10 September 1881

The past week has been one of further recuperation, reading, and study shrouded in a constant fear of being arrested. All the while, I have been remiss in making daily entries, so I shall remedy that situation with this update.

I have not left the confines of Sechenov’s house. After my bloody horrific stay in the Peter and Paul Prison, I dream of returning home, sitting in my mother’s kitchen and eating her blissfully good bangers and mash.

So what do I do all day?

Well, I spend my days in the library surrounded by books. At the end of each day, I do sprints and calisthenics within the walled garden to regain strength after my inactivity in prison.

What has made the past week tolerable is my daily Russian language lesson. I enticed a sweet, little kitchen maid named Marya to visit my room each night. She teaches me peasant Russian and cuddles in a most delightful manner. Her grammar is imperfect, but I am learning enough of the language to get by and she corrects my mistakes with a delicate kiss. I eagerly return each kiss and tend to make a few more mistakes than necessary. I have learned a great many terms of endearment and can carry on a very limited conversation in the Russian language.

In truth, I would be much better off taking Marya as my wife than Penelope, but I am mad about Penelope and my thoughts are of her even when I hold Marya. Would it be wrong to wed my own aunt? Could I even trust her? I know it would disturb many people, but there is something wonderfully compelling about the idea.

My rest was broken when, this morning, Mr. Tatum tapped on my door and announced that Dr. Bell requested my presence. I had scarcely seen him since my return, and as my own troubles faded, I was again worried for his health and deeply distressed about his proclivity for cocaine.

Fortunately, my concerns evaporated. He was erect, attired in a handsome dressing gown, and polishing off an omelet, a large beefsteak, and toast with marmalade. His cheeks were pink and he had gained weight. He leaned back, lit up his large, curved pipe and breathed out a wreath of fragrant smoke.

“Doyle, help yourself to coffee. There is another omelet and enough bacon for a whole battalion.”

I thanked him and was soon stuffing my face with delicious vittles. “Sir, you seem to have recovered your usual robust health.”

“Aye,” Dr. Bell blew a large smoke ring. “I have determined the proper dose of cocaine to avoid unpleasant side effects. It is a capital nerve tonic. A seven percent solution of cocaine is beneficial.”

It would be better if he had given up the drug but he seemed to be his old self. I said no more on the subject.

Bell delicately patted his lips with a damask napkin. “If you’d be so kind as to take a moment to refrain from eating so rapidly, I’d like to discuss some matters of great import with you,” he said.

I put my fork down on my plate and sat back for a moment. “Aye, sir.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what you’ve observed over the past few weeks.”

“I’ve seen a great many exciting and awful things.”

“No, not what you’ve seen. Anybody can see, but only a trained eye can observe. What you have you observed, laddie?”

Mr. Tatum bustled in with an overflowing tray of delicious sugary pastries with more eggs and bacon. Between mouthfuls, I related an abbreviated version of my involvement with the bomb makers and my arrest and incarceration. I ended with an announcement about how I am in great danger, and if the police discover my whereabouts, they will surely put me to death.

Bell helped himself to a lemon tart. “Well, Doyle, you are indeed fortunate. The Russian government cannot admit that escape is possible from the fortress. The third section is particularly adamant that you make no public mention of your mysterious cellmate. If this person was truly the famous poet, it will be a great embarrassment to the tsar. In that you are lucky. His government is eager to see that this all gets swept under the rug and has given a solemn assurance that, in return for your silence, your record will be destroyed and you will be granted complete amnesty,” he said.

I was overwhelmed by this good news. After my prison ordeal, all I could think about was returning to Edinburgh. “Sir, does that mean that we are now at liberty to return home?”

Tatum squirmed. “Mr. Doyle, please...”

“I am sorry, but I almost died in that prison. I have done enough and should be allowed to go home,” said I.

“Aye, I understand.” Bell cleared his throat. “We cannot hold you against your will, but I cannot go, and as a favour to me, I was hoping that you may remain with us just a bit longer.”

“Haven’t you finished your course of lectures and demonstrations?”

“Aye, but the English Church has organized a clinic and a sanitarium for the care of children with tuberculosis. Professor Sechenov is anxious to test my theory that fresh air, good food, and cod liver oil is curative for these poor children. I have also developed a practice among the wealthy foreigners who live on the English Embankment. You can earn a bit more money by assisting me.”

“That is a kind offer, sir, but after all I’ve been through, I’ve had enough adventure. It is time for me to return home.”

“Laddie, we are involved in more than a bit of adventure here.”

“Aye, and I have done my share for the Crown.” I answered.

“Before you run back to Edinburgh, laddie, have you any notion of the importance of our mission?”

“The lives of many students hang in the balance.”

He struck his clenched fist against his open hand. “Nay, hanging in the balance is more than the lives of a few students. We have fallen into a nasty situation that may affect the bloody balance of power in all of Europe.”

“Sorry, but I don’t see...”

“Doyle, has your head been so deep in medical books that you have no knowledge of world affairs?”

“Are those affairs so important?” I asked.

