“Then,” and here Lestrade cast his eyes on the police informer sitting across the table, “then the Assistant here-”
Suddenly, the man in question grabbed his cap, sprang to his feet and ran towards the door. He never made it through, however. For just as he reached for the doorknob, the white-bearded gentleman who had been sitting quietly near the exit all this time, extended his foot. The escaping Russian tripped right over it and fell flat on his face. The rumpus brought in the constable who had been positioned just outside.
“Grab that man!” shouted Lestrade, pointing at the fallen informer, “and bring him back to this chair.”
As the constable wrestled the Russian into his seat, the man with the white beard rose and commanded our attention.
“Gentlemen,” said Porfiry Petrovitch calmly, “may I present to you Mr Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov.”
Chapter Eleven: Confessions
“I am Raskolnikov,” the man announced in a thick Russian accent, “I am murderer Fyodor Mikhailovitch Dostoevsky wrote about.” Pointing at the Assistant, he added, “I am man who confessed my crime to him.”
“You - you are actually real?” I could not prevent myself from asking. Though I may have come to accept that Dostoevsky’s murder plot was true, it still seemed hard to believe, even with the evidence quite literally standing before me.
“Da,” he answered.
To spare the reader my inept recreation of Raskolnikov’s broken English, I offer the following summary: For the murder of the pawnbroker and her sister, Raskolnikov was sentenced to ten years of hard labour in a frigid Siberian prison - two years longer than Dostoevsky had predicted in the epilogue to Crime and Punishment. As the novel reports, Sonia did follow him to Siberia and settle in a nearby village where she tended to him and to other prisoners as best she could. Dostoevsky accurately if ambiguously predicted Raskolnikov’s future - what Whishaw translated as the man’s “slow progressive regeneration” - when the narrator announced, “this may well form the theme of a new tale.”
What we learned from Raskolnikov that day in Scotland Yard suggests the basis for that new tale, which Dostoevsky himself never reported. Released from prison after the allotted ten years, Raskolnikov remained exiled from St Petersburg. In spite of the cruel conditions in that part of the country, he married Sonia; and the two spent the next five years in Siberia, he working the barren fields, she taking in clothes for mending.
At the end of that period, the courts mercifully - and perhaps following the advice offered by Porfiry Petrovitch - granted Raskolnikov permission to return to St Petersburg. Happily, his old friend Razumihin, now married to Raskolnikov’s sister Dounia, offered him a job in Razumihin’s successful publishing firm. Raskolnikov requested a minor position - nothing too cerebral, nothing too demanding. Reviving the linguistic skills he had employed in his former life, he devoted his time to translating German texts into Russian. Like Lazarus, to whom Raskolnikov never tired of comparing himself, he had been resurrected.
It was in Razumihin’s publishing house that Porfiry Petrovitch found Raskolnikov - though the Russian detective had never really lost touch with the young man. As Porfiry Petrovitch had reassured him many times during their cat-and-mouse encounters, the policeman genuinely liked Raskolnikov. As a result, it did not require a great deal of persuasion to convince the reformed criminal to travel with the Russian detective to London. And why not - when the reason consisted of helping rid British society of a madman murdering people in the old style of Raskolnikov himself?
Once order had been restored in the room, Lestrade formally addressed Ilya Petrovitch: “Did you murder the pawnbroker called Samuel Gottfried and his wife Sarah Gottfried?”
The Assistant sat quietly. Though he had clearly tried to escape, as yet he had confessed to nothing. His face may have been turning red, but his only movement was an almost imperceptible drumming of his fingers on the wooden table.
“Was foolish idea,” Porfiry Petrovitch said to the Assistant. “You were one of few who knew true details of killings in Petersburg. Not many suspects to hide among. Foolish to try to blame English people who do not know facts from twenty years past.”
Lestrade snorted in amused agreement.
“Not smart,” Porfiry Petrovitch charged, shaking his head once more. “I expect cleverness from Assistant Superintendent.”
The more the Russian detective emphasised the poor planning of the murders in Brick Lane, the more the insolent Ilya Petrovitch seemed to fume.
