‘He was evidently in command. Unlike the rough dress of his men, the newcomer wore a tailored uniform, from highly polished top boots which gleamed in the torchlight to a tailored blue tunic, richly frogged in gold and swagged with bullion piquet cords which swung at his shoulder and sparkled in the light. There was no doubting his rank, his wealth and his authority.
‘As he swaggered into the torchlit space, the same agonized shriek split the night, from somewhere close to the train. Two men emerged from the darkness and made their way into the lighted area, dragging someone else between them. When they were illuminated I could see that they were two of the mounted ruffians and that the figure they dragged between them, who twisted and writhed at every step, was that of a slender young woman.
‘They paraded her before their uniformed leader like a beast at auction. He stepped around her, apparently saying something, then gestured to one of the mounted men. Something flashed in the torchlight and a knife buried itself in the soil near his feet. He stooped to pick it up and waved a peremptory hand at the two men holding the girl. His henchmen stepped apart, holding the struggling girl at arm’s length, so that her feet barely touched the ground. Now their master gestured again and stepped towards one of the mounted men, who handed him something.
‘I shall remember to my dying day the scream that the poor girl emitted when the leader of her tormentors uncoiled what was in his hand and she saw that it was a long whip. Two men emerged from the dark and removed her hat, letting her long black hair tumble free, then ripped her upper clothing from her, so that she stood, naked to the waist, her skin pale gold in the torchlight, while the uniformed monster paced about behind her. Suddenly he turned towards her and the whip cracked in the air. As its lash coiled across her naked back she shrieked again.’
Mrs Fordeland stopped and seemed to struggle for self-possession.
‘All this, gentlemen,’ she went on, ‘I watched in mounting horror and revulsion. Every instinct clamoured at me to rush from the train and intervene, but every iota of commonsense told me that Gregori was right, that intervention would, at best, lead me to share the luckless girl’s fate. And so I watched this dreadful scene, swearing silently to myself and the tortured girl out there that I would faithfully report the whole episode once I was away from Russian soil. If I had not made that promise, I should never have been able to bear it. As it was, I nearly collapsed as the whip swung and cracked across her shoulders and her screams rang out in the night.’
Her voice dropped.
‘But it was not the worst. I do not know how many times the lash fell. I know that I wondered that she was not insensible, that she still twisted and shrieked. Then, with a burst of effort, she pulled free from the hold of one of her captors and pulled away from the other. He stumbled, fell, and lost his grip.
Suddenly she was free, and began to stagger towards the train. The uniformed man shouted something and one of the mounted men raised a weapon, sighted and shot her.’
Our client’s hands worked furiously at the clasp of her handbag and her head shook at the memory.
‘For a moment I stared at the dreadful scene beyond the window - the impassive circle of mounted men, the ring of torches, the strutting peacock in his military finery and the pathetic broken body sprawled in the dirt. That the girl was dead I did not doubt, bringing her the only mercy that they had shown her. Then the horror of it all overwhelmed me and I spun away from the window with a cry.
‘Throughout the events I have described, Gregori had sat still, his face covered by his hands. Now he asked, “What has happened?” “They have shot her!” I sobbed. “They have murdered the poor girl!”
‘Outside the window I was aware of the group of men riding away into the darkness, their torches trailing away into little spots of light and finally vanishing. Gregori’s mouth opened silently at first, then he emitted an awful strangled murmur, as terrible in its muffled way as the cries of the murdered girl, and dropped his face again into his hands.
‘When I had composed myself a little, I poured a stiff measure of brandy for myself and thrust a glass into Gregori’s hand. He swallowed it at one gulp, then stared at me, his red-rimmed eyes wide. “She was Katya,” he said. “She was my little sister.” ’
Eighteen
Aftermath of Murder
He stumbled away, out of the compartment, and I continued to sit rigid in my seat. After some little time the train began slowly to move, and I continued to sit motionless, staring out of the window as the empty black landscape passed by. I sat so until the first dawn light began to creep across the plains.
Gregori did not return.‘
Holmes and I had sat almost motionless as our client told her fearful tale. Now Holmes shifted in his chair and indicated to me that I should ring for more tea. I did so, and the interruption provided a welcome respite from the horror of Mrs Fordeland’s tale.
We drank our tea in silence, and I reflected that, in my time with the Army Medical Service and in my civilian practice, as well as in my adventures with Holmes, I had seen a great deal of the cruelty of humankind, but nowhere had I come across an episode such as our client had described.
‘Did you,’ asked Holmes, ‘leave Russia without any repercussions as a result of this episode? It is not, I would have thought, the kind of thing which they would wish to fall under the notice of a foreign journalist.’
‘No direct steps were taken against me,’ she replied. ‘At dawn our train halted at a little town whose complicated name I have forgotten and which was not, in any case, one of our intended stops. Gregori came to me, full of apologies, and pleaded to be released from his obligations to me. His sister’s body had been brought aboard the train on the previous night, and he now wished to see her properly buried.
‘I could not imagine continuing my journey all the way to
Vladivostok without the great assistance of Gregori’s presence, and we made an agreement, that I would remain for his sister’s funeral, so that we might travel on together. My luggage was removed from the train and Gregori found me lodgings at the only tavern in the little town. He had told me that his sister’s body would lie for three days and nights while psalms were read over it, and I stayed there for those days. At one point I visited the home of the Russian Orthodox priest, where Katya’s body lay.
She showed no sign of the monstrous violence from which she had died, the fatal injury being hidden.
She had not been embalmed, merely washed and dressed according to their custom, for anything else would be forbidden by Orthodox practice. In her hands were folded a large white cross and the printed paper that her soul must present to Saint Peter for admission to Paradise, while a strip of paper printed in gold with the pattern of a crown was bound across her brow. She looked like a schoolchild, dressed for a Christmas festival.
‘I went to the burial service, still promising this girl whom I had not known that I should make the manner of her death known to the world. Throughout the ceremony I was aware of the presence of a great black-bearded man in a uniform coat and high-crowned cap who stood and watched Gregori. A truncheon with a spiked iron band hung at his broad belt, a symbol of cruelty and violence in these sacred proceedings. Gregori told me that the man was the town’s police officer.
‘When Katya had been laid to rest, we waited at the station for a train to take us on. Before the train arrived, the same policeman came to the station, escorting what was evidently a more important official. This man took up the stationmaster’s office and, shortly afterwards, we were summoned by the policeman to present ourselves and our travelling papers.