“The Queen and parliament are concerned because Germany is gaining power and may soon eclipse our empire. There is bad blood between the Kaiser and our Queen. The tsarist government is far from perfect, but Alexander is a friend of England. If an anarchist were to kill the tsar, there would be a power vacuum in Europe. The Germans would run rampant through Europe, and a Russo-German alliance could endanger millions of lives.”

“Dr. Bell, surely the Crown has others who are better trained for this work.”

“Nay, the British Secret Service has failed to infiltrate the student groups. You have earned credibility and trust with the students by the time you served in prison. Duty calls. Rise to the occasion. Your involvement could be the factor that keeps all of Europe from engaging in a massive war. Are you man enough for this assignment, Doyle?” Dr. Bell extended his hand.

I grasped his hand. “Yes, sir, I will do my best. There will be students at Pavlov’s laboratory. I will talk with them.”

Dr. Bell went off to the children’s tuberculosis clinic, and despite an underlying sense of nervousness, I had a pleasant walk to the laboratory. Pavlov gave no indication that he was aware of my imprisonment and allowed me to perform several experiments under his expert guidance. Despite his insensitivity to human suffering, the man is a genius and far ahead of his time, especially in the field of blood transfusion and the nervous system. Together, with Ivanov, I succeeded in severing all the nerves to the heart in a dog. Much to our amazement, the heart continued a steady beat as if it had an intrinsic regulating mechanism.

I continued the work, and as we were preparing to operate, Dmitri, the animal keeper, brought a fine-looking female spaniel to the operating table. Most of the curs snapped their teeth or barked viciously, but this handsome animal licked my hand and allowed me to fondle her silky ears. She was mostly white, with brown spots and a handsome, brown muzzle. Her bushy tail thumped against the wooden table, and her large, dark eyes melted all my scientific instincts.

“Dmitri, put her back in the cage,” I said.

For the first time, a fleeting smile passed over the poor man’s face. It was as if something had awakened in his soul. Sometimes he has an air of refinement, quite unlike a peasant. For the next several days, I brought pieces of meat or bread soaked in gravy to my new friend. When I opened the cage, she put her head between her paws and licked my hand, then gently accepted my offering with all the elegance of a queen.

I couldn’t think of a good Russian name, but her royal demeanor deserved a regal name that was equal to her dignity. I settled on the diminutive form of Alexandra - Sasha.

“Sasha, Sasha, come.” she wagged her tail and delicately took a bit of meat.

I had not been involved with the transfusion experiments, but with nothing else to do that morning, I went to the blood laboratory. Two subjects were strapped on tables. At first, I did not recognize the poor wretch who was selected for transfusion. His beard was matted with old blood clots and his face was a mass of bruises and torn skin. Blood dribbled from each ear and his nose. The secret police had done their work. With a start, I recognized Golovinsky, who had chosen death by medical experiment rather than death by more torture at the hands of the Okhrana.

Ivanov and Dmitri held his hand and each bent close to his lips as if hearing a last confession. Over the hissing and rattling of the snakes in their cage, I could make out little of their conversation. The words made little sense, but I heard, “German” and “American.” At my behest, Pavlov gave each subject enough morphine to dull their sensibilities during the gruesome experiment. I actually assisted Pavlov in isolating and canulating the donor’s brachial artery and prepared the tubing for a direct blood transfusion.

Dmitri caught one of the giant rattlesnakes with a loop behind the creature’s head and, with obvious reluctance, held the snake’s body. He brought the terrible head, with its open jaws and exposed fangs, to Golovinsky’s arm. The creature struck repeatedly, injecting its deadly venom. Golovinsky convulsed and his clotted wounds again dripped blood. The venom was, indeed, an anticoagulant.

Pavlov quickly placed a tube in a vein at his elbow and started the direct transfusion. Blood flowed from the donor into Golovinsky, but it was too late. With a last cry, his body stiffened and he died. “We could have kept him alive for another day. The damn fool,” Pavlov swore.

I was about to leave for lunch, when a wild-eyed young man in a military uniform burst into the laboratory. “Dr. Doyle, there’s been a terrible accident. You are wanted at the military hospital.”

We climbed into the waiting droshky, and on an impulse, I shouted to Ivanov. “Come quickly, and bring Pavlov’s serum.”

We were away. The driver, sensing a tragedy and perhaps a large tip, whipped the horse to a frenzy. We dashed away to the other side of the city.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’m in the Corps of Cadets. We double-loaded the noon gun, an old, bronze six-pounder. It exploded during the changing of the guard,” the boy sobbed.

It was a scene from hell. Bodies were strewn about and the floor was slippery with blood. They were young boys with their limbs blown to smithereens and chunks of metal in their chests and bellies.

Dr. Bell was already at work on a head wound, and a half-dozen Russian surgeons were amputating limbs, suturing wounds, and ligating bleeding arteries. Dr. Bell pointed to a fellow on a makeshift table in the corner. “Doyle, make that lad comfortable. He is far gone. We can do nothing to save the poor fellow.”