“Long ago, you show wisdom,” Porfiry Petrovitch resumed. “Today? Tfu!” The sound came out like an expectoration, and then the detective kept silent to let his disgust hover in the air.
The longer the silence lingered, the redder grew the Assistant’s face.
Like the professional he was, Lestrade knew how long to allow the silence to continue. When he judged enough time had passed, he tried once more to pose the question: “I’ll ask you again,” said he. “Did you-”
“Da!” Ilya Petrovitch exploded, slamming his fist down on the table. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes! I killed them. With axe.”
No sooner did the Assistant begin his confession than Porfiry Petrovitch winked at Holmes. He had poked his quarry just hard enough. It was as my friend had said - the Russian detective well knew how to tap into the psychology of the criminal mind.
“I tell you why, Porfiry Petrovitch,” the Assistant ranted, his English words tumbling out awkwardly, his voice dreadfully loud. “You sack me. I leave Russia, but wait long time for chance to prove my skill. To show you how smart I am. Years I wait. Finally, one day, I go to Gottfried with pledge; I meet Roderick Cheek. Student, no money, in debt to pawnbroker - perfect match for Raskolnikov. Perfect. I follow him. See where he live. Door always open. I steal Carlyle book. I can’t read much English, but I see word ‘hero’. Raskolnikov thought great men could commit murder and be free.”
“On Cheek’s well-stocked shelf,” interjected Holmes, “I noted the space for a missing book.”
“Like Raskolnikov, Cheek always ill.” The Assistant allowed himself a disdainful chuckle. “Easy to blame Cheek for murders.”
“But,” said Holmes, “Raskolnikov considered his victim a leech, an oppressor, whose high rates were draining her poor clients. How could you kill an innocent man like Gottfried?”
“Was Jew,” answered the Assistant with a shrug. “Zhid.”
As if such foul reasoning explained anything at all.
“Like Raskolnikov,” the Assistant went on, “I steal axe from caretaker, carry it in loop I sew in jacket. But Raskolnikov, he make mistake. After I kill Gottfried and wife, I throw axe into Thames - not try to put back like Raskolnikov. Stupid! And I throw jewellery into river. No clues - except book I leave in flat and small box with earrings I put on floor near stairs. I steal earrings from my wife when I leave Petersburg. I keep them for plan. Raskolnikov drop earrings - mistake; I leave box on purpose - part of plan, not accident. Ilya Petrovitch not foolish like Raskolnikov.”
“Is that so?” said Lestrade. The bulldog in his soul was never more prominent than when he had the criminal in his grip. “I wouldn’t accuse anyone of being foolish if I was you, Dmitry or Ilya or whatever it is that you’re calling yourself these days. Mr Raskolnikov here served ten years. You’ll swing for what you done.” And Lestrade made a noose-like gesture, holding his fist to the side of his throat and pulling upward. To complete the sardonic tableau, he leaned his head to the side as if his neck had broken, popped his eyes wide open, and, gasping, stuck out his tongue.
The Assistant paled at the sight.
“Constable,” Lestrade said once he regained his composure, “lock this man up. We’ll fix the details later.”
No sooner had the deflated Ilya Petrovitch been led from the room than Raskolnikov, leaning towards Porfiry Petrovitch, whispered
something to him in Russian. The detective nodded and turned to us to explain.
“Vassia - iss nickname - reminded me of dream he had years ago. I tell Fyodor Mikhailovitch about it, and story appeared in novel. In dream, Vassia saw Ilya Petrovitch beating and kicking Vassia’s landlady. She scream. Only a vision. But even in dream, Vassia knew the brutality of Assistant. Important dream - iss like Pushkin story, no?”
Unfortunately, I had no answer to his question. None of us did. But now I had another Russian author to read.
“We go back to Petersburg now?” Raskolnikov asked.
Both men turned to Lestrade for the answer.
“You men have served us quite well here,” replied Lestrade. “And thanks to Mr Holmes, if we need your services again at the trial, we’ll know how to get hold of you - though to be honest I don’t think that will be necessary. The man’s attempt to escape and his own confession should seal his fate.”
