We didn’t have much to pack. Boris Nikolayevitch gave final instructions and we got into an elegant landau harnessed to a troika, three horses harnessed abreast. The sun set completely.
The well cared for horses, energized by the cool evening air, rose to the occasion and our carriage sped merrily along the country road.
It was less than five miles to the estate of Boris Nikolayevitch. At first, the road passed through open fields in which ears of grain were like dark waves. Then it entered the forest. This was thick with fir trees that hadn’t seen an axe for a long time, evidently protected for a long time by the late Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff.
Now right, now left, the road wound through the dark forest lit by a patch of sky in which a myriad stars blazed. I don’t know how others might be affected, but this mystery-laden road only served to depress me with its gloom.
We drove a mile and a half without encountering a living soul. There was something strange about this vast, unpopulated, silent country road which lay between the estate of the uncle and his nephew. I was unable to refrain from expressing my thoughts to Kartzeff who was sitting beside us.
‘What’s there to be surprised about?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This is a direct road joining our two estates and since time immemorial the peasants aren’t permitted to drive along it.’
Emerging from the forest, we again drove along open fields and, at last, the tall contours of the Igralino estate rose before us.
We were met by the friendly barking of dogs, but as soon as they heard their master’s voice, they fell silent. Our troika rolled up to the porch. An old retainer opened the door. He bowed low to his master, cast a suspicious look at the guests, let us through inside and helped us off with our outer garments.
The house did not overwhelm us with its opulence but, notwithstanding that, a glance into any of its rooms and you would conclude that a scion of the old gentry lived here. Not only were their portraits preserved, but their way of life. The house itself was too ordinary to be described as palatial. But the furnishings in any of the rooms had been selected with remarkable good taste and were far from cheap.
‘First of all, gentlemen, abiding by a purely Russian tradition, I must show you to your quarters and then share with you whatever my humble abode is rich with,’ said the master of the house, cordially welcoming us.
With these words, he led us through several rooms and in one of them said, ‘I hope you will be comfortable here for the night.’
The room was fairly large. Apart from two beds, there was a wash basin, cupboard, a chest of drawers, a comfortable divan and several cushioned and ordinary chairs. Needless to say, we were very satisfied with the arrangements.
We thanked Boris Nikolayevitch and followed him to the dining-room. It was decorated in the Russian style and dinner was already laid out. The cooking was out of the ordinary. Over dinner our host made every effort to appear bright and cheerful, but I couldn’t help noticing that the events of the day were still with him. This was not unusual and so neither Holmes nor I paid much attention to that.
IV
‘You’re probably tired after such a day,’ said our host to Holmes, ‘which is why I don’t feel I ought to tire you for long. Frankly, the day has worn me out, too, and so, if you don’t wish to retire early, I’ll have to apologize for leaving you to your own devices so soon.’
‘I do understand,’ said Holmes sympathetically. ‘I, too, would like to rest. Silly of me not to have said so earlier.’
‘In that case, I wish you a very good night,’ said Kartzeff.
He went off, leaving us to ourselves.
Holmes shut the door and carefully examined the room and window. This was the only window in the room and as in Russian houses it had the usual hinged ventilation pane set inside it.
‘Perhaps the owner doesn’t seem to be much bothered by draughts,’ Holmes said as if by the by, turning the catch now this way, now that. ‘It doesn’t lock and the slightest breeze will blow it open.’
From a small leather case in his pocket he took several nails and nailed them securely into the frame of the window pane. After that he locked the door, leaving the key in the lock and began to undress. I did the same and a few minutes later I was fast asleep. I don’t recollect whether anything happened that night. All I know is that from the look on Holmes’s face sitting at the table when I woke, I could see he had spent a sleepless night.
Seeing me open my eyes, he heaved a sigh of relief and then said in a tired voice, ‘Well, now, my dear chap, thank God that you’re awake. This will give me a chance for a little rest. Stay awake, there’s a good chap, and I suggest you pay special attention to this little window pane.’
With these words he threw himself on the bed and a minute later he was already sleeping the sleep of the dead. Thoroughly puzzled, I sat there for a couple of hours, my gaze fixed on the window, but try as I might, I detected nothing suspicious.
The sun was already high in the heavens when Holmes awoke. He jumped out of bed, washed quickly and said cheerfully, ‘Well, my dear chap, I can now stay up for a couple of nights. That tired feeling is gone. Such tiredness is unforgivable and just this once, accidental.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I suppose something unusual took place last night and you’ll tell me what it was all about,’ I said.
‘You’ll allow me, my dear chap, to refrain from a direct answer,’ said Holmes solemnly. ‘It is very likely that in a few hours you will know more than you expected, and then your curiosity is bound to be satisfied.’
We chatted about various trifles and the time passed unnoticed. At nine there was a knock on the door. The door opened and Boris Nikolayevitch came in. His eyes were baggy and his face somewhat drawn. He greeted us, asked how we had spent the night and, receiving a positive answer, appeared contented enough.
‘Tea is served,’ he invited.
We nodded our acceptance. Over tea, Holmes, who was at first withdrawn, livened up and jokes, anecdotes and witticisms poured from him. When we had drunk our tea, he announced that it was imperative for him to go to Moscow.
‘Surely you can stay longer,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch in a hurt tone.
Holmes gave a sad shrug. ‘Alas, I cannot. I did warn you yesterday that it is essential for me to be in Moscow today for pressing business and I hope you remember my words. This is why I must ask you to have horses made available immediately to get us to the station.’
‘Most certainly,’ exclaimed Kartzeff. ‘I will give the necessary orders at once.’ He went off but wasn’t back for some considerable time.
Holmes sat there without stirring, his head in the palms of his hands. The rest of the time before lunch and the lunch itself passed slowly. After lunch we were told that the horses were ready and, having bidden farewell to our host, we departed for the station.
V
Arriving in town, we made straight for Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris Nikolayevitch and whose address we had taken.
‘It seems a little strange,’ said Holmes pensively along the way, ‘that the second nephew didn’t even wish to attend his uncle’s funeral.’
‘Yes, that is very strange,’ I agreed. ‘Could it be that we will find here some clues leading to the crime?’
Nikolai Nikolayevitch lived right on the edge of town, just before Sokolniki, so that it took a while to get to him.