Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg

In such a fashion, I anticipated the arrival of the riotous Guy Fawkes Day festivities, the annual celebrations that commemorate the foiling of the Gun Powder Plot, the treacherous scheme in November of 1605, which sought to destroy the entire British government.
Soothing my nerves remained a necessity in those early years back from Afghanistan, and thus I established the habit of securing new reading material to prepare for the riotous holiday. Escaping between the covers of an engaging book never failed to deaden the maddening shrieks and wild chants of the madcap revellers running amok in Baker Street. After all, how many times can one tolerate the old nursery rhyme: “Remember, remember! The Fifth of November”?
It was not as if I had no other distractions - at least, not in the fall of ’87. Why, in less than three weeks - on the twenty-first - my very first Holmes narrative, A Study in Scarlet, was set to appear in print. And yet not even my excitement over its upcoming publication in Beeton’s Christmas Annual could deter my intention during Guy Fawkes Day to travel on my own in the diverting literary landscape of some other author.
My friend Lomax, the sub-librarian at the London Library, knew my tastes. Not only had he become acquainted with my late-October desires, but he also appreciated my penchant for the latest books on crime. Greeting me with a conspiratorial grin, therefore, he whispered, “I have something for you, Watson,” and reaching below the red mahogany countertop, withdrew a substantial-looking volume with burgundy boards. “It’s a Russian novel about a pair of hatchet murders,” he said softly.
I took the book and examined the title page: Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I had not heard of the work, and I knew nothing of its author save that his name sounded Russian.
“It was written more than twenty years ago,” Lomax explained, “but Dostoevsky died recently, and just last year Whishaw translated it into English.”
I did know of Fred Whishaw, the popular English novelist. He had been born in St Petersburg, and one could assume a competent translation. I thanked Lomax for his help and with my new treasure in hand marched off to Baker Street more confident than ever of avoiding the distraction of the upcoming revelry.
Happily, the Saturday that was the Fifth of November came and went without any major disruptions. My thick Russian novel had successfully fulfilled its purpose. So engaging was the book, in fact, that on the following Tuesday morning I sat before the spluttering log fire finishing its final pages.
At the same time, Sherlock Holmes, dressed in shirtsleeves, was in the midst of setting up his Bunsen burner. He appeared to be in preparation of bringing some vile-smelling liquid to a boil when, just as I was completing the last page, we were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Yes?” I answered.
Billy, our boy in buttons, entered to announce, “Inspector Lestrade.” Straightening his tunic and standing even taller, he added, “Of Scotland Yard.”
The lad had scarcely completed his pronouncement when in strode the man himself. Dressed to face the elements, Lestrade sported a bowler atop his head, a scarf round his neck, and a full-length, heavy coat enveloping his frame.
Still clutching my Russian novel, I rose to greet him. Holmes, however, continued fidgeting with the burner.
To give Lestrade his due, he knew how to capture my friend’s attention. Waving with limp hand at the flame over which Holmes was hovering, the Inspector said, “If you can bring yourself to break away from whatever fiddle-faddle you’re up to, Mr Holmes, I have a case that I thought might interest you.”
“A case, you say?”
“That’s right,” said the policeman with a sardonic grin. It was then that he dangled the bait to which I referred at the start of this narrative. “I speak of a double murder.”
Eyes alight, Holmes gestured for the man to remove his coat, and Lestrade hung it along with his hat and scarf upon the pegs near the door. Rubbing his hands together, he eagerly approached our hearth.
“What has happened?” I asked as the three of us settled in before the fire.
“Ordinarily, gentlemen, I wouldn’t waste your morning with a murder case in the East End. Routine business, usually.”
We could all attest to the human misery in that part of the great metropolis - the lack of food, the lack of heat, the lack of work. It was just such conditions that caused the respectable classes to avoid the danger and violence permeating the area. And yet it would require almost two decades to pass before Jack London, the American writer who started us off on that business concerning the Assassination Bureau, would describe the poor souls who lived in the East End as “people of the abyss”.[2]
“A Jewish pawnbroker called Gottfried was killed yesterday evening a bit after 7.,” Lestrade offered matter-of-factly. “Quite a religious fellow, I’m told.”
“Any victim of murder deserves justice,” Holmes intoned. “His religion plays no role.”
“As that may be, Mr Holmes, but whatever his beliefs, he’d been struck numerous times in the head with an axe-”
My jaw dropped at the news.
“-but the final blow - what do the Frenchies call it, the ‘coup de grâce’? - split open his skull. Some bloke who’d come by to do business with him at a quarter-to-eight discovered the body just inside the flat. The door had been left ajar.”
“My word,” I murmured.
“That’s not all of it, Doctor. Recall there was a second victim. This same fellow also found a woman, presumably the pawnbroker’s wife. She was lying in the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom. Her skull was split open as well, only in her case one blow seemed sufficient to do the deed.”
“My God!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, yes, Doctor. Quite shocking indeed! Blood all round. Judging from the shambles in the bedroom - drawers pulled out, chairs overturned, bed in disarray - we reckon robbery was the motive. No doubt, whoever it was that had an