by Otto Penzler
“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.
Sokolniki was not a district with which we were familiar. We soon stopped a cabbie and Holmes directed him to take us to our hotel.
“Any post?” he asked the porter.
The porter rummaged round in a drawer and handed him a letter. Holmes opened it, read the contents quickly and then, having carefully examined the envelope, handed me a sheet of paper.
“Just look at this, if you please, my dear Watson,” he said with a smile.
I read the following, “Dear Mr. Holmes, England has more than enough criminals of its own and your presence there would be immeasurably more beneficial for your fellow citizens than chasing fame in Russia. From the bottom of my heart, let me give you some good advice. Clear off home while you are still alive.”
I glanced at the envelope and saw it had been posted locally.
“Well, what do you say?” asked Holmes with a disdainful smile.
“It looks as if our presence here is upsetting someone, and it seems that the letter has some connection with the mysterious crime at the Silver Slopes estate.”
“Very probably,” said Holmes indifferently, as he climbed up the stairs. “We’ve got enough time to change and get back on the train.”
“Dare I ask where we are going?” I asked.
“Oh, we have to get back to Silver Slopes and Igralino once again. Nikolai Nikolayevich going there is just the perfect excuse for us.”
Without further ado we changed and made our way to the station.
VI
Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff couldn’t conceal his astonishment at seeing us back.
“What hand of fate brings you here?” he exclaimed, coming out on the porch. “I must confess I thought you have long since been in town.”
“We’ve been there, too,” answered Holmes, jumping from the carriage and greeting the owner. “But we were told that your brother, Nikolai Nikolayevitch, was on his way here and since we were interested in asking him a few questions, we hastened back.”
“Not even stopping off wherever you were staying?”
“What’s to be done! In our profession it isn’t always possible to do as we please and it becomes necessary to accept the situation with all its inconveniences. I hope Nikolai Nikolayevitch is with you.”
“Unfortunately not. He went to his uncle’s graveside. But if you think it necessary, I’ll send a carriage after him at once.”
“Oh, no, please don’t concern yourself. It’ll keep. If you were to allow it, we would like to spend the night here and go tomorrow.”
“But, of course. You know perfectly well that I am really glad of your company,” exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch.
Chatting away, we went in and sat down at the table which our host had ordered to be laid
. At about four in the afternoon, Nikolai Nikolayevitch returned.
Told who we are, he didn’t mince words, “Yes, it would be a good thing to catch the villain. I’d be the first to cut his throat with my own hands.”
The death of his uncle had clearly affected him greatly.
“Say what you will, but this murder is beyond me,” he began. “If anyone could wish his death, it would only be the two of us, as we are both his heirs and in the will found amongst uncle’s things, his entire estate is to be equally divided between us. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t give me any pleasure to receive this damned inheritance, coming as it does in such a manner. As far as I am concerned, I have always been used to living within my own means since I was quite young and even as things stand, I can support myself.”
He lowered his head sadly without paying us any more attention.
Using his tiredness as an excuse, Holmes asked Boris Nikolayevitch’s permission for us to retire. Our host personally escorted us to the door of our room and cordially asked whether there was anything more we required either that evening or for the night.
“No, thank you,” said Holmes and we entered the room allocated us.
It was the same room we had occupied the previous night. Nonetheless, this did not prevent Holmes from conducting the most meticulous examination which included every little thing. Glancing at the small hinged pane in the window, Holmes gave a barely concealed smile, “Have a look, my dear Watson, at this example of gracious forethought. Of course, you do remember that when we first slept here, the pane was not secured. But now, just look at the improvements made by the host.”
I looked and all I saw was the addition of a latch.
“Well, what about it?” asked Holmes. And clapping me on the back, he said with a smile, “I am just trying to test your powers of observation.”
I gave a surprised shrug of my shoulders, “The latch has been repaired, that is all.”
“And that is all?”
“I think so.”
“But don’t you detect anything special about the new arrangement?” asked Holmes with a smile.
“Absolutely none!”
“In that case, pay due attention to the following: for some unfathomable reason, the contraption actually goes right through the pane. Hence, it can be opened and shut from inside as well as outside the room.”
“Do explain yourself.”
“Why, only that I see such a contraption in a window pane for the first time in my life.” Saying this, Holmes drew the heavy curtains over the window and lit the lamps.
It was already dark.
All was still outside, except for the soft lowing of cattle from afar. Very likely the herd was being driven to pasture.
“My dear Watson, I recommend the utmost care and vigilance tonight,” said Holmes to me. “It is likely that the events of the night will tell us much, which is why it would be a good thing for you to abstain from sleep. Now, I suggest that you watch the inner courtyard, if you can. Actually, no. We’ll go out for a little stroll in the field and then take up our watch.”
With those words he opened the door and went out. I followed. Boris Nikolayevitch and his brother were sitting at the dining-room table.
“Have you already rested?” asked Boris Nikolayevitch.
“No, we thought we’d get a little fresh air,” answered Holmes.
“Perhaps you’d like me to accompany you,” our host offered graciously.
“Oh, no, we’ll find our own way. We don’t intend to go very far.”
We went out and for half an hour strolled round the house. I saw that Holmes missed nothing, not the slightest detail. Soon we had gone round all the outhouses and seen where everything stood and what was kept where. An old man passed by. Holmes hailed him and proffered him half a rouble to show us the grounds in detail. The old fellow was delighted at his good fortune and couldn’t thank us enough. He was a herdsman and told us he had lived there as long ago as the days of the late owner, the grandmother of Boris Nikolayevitch.
We wandered round the yard, examining whatever we saw, and eventually arrived in front of a small doorway. It was covered with metal and bolted with a large hanging lock. “Is this also a storehouse?” asked Holmes.
The old man’s face took on an enigmatic appearance, “No, sir, not a barn. Mind you, when the late mistress was alive, oil paint was kept here for the roof, linseed oil as a base for varnish and other things. But since the new master took over, something strange seems to have appeared inside.”
“Something strange, say you?” asked Holmes. “What could it possibly be?”
“How can I put it sir, since I don’t know and neither does anyone else.” The old man lowered his voice to a whisper. “Since the very day the new master arrived, none of us has been inside. I saw him drag in a huge chest, but nobody knows what was inside. He himself goes in twice daily, but none of us is allowed there.”
“Well, I never!” said Holmes in a tone of evident disapproval.
“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.
VII
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 jus
t 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.