Porfiry Petrovitch nodded. Then he turned to Raskolnikov and said some more words in Russian. I assumed them to be assurances that, after stopping in at their rooms in Montague Street, they would be taking the train to Queenborough and returning to St Petersburg.
Holmes had a final question. “Before you go, Porfiry Petrovitch, I must ask you to clear up the point I wondered about in Petersburg. Just before Raskolnikov confessed, you told him that you had clear evidence of his guilt. But according to Dostoevsky, you never explained to him what it was.”
“Of course I did not say,” agreed the Russian. “Otherwise Rodion Romanovitch might not surrender on his own.”
“What was it?” Holmes asked. “What was this incontrovertible proof?”
“Heh, heh, heh,” laughed the detective. “The proof? Poor Vassia think he is careful, but caretaker see him return axe. I have witness from the start. Case closed.”
Reliving his foolishness, Raskolnikov sank his bearded chin into his chest. Porfiry Petrovitch draped a comforting arm round the man’s shoulders as they headed toward the door.
Lestrade escorted the four of us to the kerb just beyond the entrance to the red-and-white-bricked police headquarters. In the shadows of the building, he extended a cordial farewell to the Russians. At the junction of Great Scotland Yard and Whitehall, Holmes flagged a passing hansom.
“Do svidaniya,” both men said. “Good-bye,” added Porfiry Petrovitch with a final blink of his eyes.
“Never knew Russkies could be so helpful,” observed the policeman as we watched the waves of traffic swallow up the cab. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and returned to the building.
Holmes smiled for a brief moment before he and I set off on foot for Baker Street.
Chapter Twelve: A Final Word
At breakfast the next morning, I read aloud to Holmes the following story that appeared in the Daily Chronicle:
Inspector G. Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police announced yesterday the arrest of I.P. Poruchik, a Russian immigrant, for the murder of pawnbroker Samuel Gottfried and his wife Sarah. The crimes were committed in the couple’s East End flat on 7 November. The murder weapon was a small axe. Such crimes are a hanging offence.
In an interesting turn of fate, twenty years ago, Poruchik, a former police assistant-superintendent in St Petersburg, Russia, took the confession of a similar axe murderer, whose wretched crime was the basis for a novel by the Russian author, F.M. Dostoevsky. According to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, the similarities were pointed out by Mr Sherlock Holmes, a private investigator.
“Bah!” I exploded, tossing the paper onto the table. “Not a word about me, the person who was first to link the murders to Crime and Punishment.”
“You have every right to be disappointed, old fellow,” said Holmes, sipping his coffee. “But after working intimately with the Scotland Yarders long enough, you will discover that giving credit where credit is due is not one of their strong suits.”
“I suppose you are right, Holmes. But they did give that credit to you.”
Holmes chuckled. “Yes, I suppose I should feel some sense of pride.”
“Bah!” I said again, doubly frustrated by Holmes’ reception of the honour that should have gone to me.
I was about to pick up my coffee when a knock on the door sounded.
“Enter!” commanded Holmes, and in marched Billy the page.
“Two gentlemen and a lady to see you, Mr Holmes,” he announced.
“Show them in, Billy. I believe I know who they are.”
Holmes and I both hurried to put on our coats whilst the three entered. As I too had anticipated, our guests turned out to be the twins, Priscilla and Roderick Cheek, as well as friend William Arbuthnot. Actually, since Miss Cheek’s hand rested on Arbuthnot’s arm, I suppose that “friend” was not the most accurate of terms.
Nor was this romance the only new development since our meeting at Scotland Yard just the day before. Though the dark circles beneath Roderick’s eyes suggested lingering signs of illness, the young man had cleaned himself up most miraculously. His tangled, long hair had been trimmed and combed; his face was clean-shaven, and he now wore a grey-brown suit and waistcoat that gave him an altogether respectable appearance.
