The stranger, dressed in brown trousers and coat, stood a few inches taller than the Russian detective. His short hair was darker and in greater abundance than that of Porfiry Petrovitch; yet the white beard, together with his penetrating but sad, tired eyes, made him look much older than the detective. The beard hid much of what obviously had once been strong, refined features, and one could easily surmise that in his younger years, this man had been quite handsome.
For his part, Lestrade showed none of the disdain he often displayed towards foreigners. In fact, revealing a respect for fellow law-enforcement officers that crosses international boundaries, the Inspector personally escorted the Russian detective to his place and provided an additional chair by the door for the bearded gentleman.
“Horosho,” nodded the latter as he settled into the seat where for much of the session he would go unnoticed.
Minutes later, the same constable who had delivered Porfiry Petrovitch to us brought in the pale Roderick Cheek. Clad in well-worn jacket and trousers, the young man jerked his arm away each time the policeman, trying to guide him in the proper direction, touched an elbow. Finally, the vagabond plopped himself down onto the wooden chair that faced us. With all the rubbing at his nose and snuffling he displayed, it seemed clear that he had failed to rid himself of whatever illness continued to plague him.
Lestrade opened the session by identifying the two Russians in the room as police officials. The Inspector offered no names. Then he said, “A few questions regarding the late Mr Gottfried - if you don’t mind, Mr Cheek.”
Cheek nodded his compliance.
“Where were you and what were you doing Monday evening, the seventh of November of this year?” Lestrade asked. “It was the night of the two murders in Brick Lane.”
Cheek emitted a sigh of exasperation. I had asked him the same questions. “Dunno exactly,” he said slowly. “As I already told the doctor here, I was in my room, sick. Like now.” He rubbed his nose again as if to prove his point. In fact, Cheek offered nothing different from the scant information I had got from him earlier.
Lestrade asked some inconsequential questions relating to how long Cheek had known Gottfried and how often Cheek visited the pawnbroker. Then he turned the interrogation over to Holmes. I was pleased to hear my friend echoing my own suspicions. “Mr Cheek,” Holmes said, “please tell us what you know about the murders in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.”
Porfiry Petrovitch, eyes blinking, had been looking round the room during much of Cheek’s testimony. Now he focused his attention upon the witness.
As I have already written, Roderick Cheek had not been informed that sitting before him was the Russian detective who had overseen the investigation documented by Dostoevsky. In fact, Cheek had no reason to suspect that such an officer actually existed. Like virtually everyone else who had read Crime and Punishment, Cheek had no reason to discount the fictional nature of the Petersburg murders. Thus, as any educated literary person is trained to do, he summarised the events of the plot in the present tense. In Roderick Cheek, one could easily discern the student manqué.
“What do I know about the murders in Crime and Punishment?” repeated Cheek with a sniffle. “I know that Raskolnikov rehearses his crimes by paying an early visit to the pawnbroker. I know that once Raskolnikov learns that the pawnbroker’s sister will be out of the flat at seven o’clock the next evening, he decides that will be the perfect time to kill the old lady - when she is alone. I know that before her murder he overhears someone else telling of the benefits of killing her. And I know that in preparation for the crime, he wraps a piece of wood in paper and ties it up securely so it can serve as a distraction.’
“And the killing itself?” Holmes prodded.
“Well, for the weapon, he borrows an axe from the nearby lodging of the caretaker and hangs it from the small cloth loop” - Mrs Garnett called it a “noose” - “which he has fashioned inside his coat for that purpose. When he gets to the old lady’s flat, he gives her the tightly bound package; and whilst she fiddles with it, he whacks her from behind with the axe and crushes her skull. Then he does the same for her sister when she walks in on the crime. That’s what I know.” Between snuffles, he flashed a smile of triumph, the student flaunting his knowledge.
Lestrade seemed to consult his notes absent-mindedly. “Which end of the axe did he use,” the policeman asked, his tone matter-of-fact, “the sharp end or the blunt end?”
To give Lestrade his due, only later would I realise that this was the singular question that Holmes wanted answered, the singular question which Cheek had been summoned to address. I gained no sense of the query’s particular importance from the Inspector’s passive expression. At the same time, however, the memory of thinking things not quite right at the Brick Lane murder scene began to emerge in my brain.
“For whose death?” Cheek asked in response to Lestrade’s query, “the pawnbroker’s or her sister’s?”
“The pawnbroker’s will suffice.”
In spite of another sniffle, the young man smiled again. “Oh, the blunt end,” he stated proudly. “Dostoevsky is quite clear on the matter. It contrasts with the coming attack on Lizaveta, the old lady’s sister. She arrives unexpectedly and discovers the body whilst Raskolnikov is pilfering the jewellery. After she confronts him, he smashes her head in with the blade.” Cheek concluded his report by drawing his sleeve across the
