‘I am at your service,’ answered the young woman. She had paid minute attention to his every word.
‘What was your maiden name?’
‘Benaliradjewa,’ she answered.
Sherlock Holmes and I both looked at her in amazement.
‘What an unusual surname?’ muttered Holmes. ‘You and the count carried different surnames and till his letter arrived, couldn’t you have guessed he was not your father?’
‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said the countess. ‘I was far too naive, and I’d never heard the count addressed by his surname, only by his first name and patronymic. I just assumed we had the same surname. The other pupils didn’t seem to know anything. The headmistress probably knew, but said nothing.’
‘Aha!’ mumbled Holmes and made his farewells.
VIII
Leaving the countess, we strolled along Bolhovsky Street, booking into a hotel. Holmes asked for stationery and sat down to write letters to someone. He then went to the post office and when he came back, said to me, ‘My dear Watson, there’s night work for us today and every day this week. I hope you’ll agree to accompany me, if only to be a witness to the solution of one of the most mysterious murders ever committed.’
‘That would give me great pleasure,’ was my reply.
‘Splendid!’ Holmes nodded his head. ‘In the meantime, we must find a library or a reading room which not only subscribes to English newspapers but keeps them for reference.’
We went out in search of such an institution. But wherever we went, either English newspapers were unavailable or they were only kept for a year or two at most. Holmes was in despair.
But in one of the libraries we were advised to look up an elderly Englishman called Dewlay, who had spent most of his life in Oriol. He had been a chemist, and then opened a chemical dye works, which allowed him a good income. We got the address and made our way to him. Very soon, quite unceremoniously, we introduced ourselves to him, much to his joy.
When we told him what we needed, old Mr Dewlay nodded smugly. ‘Oh, in rereading our old newspapers, I find consolation in this barbaric land,’ he said with pride. ‘I’ve been getting
His apartment was in the same courtyard as his dye works. He took us there, introduced us to his wife and had the old newspapers brought to us.
Our gracious host ordered whisky and soda and we helped ourselves to an Englishman’s favorite tipple, while Holmes delved into the yellowed newspapers.
Over an hour passed. And then Sherlock Holmes joyfully struck the heap of newspapers with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed happily. ‘Come here, my dear Watson. Let me show you something very unusual, even though this newspaper is all of twenty years old.’
I hastened to his side.
‘In your opinion, my dear Watson, who could our beautiful client possibly be?’
‘The countess?’ I asked, my curiosity excited.
‘Yes!’
‘How am I to know?’ I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I expect you to say, a poor girl of mixed race, adopted by the count.’
‘Of course.’
Sherlock Holmes smiled enigmatically. ‘It would be a great mistake to think that,’ he answered. ‘Just imagine, Watson, that in her own homeland hers was a much higher status, and that she would have been infinitely richer, despite being a countess here, than the count’s fortune.’
‘Damn me, if I follow what you are saying!’ I exclaimed.
‘All this I discovered very simply,’ said Holmes imperturbably. ‘Surely, Watson, in listening to the countess’s account of her origins, you must’ve sensed considerable strains and gaps.’
‘Of course I have,’ I admitted. ‘But, then, what can a woman say who knows nothing about herself and can only describe her past from someone else’s account.’
‘You are quite right,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But doesn’t that mean that whoever told her of her past, lied. If he hadn’t lied, her story wouldn’t have suffered from such defects.’
‘True.’
‘That’s just it! Listening to the countess, it immediately occurred to me that the greatest doubt came over me only when she gave her maiden name, Benaliradjewa. Isn’t it strange, to give such a name to a child who is to be taken away to Russia, baptized and given a Russian education? Besides, the surname is a genuine one; it wasn’t made up. I remember too well the name which resounded up and down India in its time. And here it is again. Let me read something to you from days gone by ‘
Holmes lifted a yellowing newspaper sheet and read:
Telegram from the colonies.
India. Bombay.
The local population is tremendously upset by a particularly audacious theft which took place not far from Bombay from the palace of the rajah, Ben-Ali. Ben-Ali, much respected by all, famed for his riches and influence over the local population, went hunting, leaving his year-old daughter at home. Rajah Ben-Ali, a handsome man, is married to an Englishwoman from a good family. This is why Irra’s skin is more European than Indian. Irra, an only daughter, was worshipped by her family. When Ben-Ali was setting off for the hunt, Irra and her nurse were walking in the palace vicinity. When the nurse and baby hadn’t returned for some time, the alarm was raised. The nurse was found by the roadside, stabbed to death in her bosom. The baby had vanished. Now a full alarm was raised. Thousands of horsemen and men on foot were sent out in all directions, but in vain. Irra had vanished. The rajah returned, widened the search and offered a huge reward for his daughter’s return, but to no avail. The British police joined in the search.
Sherlock Holmes lowered the newspaper and looked at me.
I was visibly upset.
‘And you think—’ I began, but Holmes interrupted me.
‘Little Irra, daughter of Rajah Ben-Ali, kidnapped twenty years ago near Bombay, is found. The sole heiress of one of the richest men in India has become a Russian countess.’
Holmes fell deep into silent thought. Then, ‘Indeed, my dear Watson, we have to act with great care. There is a mystery attached to the life of this young woman and our task is to resolve it.’
Having spent a half-hour in the company of Mr Dewlay, we bade farewell to our cordial host and left.
IX
But we didn’t return to our hotel. Outside, Holmes seemed to consider something. ‘First of all, we have to fortify ourselves with a good portion of roast beef or something else. Let’s find a restaurant, Watson, before night falls.’
We found a restaurant, where we ordered cold roast beef and fried chicken with rice. Our appetite satiated, Holmes turned to me, ‘I shall ask you, my dear Watson, to spend the night at the home of the countess. Say nothing of our discovery. Watch the yard and street with great vigilance. I am off to the cemetery, and shall join you at the countess’s in the morning. She will have to tell the servants that you are a close relation of her husband and that you come from some other town.’
We parted. I carried out Holmes’s instructions to the letter. For some reason, it did appear to me that the
