The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

‘As soon as Vasilchenko disappeared inside the shop, Rosa crossed the street and walked past, glancing in at the window as she did so before continuing on down the road, leaving the way clear for me to make my own examination of the premises which I did in a more leisurely manner, using the hanging clothes as concealment.

‘I observed Vladimir deep in conversation with the secondhand dealer. Soon afterwards they were joined by a third man who emerged from a back room and who, from his leather apron and his ink-blackened hands, I took to be a printer, a deduction which was proved correct when Vladimir, reaching
into his pocket, took out the bundle of papers and handed them over to this man who examined them, nodded as if satisfied and carried them off to the back room.

‘Vasilchenko then turned towards the street door as if about to depart. I, too, took my leave and hurried ahead of him back to the lodgings where fortunately no one had noticed my absence. By the time Vasilchenko entered the yard, I had resumed my task of chopping firewood. He passed me without giving me a second glance.

‘I was now convinced that not only had I identified the murderer but that I knew his motive. Anna Poltava, whom Count Nicholai had described as a shrewd old woman, had discovered Vasilchenko’s contact with the clandestine printer and he had killed her in order to silence her. The Count was correct. It had been a political crime. But whether Vladimir was an Okchrana spy or a Nihilist subversive had yet to be proved. As for Moffat’s inability to identify Vladimir, I put that down to his unreliability as a witness.

‘I believe I may have expressed to you before, my dear Watson, that in the business of detection one never ceases to learn.
*
I was then a mere novice but it was a lesson which was brought home to me most forcibly that very evening.

‘As I have explained, my room opened off the kitchen and by applying my eye to the spy-hole I had made in the wall I was able to observe the behaviour of the other tenants without their knowledge. That same evening, having made up my mind that Vladimir Vasilchenko was guilty, I heard someone enter the kitchen and, hoping that it was Vladimir whom I could keep under further observation, I took down the ikon and prepared to keep watch.

‘To my disappointment, it was only the young woman, Rosa Zubatov. Taking a chair, she sat down upon it by the fire and proceeded to light one of her Russian cigarettes.

‘Have you ever observed a woman lighting a cigarette,
Watson? It is not a common sight, I confess, although smoking has become more fashionable among young ladies, especially those members of what is known as the “fast set” who make up the Prince of Wales’s rather raffish group of friends and who even include, I understand, other men’s wives. When women do indulge in the habit, they invariably strike the match
away
from their persons. Men generally do the opposite. You may take my word for it if you have not yourself observed the distinction.

‘As Rosa Zubatov lit her cigarette, I perceived that she struck the match towards her.

‘It was enough.

‘Within seconds, I was out of my room and into the kitchen to seize her by the hair, much to her consternation and the amazement of Vladimir Vasilchenko who had that moment entered and who thought I had gone suddenly mad.

‘As she fought me off and Vasilchenko struggled to pull me back by the arms, bellowing like a bull in Russian, I was left clutching in one hand a wig of blonde, curly hair which a moment before had adorned the head of the fair Rosa, revealing a short, military-style crop.

‘The effect on Vladimir Vasilchenko was instantaneous. With a great shout of “
Spic
!”, which I learnt later was the Russian for “spy”, he changed sides at once and joined me in attacking Rosa Zubatov, wrestling her to the ground where he held her in a bear-like embrace.

‘Our mingled cries and exclamations brought Dmitri and the others running and it took several moments of confused explanation in both Russian and English before they grasped the situation. Peter Tomazov, the shoemaker, who spoke a little English, was immediately dispatched to fetch Inspector Gudgeon. In the meantime, Dmitri had succeeded in rescuing Rosa Zubatov from Vladimir’s clutches and had placed her on a chair where she sat, silent and defiant, while Vladimir went on haranguing both her and the assembled company, Dmitri translating for my benefit.

‘Rosa Zubatov was, it seemed, Ilyich Rodzyanko, a member of the Tzarist secret police who had been sent to spy on Vladimir
Vasilchenko which was not his real name either. He was, in fact, Boris Golenski, the former editor of a Nihilist periodical, calling itself
The
People’s
Hammer,
which urged its readers to bring about the violent overthrow of the Tzar. Arrested for sedition, he had later escaped from the Peter and Paul fortress in St Petersburg where Ilyich Rodzyanko had been one of the Okchrana agents who had questioned him during his imprisonment which was how he had recognised her, or rather him, once the wig had been removed. Rodzyanko had been acting in disguise as an
agent
provocateur,
his purpose being to persuade Vladimir to talk about his revolutionary activities during their late-night political discussions round the fire, hoping to trap him into naming some of his accomplices.

‘What made Vladimir particularly furious was the fact that, since coming to England, he had abandoned his Nihilist principles as being far too dangerous and was attempting to dissociate himself from his past.

‘“Then what,” I inquired, “were the papers which he handed to the printer in Lukin Street?”

‘When Dmitri translated my question, Vladimir looked most shame-faced.

