while?’
‘With your permission, we’d like to accept your invitation this very day,’ answered Sherlock Holmes. ‘We are very pressed for time and it is very likely that we have to return to England in a few days.’
‘In that case, I shall give instructions for the horses to be made ready as soon as the funeral is over,’ said our cordial host.
As he was about to leave, Holmes stopped him, ‘Another little request. With your permission, I’d like to see your late uncle again before we leave.’
‘But, of course,’ answered Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘Shall we do so this very minute?’
Holmes nodded. We left our room and made our way into the hall where the funeral service was in preparation.
Approaching the coffin, Sherlock Holmes carefully lifted the muslin cloth over the face of the dead man and proceeded to examine the corpse. Several minutes passed before he tore himself away. But when he moved away, one couldn’t gather anything from the expression on his face.
Then the priests arrived and the usual service for that sort ofevent began. The reader began his doleful chant. The priest recited the service monotonously. And all was as if it was being done on a factory floor, unhurriedly, in a fixed manner but yet to some mysterious beat. Not particularly involved in the sacred service, we each stood sunk in his own thoughts.
The service over, we went out for some fresh air into the garden round the house. The garden was over ten hectares, i.e. nigh on ten acres in area. It was fully planted with fruit trees and truly magnificent. Here and there flowerbeds were scattered from which brightly coloured blossoms struck the eye. Yellow sand neatly covered the pathways and sculptures added to the sense of proportion of this lordly manor garden. We strolled silently through the alleyways and, from the look of intense concentration on the face of Sherlock Holmes, I could sense that a secret thought had lodged like a thorn in his brain.
A half hour later Boris Nikolayevitch followed us out. After the funeral service his mood seemed to have lifted. ‘I hope you won’t refuse to attend the burial today,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We don’t intend to let it drag on for long, especially as there will be no women present. I’m not particularly sentimental and am always against the dead being detained for long in the house of the living.’
‘How right you are,’ said Holmes. ‘The presence of the dead in a home is depressing, and as far as we in England are concerned, we always try to remove the body as quickly as possible to its place of burial.’
‘I’m sure you will excuse me for leaving you now,’ Kartzeff apologized. ‘I’m sure you will understand that all funeral arrangements are exclusively my responsibility.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘We’ll stay here while you see to your duties and I beg you not to concern yourself with us.’
Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff bowed himself away politely, while we continued our aimless meandering.
Several hours passed. At about two in the afternoon Boris Nikolayevitch again reappeared and said that the body would be carried out in a quarter of an hour. We followed him inside.
We saw the corpse lifted up on a long piece of cloth and, accompanied by the clergy and choir, the sad procession moved to the village cemetery.
I won’t describe the details of the burial as they are too well known to all. To the sad strains of the service and the wailing of the choir, the body was lowered into the ground. Heavy clods of damp earth thudded on the coffin lid and soon it vanished from sight. More and more damp earth was unevenly heaped over the grave and then, under the skilled hands of the gravediggers, evened out into the usual tidy mound.
The last note of the burial psalm and then all those present quietly trudged away, for some reason speaking of the departed in soft undertones. Sherlock Holmes and I also returned.
The dining-room table was
‘With your permission, we’d like to accept your invitation this very day,’ answered Sherlock Holmes. ‘We are very pressed for time and it is very likely that we have to return to England in a few days.’
‘In that case, I shall give instructions for the horses to be made ready as soon as the funeral is over,’ said our cordial host.
As he was about to leave, Holmes stopped him, ‘Another little request. With your permission, I’d like to see your late uncle again before we leave.’
‘But, of course,’ answered Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘Shall we do so this very minute?’
Holmes nodded. We left our room and made our way into the hall where the funeral service was in preparation.
Approaching the coffin, Sherlock Holmes carefully lifted the muslin cloth over the face of the dead man and proceeded to examine the corpse. Several minutes passed before he tore himself away. But when he moved away, one couldn’t gather anything from the expression on his face.
Then the priests arrived and the usual service for that sort ofevent began. The reader began his doleful chant. The priest recited the service monotonously. And all was as if it was being done on a factory floor, unhurriedly, in a fixed manner but yet to some mysterious beat. Not particularly involved in the sacred service, we each stood sunk in his own thoughts.
The service over, we went out for some fresh air into the garden round the house. The garden was over ten hectares, i.e. nigh on ten acres in area. It was fully planted with fruit trees and truly magnificent. Here and there flowerbeds were scattered from which brightly coloured blossoms struck the eye. Yellow sand neatly covered the pathways and sculptures added to the sense of proportion of this lordly manor garden. We strolled silently through the alleyways and, from the look of intense concentration on the face of Sherlock Holmes, I could sense that a secret thought had lodged like a thorn in his brain.
A half hour later Boris Nikolayevitch followed us out. After the funeral service his mood seemed to have lifted. ‘I hope you won’t refuse to attend the burial today,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We don’t intend to let it drag on for long, especially as there will be no women present. I’m not particularly sentimental and am always against the dead being detained for long in the house of the living.’
‘How right you are,’ said Holmes. ‘The presence of the dead in a home is depressing, and as far as we in England are concerned, we always try to remove the body as quickly as possible to its place of burial.’
‘I’m sure you will excuse me for leaving you now,’ Kartzeff apologized. ‘I’m sure you will understand that all funeral arrangements are exclusively my responsibility.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘We’ll stay here while you see to your duties and I beg you not to concern yourself with us.’
Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff bowed himself away politely, while we continued our aimless meandering.
Several hours passed. At about two in the afternoon Boris Nikolayevitch again reappeared and said that the body would be carried out in a quarter of an hour. We followed him inside.
We saw the corpse lifted up on a long piece of cloth and, accompanied by the clergy and choir, the sad procession moved to the village cemetery.
I won’t describe the details of the burial as they are too well known to all. To the sad strains of the service and the wailing of the choir, the body was lowered into the ground. Heavy clods of damp earth thudded on the coffin lid and soon it vanished from sight. More and more damp earth was unevenly heaped over the grave and then, under the skilled hands of the gravediggers, evened out into the usual tidy mound.
The last note of the burial psalm and then all those present quietly trudged away, for some reason speaking of the departed in soft undertones. Sherlock Holmes and I also returned.
The dining-room table was
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