“Do svidaniya,” both men said. “Good-bye,” added Porfiry Petrovitch with a final blink of his eyes.
“Never knew Russkies could be so helpful,” observed the policeman as we watched the waves of traffic swallow up the cab. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and returned to the building.
Holmes smiled for a brief moment before he and I set off on foot for Baker Street.
Chapter Twelve: A Final Word
At breakfast the next morning, I read aloud to Holmes the following story that appeared in the Daily Chronicle:
Inspector G. Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police announced yesterday the arrest of I.P. Poruchik, a Russian immigrant, for the murder of pawnbroker Samuel Gottfried and his wife Sarah. The crimes were committed in the couple’s East End flat on 7 November. The murder weapon was a small axe. Such crimes are a hanging offence.
In an interesting turn of fate, twenty years ago, Poruchik, a former police assistant-superintendent in St Petersburg, Russia, took the confession of a similar axe murderer, whose wretched crime was the basis for a novel by the Russian author, F.M. Dostoevsky. According to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, the similarities were pointed out by Mr Sherlock Holmes, a private investigator.
“Bah!” I exploded, tossing the paper onto the table. “Not a word about me, the person who was first to link the murders to Crime and Punishment.”
“You have every right to be disappointed, old fellow,” said Holmes, sipping his coffee. “But after working intimately with the Scotland Yarders long enough, you will discover that giving credit where credit is due is not one of their strong suits.”
“I suppose you are right, Holmes. But they did give that credit to you.”
Holmes chuckled. “Yes, I suppose I should feel some sense of pride.”
“Bah!” I said again, doubly frustrated by Holmes’ reception of the honour that should have gone to me.
I was about to pick up my coffee when a knock on the door sounded.
“Enter!” commanded Holmes, and in marched Billy the page.
“Two gentlemen and a lady to see you, Mr Holmes,” he announced.
“Show them in, Billy. I believe I know who they are.”
Holmes and I both hurried to put on our coats whilst the three entered. As I too had anticipated, our guests turned out to be the twins, Priscilla and Roderick Cheek, as well as friend William Arbuthnot. Actually, since Miss Cheek’s hand rested on Arbuthnot’s arm, I suppose that “friend” was not the most accurate of terms.
Nor was this romance the only new development since our meeting at Scotland Yard just the day before. Though the dark circles beneath Roderick’s eyes suggested lingering signs of illness, the young man had cleaned himself up most miraculously. His tangled, long hair had been trimmed and combed; his face was clean-shaven, and he now wore a grey-brown suit and waistcoat that gave him an altogether respectable appearance.
(In point of fact, I had seen Cheek’s suit before. I recalled its colour being similar to that of an earthenware pot once held by the suit’s true owner, Mr Arbuthnot. But the two men were of similar size, and the fit seemed close enough to minimise any criticism.)
“Mr Holmes,” said Roderick with a cough, “we owe you a great deal.” He was holding the same copy of the Chronicle that I had been reading.
“These murders have made me face reality,” said Cheek, “and I didn’t like what I saw.”
Priscilla stepped forward and put her arm round her brother. “William and I are very proud of Roderick, Mr Holmes. He has told us of his plans to return to King’s College and pursue the law. As you can see” - and here she fussed with her brother’s hair - “he has already begun the process of reforming himself.”
“Well done,” said I as the young man blushed.
“Miss Cheek and I have made some plans as well,” announced William Arbuthnot. “After she rid herself of that cad Percy Farragut, I was able to tell her my true feelings. We shall work out the financial challenges, and Roderick will begin tutoring young students again to offset some of the difficulty. As a result, gentlemen, I am happy to announce that once I complete my schooling, Miss Cheek has consented to become my wife.”
“Well done!” I said once more - only this time with even greater enthusiasm. A story that started out so tragically seemed to be ending on quite the positive note.
“Watson speaks for me on all counts related to the human heart,” Holmes said to our three guests, and I took some pleasure in finally gaining a degree of credit for my words.
“We must be off now,” said Priscilla. “There is just enough money left in our inheritance to get Roderick back into school and to find him rooms in a less depressive environment than Goulston Street.”
Holmes and I wished them well and watched the trio depart. The case had ended. No sooner had we returned to our coffees, however, than I found myself surveying a line of fiction books on the shelf behind the table.
“Holmes,’ I mused, “do you know that there are countless murders in the works of Edgar Alan Poe?”
“Indeed. Why do you ask?”
“This Dostoevsky business makes me wonder if any of Poe’s stories might inspire recreations. Perhaps I should be reading all of them just in case.”
Holmes laughed. “First, s Russian writer, now Poe, an American - why not try someone home-grown, old fellow? I hear Charles Dickens left an unsolved murder or two worthy of investigation.”
Why not indeed? I pondered as I brought the coffee to my lips once more. And yet even then I knew I was running in circles. For as long as there were criminals performing dastardly deeds and Sherlock Holmes to investigate their crimes, I well knew the nature of my future