‘They were, he explained, a love story which he was hoping to sell to a small publishing firm which produced a monthly periodical, completely non-political in its aims, for the Russian female
émigrés
in the East End of London. It was by this means that he earned his living, an employment which, for obvious reasons, he was anxious to keep secret from his fellow-lodgers. This accounted for the half-sovereign he had paid over in the eating-house. Incidentally, Watson, he was using the rather fanciful
nom
de
plume
of Princess Tatyana Ivanovna, thus adding yet another false identity to the many which bedevilled the case.

‘Inspector Gudgeon arrived shortly afterwards with a uniformed sergeant and some constables. Had he not been such a dull-witted dog of a fellow and still stubbornly convinced that Anna Poltava’s murder was the work of the Mason gang, I might have felt sorry for him for he was faced by several transformations which would not have disgraced a farce in
which, in the final scene, disguises are thrown off and true identities revealed. Not only was I not a deaf-mute Russian peasant but the attractive Miss Rosa Zubatov, towards whom I suspected Gudgeon’s interest had strayed during his investigation, had been unmasked as Ilyich Rodzyanko, an Okchrana male secret agent. Even so, when faced with the truth, he took a great deal of persuading.

‘“But you can speak English!” he protested to me on more than one occasion.

‘“Of course I can,” I replied. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a private consulting detective, called in by Count Nicholai Plekhanovitch to investigate Anna Poltava’s murder.”

‘On the matter of Rosa Zubatov’s, alias Ilyich Rodzyanko’s, identity, he was even more nonplussed and it was not until her, or rather his, room was searched and the purse belonging to Anna Poltava was found, together with a long black cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, as well as a false beard and a set of picklocks, that he was finally convinced. Rodzyanko was then arrested and taken off to Commercial Road police station in handcuffs.

‘I heard later that the market-porter, Moffat, was sent for and identified Rodzyanko, dressed in this disguise, as the man he had seen lurking at the alley entrance.

‘Faced with this incontrovertible evidence, Rodzyanko then confessed to the murder of Anna Poltava. She, too, it seemed had, like me, become suspicious of Rosa Zubatov or rather Rodzyanko as I shall now call him to save further confusion, and had searched his room in his absence, disturbing his papers and thus arousing his suspicion. As only Anna Poltava possessed keys to all the rooms in the house, it was clear to him who had carried out the search. Fearful that the old woman would betray him, Rodzyanko decided to murder her in the manner I have already described, first picking the lock on her door and, having smothered her and taken her purse to make it appear a robbery, then faked the signs of a forced entry on the outer frame of the window. His purpose in waiting in the alleyway for a passer-by to observe him was to convince the police,
as well as the inhabitants of the house, that the murder was the work of a bearded outsider.

‘Thus the murder of the old Russian woman was satisfactorily solved.

‘However, there remained a final mystery.

‘You may be wondering, Watson, who, if anyone, was the Odessa assassin suspected of taking refuge in the Stanley Street household. Would you care to hazard a guess at that person’s identity?’

‘Oh, really Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I cannot imagine. There were a great many of them and Russian names are difficult to remember.’

‘This one is not. Go on, my dear fellow. Pray indulge me.’

‘Very well then,’ said I, amused by the game. ‘Whom shall I choose? Then let it be the shoemaker with the sick wife.’

Holmes laughed out loud with pleasure.

‘You are wrong, my old friend. It was none other than Olga Leskova.’

‘Olga? The fat woman who made you eat up your pancakes?’

‘The very one! Can you imagine a more unlikely Nihilist? In the general confusion which followed my unmasking of Rodzyanko, no one noticed that she had quietly packed her bags and made her departure, fearful no doubt that her own identity would be the next uncovered. I learnt later from Count Nicholai that inquiries showed that she had taken passage to America where she disappeared from sight among the teeming millions of other foreign exiles. She is probably at this very moment running an eating-house in Kansas City or a Russian restaurant in the Bronx.

‘And now, my dear Watson, if you care to assist me in packing up my trunk, I shall return it to my bedroom.’

‘But, Holmes, what about the other papers?’ I exclaimed, indicating the piles of documents which still stood about the room.

‘Oh, there is no time to deal with those now,’ Holmes declared airily. ‘The maid will be coming at any moment to lay the table for dinner. Surely you do not expect her to do so with the contents of the trunk spread across the carpet?’

‘But, Holmes …!’

My protests were to no avail. Holmes insisted and together we bundled up the documents, including the packet containing the false identity papers, the photograph and the ikon, and returned them to the trunk.

Although several months were to pass before Holmes finally found the time to clear the room of all his other records, I had at least the consolation of having heard from his lips the curious case of the old Russian woman.
*
even though I shall not be permitted to publish an account of it within the lifetime of Count Nicholai Plekhanovitch and his son, Sergei, who still continue their work among the Russian exiles and who wish to protect the interests of their fellow-countrymen.