‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall pursue the matter with my client. In the meantime I will put two last questions. The first is whether your oath to Mrs Fordeland arises out of any romantic attachment of the lady—’
‘Certainly not, Mr Holmes. Certainly not,’ interrupted the Russian. ‘It is far more important than that.’
‘—and the second,’ continued Holmes, ‘is whether your connection with Miss Wortley-Swan has
anything to do with Mrs Fordeland?’
Gregorieff looked relieved. ‘Most definitely not,’ he said, firmly. ‘It is as I have said, that Miss Wortley-Swan employs me about her business. That is all.’
‘I believe,’ said Holmes, ‘that you have told me the truth, though evidently not all of it. I hope, for your sake, that you have withheld nothing that may damage my client’s interest.’
‘Mrs Fordeland,’ said Gregorieff, ‘is a brave and intelligent lady for whom I have nothing but the highest admiration. Please believe me, Mr Holmes, when I say that I would do nothing to harm the lady.’
We thanked the brother and sister for their hospitality and took our leave.
Fourteen
A Time for Questions
Iadmit freely that Holmes’ conversation had left me entirely confused, and I remarked as much to him in our cab on the way back to Baker Street. He merely nodded.
‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’ I persisted.
‘I, Watson, make nothing of it. The data is insufficient. At the present state of our knowledge it would be possible to create six or seven theories which would meet the facts, but none of them, I suspect, would be the right one. It is very Russian.’
‘Very Russian?’
‘Indeed. I was thinking, Watson, of a particular type of Russian doll, I think that they are called matrioshki. The thing is made of turned wood and designed to stand on its base, painted to represent a jolly old peasant woman. It will unscrew in the middle, and inside it is a slightly smaller but similar figure, which also unscrews in the middle, and so on until you have a long line of little wooden ladies of descending size.’
‘I don’t quite see the comparison with the present case,’ I said.
‘Our matrioshka, Watson, works in reverse. We start from what seems to be a relatively straightforward problem and as soon as we begin to interest ourselves we discover within it the interest of the Russian Embassy and the curious behaviour of two other Russians. No sooner do we track down the mysterious man in a beard than Kyriloff sets his silly plot in Hyde Park. Now Gregorieff tells us that his employment by Miss Wortley-Swan has no connection with Mrs Fordeland. Each of our discoveries gets larger, not smaller.’
‘Do you believe him, Holmes?’
‘He has all the hallmarks of a man who is telling the truth.’
‘You don’t think that he’s merely another bomb-throwing lunatic?’ I said.
‘No,’ said Holmes. ‘In that respect I would stand by the opinion of old Goldstein. He is a most perceptive man and has never led me astray.’
But there were a bunch of fellows tried in the Black Country while you were away, Holmes. They were making bombs to send to Russia and they seemed to be a completely ordinary group. There was a railway booking clerk, a cobbler, an engine driver and I don’t know what, but they were making bombs for use in Russia.‘
Holmes smiled. ‘I sometimes find it difficult to grasp your logic, Watson. If I understand you, you are saying that the conviction of a group of British working men for making bombs in Britain to be used in Russia makes it more likely that the purpose of a Russian radical in London is to throw bombs in London? Is that your argument?’
‘You can always defeat me in argument, Holmes, you know that,’ I said, huffily.
‘You defeat yourself, old friend, by failing to apply logic. There is no indication whatsoever that Gregorieff is a bomber or an intending bomber, so his situation has no connection with the events to which you refer. Added to which, you seem to have taken a little too much notice of the press reports of the case and failed to consider that journalists invent things in order to sell newspapers, while police officers invent things in order to obtain convictions.’
‘The ringleader confessed,’ I stated.
‘You may have the advantage of me, Watson. I was out of the country at the time, but I have read something of the case since my return. Was not that “confession” made by a man who had been kept on bread and water for weeks and then fed whisky in the middle of the night?
‘I seem to recollect,’ continued Holmes, ‘that the chief constable freely admitted dosing the poor fellow with spirits, saying that he thought it might make him more amenable. Evidently it did.’
‘But wasn’t there a fellow mixed up in that who said he was a professor of languages?’ I persisted.
‘You are, I believe, remembering a man called Auguste Coulon. Certainly he claimed to be a professor of languages, Watson, but there are many, and I am among them, who believe that he was a spy for the authorities and may have been an agent provocateur. The anarchists at the Autonomie Club believed him so and flung him out. If your peculiar logic is about to suggest that, because Coulon was a professor of languages and was involved with anarchists, so is Gregorieff, then I might remind you that old Goldstein told us that Gregorieff frequented the Anarchist and Socialist meetings at the Working Men’s Club, stating firmly that the Russian is a voice of reason in their often heated debates. No, Watson, the mere similarity of profession and association with anarchists fails to convince me that Gregorieff is either spy or bomb-thrower.’
‘So, what will you do next?’ I asked, in an effort to change the topic.
‘Next,’ said Holmes, ‘I shall stop at a Post Office and wire Mrs Fordeland to meet us at Baker Street tomorrow. Perhaps, when she is there, she will have the goodness to tell us what this is all about.
Always, of course, assuming that she knows.’
In the many years that I shared a home with my friend and accompanied him on his enquiries and adventures, I never learned to predict accurately his changes of mood. I was afraid that Gregorieff’s refusal to answer questions would plunge Sherlock Holmes into one of his finger-drumming moods of frustration, but once his telegram was sent he seemed to forget the whole business of his investigation and demonstrated once again his astonishingly wide knowledge of curious and entertaining subjects.
I had expected that Mrs Fordeland might be with us early on the next day and so remarked to Holmes when she did not appear.
‘I would have thought that she would be anxious to learn what progress you have made,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I put sufficient into my wire to suggest to Mrs
Fordeland that I will have further questions for her. She is not, I think, an impulsive person, and I imagine she is spending some little time considering whether she can answer any more questions, whether she should do so and, if so, in what manner.‘
It was, in fact, after Holmes and I had finished luncheon that Mrs Hudson announced our client. She was dressed as before, simply but elegantly, and with that slight touch of decoration that betrayed her artistic personality, and she seemed, if anything, more nervous than on our first meeting. Holmes offered her the basket chair and had tea served.
When we were settled, Holmes leaned over and took from his desk the envelope that contained the photographs of Gregorieff.
‘Mrs Fordeland,’ he said, keeping the envelope in his hands, ‘will you tell me what you know of Miss Agatha Wortley-Swan?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Is that not,’ she said, ‘the name of a lady whom you have mentioned to me before? Aside from that, I know nothing of her. I have never knowingly met her and have, so far as I know, no connection with her.’
Holmes nodded. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘there is a connection between you.’ He slid the photographs from their envelope and laid them on the table in front of our guest. ‘This man is the connection,’ he said.
Mrs Fordeland leaned forward to examine the pictures, then started back, her mouth agape. ‘This is…
this is Gregori Gregorieff. He is older here, but it is him. He was my interpreter, years ago in Russia.
Where did you come by these pictures, Mr Holmes?’
‘I had them taken, two days ago, in a village in Sussex,’ he replied.
