Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg

report to the police the outstanding pledges they have left with him. A few trinkets remain in the drawers; what is reported missing may enable you to ensnare the villain if he should be among those who show up to claim them.”
“Thank you very much indeed, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I pride myself on recognizing the help you sometimes have to offer. I shall deposit you and Dr Watson back in Baker Street and then return to the Yard to file my report.”
Following the Inspector’s lead, we retraced our steps down the dark stairwell. With the doors nearest the landings still cracked open as we marched past, we could sense the flat-dwellers behind them who could not refrain from peeping out again to see why the police were lingering in their building.
An explosion of light hit us upon exiting the premises. There had been so much gloom inside that one could be excused for having forgotten that it was yet the middle of the day.

Chapter Three: Comparisons
Attentive readers will recall that in A Study in Scarlet, I labelled as “nil” Sherlock Holmes’ knowledge of literature. Oh, Holmes could be counted on for the odd factoid regarding important authors and their works - witness his knowledge of Carlyle at the scene of the Gottfried murders - but I would not classify him a student of belles lettres. For that matter, neither could I apply such a label to myself - at least, not yet. Of the two lodgers at 221B, however, I felt that with my first narrative to be published in less than a fortnight, I could lay greater claim to such a title than he.
In the van carrying us back to Baker Street, therefore, I assumed it was I alone who was pondering the parallels between an active murder investigation and the horrors of the fictional work to which my friend at the library had introduced me. A dead pawnbroker and flat-mate, a murderous axe, a hurried robbery, a dropped clue, a possible student-perpetrator - even though I maintained some vague doubts, the similarities of the crimes, both fictional and real, compelled me to inform Sherlock Holmes of my conclusions.
But did I dare? I could already fancy him describing such comparisons as the naïve ruminations of a literary traveller who had somehow got blown off course. Did I want to invite even more ridicule? Might my current supposition undermine Holmes’ faith in my insights? Such questions plagued me throughout our drive to Baker Street.
When we returned to our rooms, Lestrade agreed to join us for a late luncheon of roast beef sandwiches supplied by Mrs Hudson. And yet no sooner did Billy place the food before us than it became readily apparent to me that my worries were interfering with my appetite. Quite simply, I had to make public my thoughts concerning the role Dostoevsky’s novel played in the macabre drama to which Lestrade had introduced us.
“Crime and Punishment, you say?” The Inspector raised his eyebrows and lowered his sandwich. “Good title. Describes my work. But never heard of the book, I’m afraid.” What the policeman lacked in literary knowledge, however, I am pleased to say that he made up for in pertinacity. “Your conclusions may be all wrong, Doctor. This whole business might be mere coincidence. And yet the similarities you bring up do seem to raise some interesting questions.”
Holmes’ reaction was more pointed. Shaking his head, he said, “Dostoevsky again? Really, Watson, do you think me ignorant?” He asked this last question with an amused look and biting tone. “You may take pleasure in underestimating my familiarity with literary art; but do not forget that, like you, I too have read the galleys of your account of the Lauriston Gardens murder, and so I know that you yourself employed the word ‘immense’ to describe my knowledge of sensational literature.”
He was correct about that.
“You might place Crime and Punishment on a lofty plane, old fellow, but I would relegate it to a more common category. Why, in a letter to his publisher, Dostoevsky himself called the book a “psychological account of a crime.” No, I believe ‘sensational literature’ is quite the accurate label.”
Holmes’ voice was spirited, but his features remained without expression. Not only did I feel corrected, but insulted as well.
Nor was he finished. “Do you think that I had not already recognised the comparisons you bring up, Watson? Do you regard me as so obtuse? After all, I do my best to keep informed on writings - fictional or otherwise - related to the criminal world.
“But if antecedents for these horrific crimes need be mentioned at all, let me assure you that Dostoevsky’s novel, which you deem so relevant, remains a less fruitful object of study than two real crimes that occurred the year before he completed the book. It was these criminal acts that doubtlessly formed the basis for his fictitious killings.”
I shook my head in silent confession to being unaware of either event.
“I refer, of course, to the 1865 murders of two old women in Moscow and another in St Petersburg. And I do not even speak of the villainous Karakozov, the sickly, failed student who attempted to assassinate the Tsar in ’66 at the very time Dostoevsky was in the midst of writing the early part of the novel - an event, I might add, that for any number of reasons, interfered with his usual production of prose. You will recall that Crime and Punishment first appeared in serial instalments.”
I suppose I should have expected such a riposte. It was just the sort that Holmes often aimed my way following one of my ill-considered attempts to promote my knowledge. It was not unlike our discussion in the sketch I titled “A Case of Identity” involving the jilted Miss Mary Sutherland. In that exchange, Holmes vowed to keep piling fact upon fact until I acknowledged him to be right. “You see, but do not observe,” he was fond of saying to me.
As for