I had hardly opened my mouth to say something, when I was shaken to hear a noise at my back. The countess screamed and held on to a chair for support. I turned quickly. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, a look of glee on his face.

‘Dear God, how you frightened me!’ exclaimed the countess, recognizing him.

‘Forgive me, but there was an important reason why I came in without ringing the doorbell,’ he answered.

‘But how did you manage to get in?’ wondered the countess.

‘No need for any special talent,’ answered Holmes with a shrug. ‘My friend Dr Watson does not possess the talent of a detective. Here he is guarding the house, yet he left a window open in the corridor. Anyone could get in easily from the street.’

I was too disconcerted to say anything.

‘There we are, then!’ exclaimed the countess. ‘At least I now know who entered the house and slipped a letter on my pillow. Mr Holmes, you did that most skillfully.’

A puzzled look appeared on Holmes’s face. ‘Do I take it that you are insinuating I was here and slipped you a letter surreptitiously?’ he asked.

‘So you weren’t here?’ the countess asked sarcastically.

‘I don’t suppose you’d let me have a look at the letter,’ Holmes said, a solemn note in his voice.

I handed him the letter. Holmes examined every line carefully, then looked again through a magnifying glass and for some reason even gave it a lick with his tongue.

The countess and I watched him with curiosity.

‘Whoever wrote this letter, wept over it,’ he said suddenly.

The full meaning of this sentence hadn’t penetrated when suddenly Holmes looked at the countess fixedly and said slowly, ‘This letter was written by … your husband.’

A piercing scream burst from the young woman’s bosom. And if I hadn’t managed to get to her side in time to support her, she would have collapsed on the floor.

It took some minutes to calm her. As soon as she had recovered, she asked, ‘My husband? My God! For God’s sake, explain immediately what you mean by that.’

‘Nothing more or nothing else than that he is alive, that nobody cut him into pieces,’ said Holmes speaking with great clarity.

The countess pressed one hand to her heart and with the other frantically seized Holmes by the hand, ‘It can’t be! For God’s sake … it’s about time you told everything.’

‘First of all, calm yourself and sit down,’ Holmes said.

The countess obeyed and sank into a chair in agitation.

‘And so, listen,’ Holmes began speaking seriously. ‘I don’t know the details, but I shall relate the whole course of events to you in general terms as I am sure they happened. Watson, do listen, but at the same time watch the street. Extinguish the lights and let’s move to the dining room. And so, I begin,’ he started again as soon as his instructions had been followed and I had sat down by the drawn curtains, while he and the countess sat down beside me. ‘Unlike the count, I see no reason to make a secret of your origins. Twenty years ago, you, the year-old daughter of the famous Rajah Ben-Ali was kidnapped by three evildoers, one of whom was the count himself.’

‘Oh, no!’ moaned the young woman.

‘Whether the count was an evildoer or fell into their company inadvertently, we’ll soon know. All I know is that the count was bound by oath to the other two, one of whom belonged to the Tadjidi tribe. Of course, I could be wrong but, judging by the weapons with which the count’s study is hung, he had something to do with pirates. Those little axes with the long handles are their favourite weapons for fighting at close quarters.’

‘Oh, God! Oh God!’ wept the young countess.

‘Oh, there’s no need to upset yourself so,’ Sherlock Holmes tried to calm her. ‘After all, what I am saying is mere supposition. In addition, the extent of the count’s guilt is not clear at all and, for some reason, it seems to me that he suffered some great sorrow in his life, which vindicates him. Today’s letter demonstrates that he fears for you and has been doing all these things because he wants to save you, but not to escape justice, else he would have referred to the detective with hatred.’

Hope and joy now came into the voice of the young countess as she murmured softly, ‘Of that I am sure! He is too noble.’