“Was foolish idea,” Porfiry Petrovitch said to the Assistant. “You were one of few who knew true details of killings in Petersburg. Not many suspects to hide among. Foolish to try to blame English people who do not know facts from twenty years past.”
Lestrade snorted in amused agreement.
“Not smart,” Porfiry Petrovitch charged, shaking his head once more. “I expect cleverness from Assistant Superintendent.”
The more the Russian detective emphasised the poor planning of the murders in Brick Lane, the more the insolent Ilya Petrovitch seemed to fume.
“Long ago, you show wisdom,” Porfiry Petrovitch resumed. “Today? Tfu!” The sound came out like an expectoration, and then the detective kept silent to let his disgust hover in the air.
The longer the silence lingered, the redder grew the Assistant’s face.
Like the professional he was, Lestrade knew how long to allow the silence to continue. When he judged enough time had passed, he tried once more to pose the question: “I’ll ask you again,” said he. “Did you-”
“Da!” Ilya Petrovitch exploded, slamming his fist down on the table. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes! I killed them. With axe.”
No sooner did the Assistant begin his confession than Porfiry Petrovitch winked at Holmes. He had poked his quarry just hard enough. It was as my friend had said - the Russian detective well knew how to tap into the psychology of the criminal mind.
“I tell you why, Porfiry Petrovitch,” the Assistant ranted, his English words tumbling out awkwardly, his voice dreadfully loud. “You sack me. I leave Russia, but wait long time for chance to prove my skill. To show you how smart I am. Years I wait. Finally, one day, I go to Gottfried with pledge; I meet Roderick Cheek. Student, no money, in debt to pawnbroker - perfect match for Raskolnikov. Perfect. I follow him. See where he live. Door always open. I steal Carlyle book. I can’t read much English, but I see word ‘hero’. Raskolnikov thought great men could commit murder and be free.”
“On Cheek’s well-stocked shelf,” interjected Holmes, “I noted the space for a missing book.”
“Like Raskolnikov, Cheek always ill.” The Assistant allowed himself a disdainful chuckle. “Easy to blame Cheek for murders.”
“But,” said Holmes, “Raskolnikov considered his victim a leech, an oppressor, whose high rates were draining her poor clients. How could you kill an innocent man like Gottfried?”
“Was Jew,” answered the Assistant with a shrug. “Zhid.”
As if such foul reasoning explained anything at all.
“Like Raskolnikov,” the Assistant went on, “I steal axe from caretaker, carry it in loop I sew in jacket. But Raskolnikov, he make mistake. After I kill Gottfried and wife, I throw axe into Thames - not try to put back like Raskolnikov. Stupid! And I throw jewellery into river. No clues - except book I leave in flat and small box with earrings I put on floor near stairs. I steal earrings from my wife when I leave Petersburg. I keep them for plan. Raskolnikov drop earrings - mistake; I leave box on purpose - part of plan, not accident. Ilya Petrovitch not foolish like Raskolnikov.”
“Is that so?” said Lestrade. The bulldog in his soul was never more prominent than when he had the criminal in his grip. “I wouldn’t accuse anyone of being foolish if I was you, Dmitry or Ilya or whatever it is that you’re calling yourself these days. Mr Raskolnikov here served ten years. You’ll swing for what you done.” And Lestrade made a noose-like gesture, holding his fist to the side of his throat and pulling upward. To complete the sardonic tableau, he leaned his head to the side as if his neck had broken, popped his eyes wide open, and, gasping, stuck out his tongue.
The Assistant paled at the sight.
“Constable,” Lestrade said once he regained his composure, “lock this man up. We’ll fix the details later.”
No sooner had the deflated Ilya Petrovitch been led from the room than Raskolnikov, leaning towards Porfiry Petrovitch, whispered something to him in Russian. The detective nodded and turned to us to explain.
“Vassia - iss nickname - reminded me of dream he had years ago. I tell Fyodor Mikhailovitch about it, and story appeared in novel. In dream, Vassia saw Ilya Petrovitch beating and kicking Vassia’s landlady. She scream. Only a vision. But even in dream, Vassia knew the brutality of Assistant. Important dream - iss like Pushkin story, no?”
Unfortunately, I had no answer to his question. None of us did. But now I had another Russian author to read.
“We go back to Petersburg now?” Raskolnikov asked.
Both men turned to Lestrade for the answer.
“You men have served us quite well here,” replied Lestrade. “And thanks to Mr Holmes, if we need your services again at the trial, we’ll know how to get hold of you - though to be honest I don’t think that will be necessary. The man’s attempt to escape and his own confession should seal his fate.”
Porfiry Petrovitch nodded. Then he turned to Raskolnikov and said some more words in Russian. I assumed them to be assurances that, after stopping in at their rooms in Montague Street, they would be taking the train to Queenborough and returning to St Petersburg.
Holmes had a final question. “Before you go, Porfiry Petrovitch, I must ask you to clear up the point I wondered about in Petersburg. Just before Raskolnikov confessed, you told him that you had clear evidence of his guilt. But according to Dostoevsky, you never explained to him what it was.”
“Of course I did not say,” agreed the Russian. “Otherwise Rodion Romanovitch might not surrender on his own.”
“What was it?” Holmes asked. “What was this incontrovertible proof?”
“Heh, heh, heh,” laughed the detective. “The proof? Poor Vassia think he is careful, but caretaker see him return axe. I have witness from the start. Case closed.”
Reliving his foolishness, Raskolnikov sank his bearded chin into his chest. Porfiry Petrovitch draped a comforting arm round the man’s shoulders as they headed toward the door.
Lestrade escorted the four of us
