Nikitin published twenty-one stories.
P. Nikitin may have been the most prolific and interesting of the authors of Sherlock Holmes pastiches, but, sad to say, we know absolutely nothing about him. Who was he? Where did he spring from?’ What does the initial ‘P’ stand for? Peter, Paul, Policarp? Not one writers’ reference work, not a single encyclopedia, nowhere is his name to be found. We don’t even know whether Nikitin is his real name or a pseudonym.
Time has not preserved either any information about him, or his books. The Russian National Library in St Petersburg, Russia’s major library, has only one set of his stories. How gratifying, therefore, that the name of this deserving but forgotten writer now returns before the reading public, and so much more gratifying that it is to the readers of that country whose great representative he extolled and which he probably never visited. But now, a century later, he returns there by way of his works, returns to invite ‘his’ hero’s fellow countrymen and all English readers everywhere to that distant and mysterious Russia which, once upon a time, took to its heart that great recluse from Baker Street.
George Piliev is an author, editor, bibliographer and historian of the mystery genre.
1. THE BROTHERS’ GOLD MINE
P. Orlovetz
I
This incident, illustrating the extraordinary perceptiveness of Sherlock Holmes, took place some ten years before the Russo-Japanese War, so disastrous for Russia.
Having visited all the major centres of European Russia, Sherlock Holmes decided to visit Russia’s possessions in Asia, which he had wanted to see for so long. I must confess that for me, Siberia represented an especially interesting part of the world. Legends and the most incredible stories were rife in England about it.
Hence, it was not surprising that, no sooner had Holmes mentioned his desire to travel there, not only did I joyfully agree to accompany him, but in every possible way urged our departure. I was afraid he might change his mind or become occupied by fresh cases which were offered from all sides in Russia.
Sherlock Holmes certainly understood what I was trying to do and scoffed good-naturedly at my impatience. Nonetheless, this impatience worked on him. And so, he turned down several lucrative but not very interesting cases, purchased the necessaries for a prolonged trip, and laid preparations for it. When at last the Siberian train left the station at Moscow, I breathed joyfully, now that my long-held wish was to come about.
The Volga River flashed by, the steppes of the Ufim province lay behind, for several hours we took in the splendid views of the Ural Mountains and then the train swept into the Siberian vastness.
Despite our expectations, we did not encounter polar bears anywhere, nor wild natives of whom French tourists wrote that they devoured not only each other but even their own children. It turned out to be like any other land mass, except that it was slovenly, muddled, sparsely inhabited, in places covered by impenetrable coniferous forests known as the taiga, which knew no boundaries and stretched as far as the Arctic Ocean.
But what surprised us most of all was the Siberian peasantry. Not only were they not downtrodden like the peasants of central Russia, they were richer and certainly more sure of themselves.
As regards education, Siberians were well ahead of their fellow citizens in the provinces of central Russia. Holmes’s explanation was that, for several centuries, the Russian authorities had settled exiled elements here. A mixture of political exiles, criminals and Cossacks (resettled here in his time by the then governor-general, Count Muravieff-Amursky) had created a very special population.
The political exiles, intelligent and educated, former criminals, creative and entrepreneurial, and freedom- loving Cossacks had intermarried and passed on their characteristics to their descendants. Thus, a new sort of people had come into existence, infinitely superior to the inhabitants of the central provinces. What is more, the bureaucracy was few and far between. And so, a down-trodden and humiliated population had become proud and independent, able to stand up for itself. Their qualities displayed themselves when the Russo-Japanese War broke out and Siberian troops showed their mettle.
At the time of which I write, the Trans-Siberian Railway had not yet been completed. Trains went only as far as Zima station, after which the bones of travellers were severely shaken by horse-drawn carriages as far as Stretensk. From Stretensk, further progress was by ship on the Amur River.
It took us eight days to get to Zima station. It was another two hundred versts to Irkutsk, i.e. a hundred and thirty miles. We just about managed to get there in one piece, every bone in our bodies aching from those damned post chaises. When we finally made it to Irkutsk, we decided to rest there.
We were interested in this city, close to so many gold mines, and decided this is where we would become acquainted with life in Siberia. We found a hotel room and settled in.
Soon enough, an incident occurred through which we were to become closely acquainted with the local gold mines and the way of life connected with them.
II
Sherlock Holmes and I had long since abandoned any attempt at travelling incognito. And since Russians as a people are curious by nature, there was no shortage of gawkers around us. Sherlock Holmes’s fame had penetrated Siberia and, wherever we would go, we were surrounded by curiosity seekers. There were even those who, for no apparent reason, invited us for a meal, probably to see for themselves the eating habits of an English detective.
So it wasn’t surprising that, on one occasion, sitting in our hotel room, we heard a knock on the door. In answer to our invitation to enter, there did so a well-dressed, purple-nosed robust man.
‘All the same, I do beg your pardon that, so to speak, I intrude and etc.,’ burst forth from him in a deep bass. As is customary with Siberians, his speech was peppered with ‘all the same’ and ‘as it is’.
‘How can I be of service?’ asked Holmes.
‘Have mercy on my plight and help me all the same,’ he said. ‘I am one of the owners of the so-called Brothers’ Gold Mine and I am here to seek your help.’
‘Do sit down, please,’ Sherlock Holmes invited him. ‘I have time to spare and there is no need for you to hurry.’
‘All the same, thank you,’ bowed the man.
He ran his hand through his beard, then through his hair and sat down. ‘As it is, the surname is Hromikh. We are two brothers, Sergey and me. I am Piotr Haritonovitch,’ he said giving his name and patronymic in the Russia manner. ‘That’s why our mine is called the “Brothers’ Mine”. The mine is quite a distance from here, all the same, the road is bearable, the gold takings are good, and the equipment as good as possible. All would be well, if it weren’t for the thieving. As it is, this thieving has developed so systematically and on such a scale that we hardly make ends meet. We have our own spies in the mine and they assure us that most of the gold is stolen and then smuggled out by our very own manager, a fellow named Zinovy Andreyevitch Seltzoff. But we can’t believe this to be so. On two occasions, driven out of our minds by what was happening, we intercepted him along the road as he was leaving and found not a grain of gold. As it is, our situation is dire, and we would ask you to take up our case. We are prepared to pay you a third of the value of the stolen gold, if only you were to find out how it is done.’ He fell silent and gave Sherlock Holmes a beseeching look.
‘How far is your mine?’ asked Holmes.
‘Just under eighty miles.’
‘And how many roads lead to it?’