(In point of fact, I had seen Cheek’s suit before. I recalled its colour being similar to that of an earthenware pot once held by the suit’s true owner, Mr Arbuthnot. But the two men were of similar size, and the fit seemed close enough to minimise any criticism.)
“Mr Holmes,” said Roderick with a cough, “we owe you a great deal.” He was holding the same copy of the Chronicle that I had been reading.
“These murders have made me face reality,” said Cheek, “and I didn’t like what I saw.”
Priscilla stepped forward and put her arm round her brother. “William and I are very proud of Roderick, Mr Holmes. He has told us of his plans to return to King’s College and pursue the law. As you can see” - and here she fussed with her brother’s hair - “he has already begun the process of reforming himself.”
“Well done,” said I as the young man blushed.
“Miss Cheek and I have made some plans as well,” announced William Arbuthnot. “After she rid herself of that cad Percy Farragut, I was able to tell her my true feelings. We shall work out the financial challenges, and Roderick will begin tutoring young students again to offset some of the difficulty. As a result, gentlemen, I am happy to announce that once I complete my schooling, Miss Cheek has consented to become my wife.”
“Well done!” I said once more - only this time with even greater enthusiasm. A story that started out so tragically seemed to be ending on quite the positive note.
“Watson speaks for me on all counts related to the human heart,” Holmes said to our three guests, and I took some pleasure in finally gaining a degree of credit for my words.
“We must be off now,” said Priscilla. “There is just enough money left in our inheritance to get Roderick back into school and to find him rooms in a less depressive environment than Goulston Street.”
Holmes and I wished them well and watched the trio depart. The case had ended. No sooner had we returned to our coffees, however, than I found myself surveying a line of fiction books on the shelf behind the table.
“Holmes,’ I mused, “do you know that there are countless murders in the works of Edgar Alan Poe?”
“Indeed. Why do you ask?”
“This Dostoevsky business makes me wonder if any of Poe’s stories might inspire recreations. Perhaps I should be reading all of them just in case.”
Holmes laughed. “First, s Russian writer, now Poe, an American - why not try someone home-grown, old fellow? I hear Charles Dickens left an unsolved murder or two worthy of investigation.”
Why not indeed? I pondered as I brought the coffee to my lips once more. And yet even then I knew I was running in ci
rcles. For as long as there were criminals performing dastardly deeds and Sherlock Holmes to investigate their crimes, I well knew the nature of my future literary endeavours. And I told Holmes so.
“I suppose tomorrow will tell,” said he.
Tomorrow! With all the excitement of completing the case of the murdered pawnbroker, I had completely forgotten that the next day - Monday, 21 November - would see the publication of A Study in Scarlet.
In just a few hours I hoped to be basking in the literary glow of my first published work. At the time, I did not know how it would be received. Still, I could always hope. If the reviews were encouraging and if my medical practice allowed me the opportunity, then - who knew? - I could easily fancy myself reporting a few more adventures of my friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes...
THE END
The Editor’s Suggestions for Further Reading
Although there are many different English translations of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s[1] Crime and Punishment, one should read Frederick Whishaw’s translation (published by Courage Books) in order to recreate Dr Watson’s experience. Dover Publications offers Constance Garnett’s version, an excellent Audible recording of which is read by Constantine Gregory. A more modern translation has recently been done by Oliver Ready (published by Penguin Classics).
Dr Watson himself referred to an informative companion to the novel, Dostoyevsky’s own Notebooks for Crime and Punishment (Dover Publications). Among the numerous collections of critical analyses of the novel, there are insightful articles in The New Russian Dostoevsky edited by Carol Apollonio as well those in Harold Bloom’s two collections, both titled Modern Critical Interpretations: Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (Chelsea House, 1988, 2004).
Biographical accounts shedding additional light on the novel include Richard Garnett’s biography of his grandmother, Constance Garnett: A Heroic Life (referred to by Watson in his Prologue) and Claudia Verhoven’s treatment of the unsuccessful assassination attempt of Tsar Alexander II, The Odd Man Karakozov: Imperial Russia, Modernity, and the Birth of Terrorism (Cornell University Press).
Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg Page 10