Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg by Daniel Victor (bookstand for reading TXT) 📗

It is a condition of our nuptials - you must choose between him and me. Him or me.”

The young woman patted the back of her brother’s hand and then took hold of it. “I’m sorry you feel so antagonistic towards Roderick, Percy; but you must never ask a sister to disown her brother, especially not her twin.”

Miss Cheek’s loyalty obviously stimulated her brother. Ill or not, he directed his remark to Farragut. “She only wanted to marry you for my sake,” he proclaimed. “She hoped to get enough money from you, old man, to help return me to the study of law. She has never loved you - as if anyone ever could.”

After a moment of awful silence, Percy Farragut picked up his white serviette. Although he had eaten nothing at table, he blotted his lips, and rising dramatically, addressed the following words to Miss Cheek: “I was hoping you would see things my way, Priscilla; but since you have not, then I must wish you good evening.” He took a step in the direction of the exit and paused. Turning round to face her once more, he added, “Good-bye, actually.” And then he was gone.

Where - or if - the murder of the Gottfrieds fit into this family drama I did not know. I can only say that I was happy to see the back of Percy Farragut. For a moment, the four of us sat quietly though I did cast a surreptitious glance at Miss Cheek and her brother to determine if they - she in particular - seemed content with Farragut’s departure. I was rewarded with the sight of their hands clasping as Roderick placed a kiss on his sister’s cheek.

“I won’t stay, Pris,” muttered Roderick. “I just wanted to hear you say the right thing.” He pushed back his chair, stood up; and then he too, albeit slowly, exited the room. How he had got himself from Goulston Street to the Strand that night and then back again I never learned.

“Under the circumstances, gentlemen,” said Miss Cheek, “I hope you will forgive me for desiring to leave as well. I’ve had quite a shock this evening.”

“Of course,” said I, speaking for Holmes. “I shall see you to a cab.” Yet to my friend I whispered, “I say, Holmes, let us not allow this private room to go to waste. I propose that we enjoy the bill of fare upon my return.”

I escorted Miss Cheek downstairs and through the restaurant. Once outside I was able to hail her a hansom. When I returned to the table, I was pleased to see Holmes in negotiations with the white-suited carver who manned the silver trolley. A savoury cut of beef appeared to be the topic of discussion.

Chapter Nine: Incognito

In spite of the nagging chill, the night had remained warm enough for Holmes and me to walk the two miles back to Baker Street. There were not many people about, and spotting the Orthodox Jew who seemed to be following us required no great skills of detection.

He was attired in a wide-brimmed, black top hat beneath which his brown side locks spiralled downward like a pair of oversized corkscrews. In traditional long black coat and white stockings, he was difficult not to notice. Such a figure might go unmarked in the Old Jewry section of the city, but in the Strand he could not be missed.

I knew that Friday nights marked the onset of the Jewish Sabbath; but as far as I was aware, there was no admonition against walking in one’s own neighbourhood. Whilst the man followed us along Shaftesbury Avenue and then into St Giles High Street, I said nothing to Holmes. But when he made the turn into Oxford Street moments after we had, I asked Holmes if he had noticed him as well.

“The chap with the black hat, Watson? If you are referring to the same person who watched us enter Simpson’s and who has been trailing us ever since we left the restaurant, then, yes, old fellow, I am indeed aware of him. Take no notice. We shall find out his business in due time.”

It was close to 11 when we reached Baker Street and just a few minutes later when we entered our sitting room. No sooner had we removed our coats than an obviously disturbed Mrs Hudson knocked at our door. “There is-” she searched for the appropriate word “-a person to see you, Mr Holmes. It is rather late and I-”

His quick response surprised me. “That’s all right, Mrs Hudson. I know the gentleman in question. Please show him in.”

With the same disdainful eye she reserved for anyone she failed to regard as “English,” Mrs Hudson opened wide the door and allowed into our sitting room the same Jewish fellow who had been following us all evening. With a slow shake of her head, she then disappeared. As for our visitor, a plump little man with a sallow complexion, in spite of his unique haberdashery, what most stood out was the hint of merriment in his frequently blinking eyes.

I was about to wish him a “Good Sabbath,” as I believe is the Friday-night custom among Jewish people, when Holmes sprang up to shake his hand. But much to my surprise - and, I might add, to my friend’s discomfort - not only did the stranger embrace him but also planted kisses on each of Holmes’ cheeks. It was then I began to suspect that the figure before me, apparently already recognised by Holmes, was not as spiritual as he was disguised to appear.

“Watson,” said Holmes after breaking free from the visitor’s arms, “may I present to you a man of many disguises. Mr Porfiry Petrovitch, the grand investigator from St Petersburg. Like me, when the situation presents itself, he cannot resist making a dramatic entrance.”

I remembered Porfiry Petrovitch’s disguise when he hounded Raskolnikov. In greasy hat and great long coat, he rattled the suspect by anonymously addressing him as “murderer.” This