He was a slender boy of perhaps fifteen years with blonde, curly hair and a pale, bloodless face. His right arm was horribly mangled and his uniform was drenched with blood.

He was already lifeless. There was no need for morphine to relieve pain. By force of habit, I felt his wrist. Was there a flicker of a pulse? I put my ear to his chest and heard a distant thump. I resolved to do everything possible. “Orderly, please, over here. I need carbolic, ligatures, a scalpel, and a saw.”

I snipped through the bit of skin that held his elbow to the upper arm and found an oozing brachial artery and vein. A single ligature controlled the bleeding. It was necessary to remove the lower humerus with a saw, and then, I stitched the skin over the stump. The entire affair had taken only a few moments, but the boy remained lifeless.

I was afraid that the shock of surgery had carried him off. I pressed my ear against his chest, but aye, there was still that distant thump. Almost as an answer to prayer, Ivanov appeared with a flask of Pavlov’s serum.

We injected fifty, then one hundred, cubic centimeters of the fluid into his arm. I felt a weak pulse at his wrist. The boy was still alive. I straightened my aching back and noticed an older man, dressed in a frock coat and dark blue trousers, leaning on a cane, watching my every move.

He was obviously a gentleman and maintained his composure in the midst of chaos. “Will my son live?” he asked in refined French.

“He has a chance now,” I said.

The man made a slight bow. “I am Prince Chernovsky. If my son, Konstantine, lives, I will owe you a great debt.”

“I will do everything in my power to see that he lives.”

“Thank you.”

My patient rallied after a coffee enema. Prince Chernovsky insisted on removing the boy to his home. We placed him on the velvet seat in a splendid, gold and white, four-horse carriage. I stayed at the patient’s side through the entire journey to his mansion and the boy’s bedroom. A dozen liveried servants rushed about, securing pillows, fresh bandages, hot tea, and brandy.

The boy’s mother burst into tears and had to be led from the room. At last, the child opened his eyes. It was as if he had returned from the dead. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment and slumped in a chair with overwhelming fatigue.

“Doctor, would you like tea or coffee?” a voice asked, a few moments later. The speaker was a rather plain, angular, young woman, dressed in a modest, floral-patterned dress from her neck to the floor. Her hair was tightly pulled back from her forehead into a bun. She was my age, or a little younger, and spoke perfect English.

“Coffee, please.”

“I am Konstantine’s sister, Agafea, but mother calls me Kitty,” she said, with a smile. “And you are a doctor from England?”

“Edinburgh, Scotland actually, although my family is originally from Ireland. My name is Arthur Conan Doyle.”

The coffee arrived in a lovely silver service along with an assortment of cakes, biscuits, pâté, and a dollop of caviar. I was let down and had a case of nerves after the operation, and was rather overcome by the richness of the room, the silver tray, and her kindness.

“Our family is grateful to you for saving my brother.”

“Aye, but he is still in great danger.”

“I will be his nurse. You should go to your home and rest, but tomorrow morning, you must return to care for the antiseptic dressings.”

“Excuse me, but how do you know about antiseptic dressings?”

“Must all women be idiots?”

“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

“I trained as a nurse in London and plan to teach in the country. We must educate the peasants if we are ever to have true democracy here.”

For all her gentility, anger simmered just beneath her surface, an unspoken resentment of a sort. I said no more, finished the excellent coffee, and wolfed down enough biscuits and cakes to make a substantial supper. Agafea plumped the pillows and spooned broth into the boy’s mouth.

“His youth saved him,” I said.

She brushed aside a lock of mousy brown hair. “Don’t be so modest. Father said you saved his life when everyone else had left him to die,” she said.

I was preparing to leave when Prince Chernovsky stepped into the room.

“I want to engage you to care for my boy until he has recovered,” he said.

“Of course, I will visit him as often as necessary.”

“I will pay you well. What is your fee?”

I had no idea what the charge should be. He could easily pay one thousand pounds, but would he be insulted if I didn’t charge for my services? “I am Dr. Bell’s assistant and work at his direction. Perhaps you could make a donation to the new sanitarium for children with tuberculosis.”

He paused, perplexed at my novel suggestion. “Yes, I will do that.” I sensed his embarrassment. “Dr. Doyle, there is to be a ball for the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh. Agafea has no escort. Would you be so kind as to take her to the party?”

My mind whirled. Agafea was plain-looking and no beauty. I didn’t know how to dance nor even how to address the nobility, but I knew it was too good an opportunity to turn down.

“Yes, sir, I would be honored if Agafea is willing.”

She blushed and smiled, but I sensed she was not taken with the idea. “Please call me Kitty,” she said.

The prince provided his carriage for my ride home. It was late, and as usual, I went around to the servant’s entrance. There was a rustling sound and then a low whimper at the door.

It was the dog, Sasha. I petted her silky ears and she licked my face. I took her into the kitchen. She daintily polished off the leftovers from the Sechenov evening meal and followed me up the back stairs. At the side of my bed she laid down, put her head on her paws. I am writing this in my diary under her wistful gaze.