24 September 1881

This morning, when I put one foot on the floor, the room whirled and, all of a sudden, I went down. I was still dizzy with a pounding headache when Marya arrived with the morning tea.

She immediately fetched Dr. Bell, who listened to my story. “Arthur, my boy, you should get a medal for your work. Unfortunately, you have a bit of a concussion. Cold compresses and a day’s rest will set you right,” he said, after a bit of poking and prodding.

Marya arranged pillows so I could have tea in bed. The dear girl ran to the kitchen and returned with towels soaked in cold water which she applied to my poor head. Within an hour, when Dr. Bell returned, I felt much better.

“Arthur, the American ambassador sent an urgent message requesting my assistance. Since you are in good hands, I will be away most of the day,” he said.

“Is it a medical problem?” I asked.

“An American citizen is dead.”

“Is it anyone we know?”

“The Texan who brought the snakes to Pavlov.”

“Cowboy Bill?”

“I believe that is what he was called. Aye,” Dr. Bell replied.

“I am coming with you,” I said.

“No, you must rest.”

While we were on the ship, Cowboy Bill was the picture of good health. I could not believe he was dead. “I insist on going with you,” I said.

“Hmm, well, maybe some fresh air will be good for you. If you insist on going, fetch the instrument case and follow me,” he said.

I was up and dressed when the ambassador, a middle-aged fellow named John Foster, arrived in a troika, a light carriage drawn by three horses. Poor Sasha was outside and, to my embarrassment, leaped into the carriage and settled herself at my feet. Mr. Foster was a typical Yankee with a top hat, bow tie, a black frock coat, and the most amazing long, flowing, white side whiskers.

“My, oh my! That’s a good looking dog. Reminds me of my Rover.”

“What kind of dog was Rover?” I asked.

“He was a good bird dog, probably with some Pointer and Beagle. When I was a boy, we hunted together on our farm back in Indiana,” the ambassador said.

I was relieved that he did not object to Sasha and was mystified that an ambassador could have such a humble beginning on a farm out in the wilderness. His low background made mine look almost aristocratic. “Sir, if you grew up in the country on a farm, how did you end up being an ambassador?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of America, boy. Anybody can become anything they want if they are willing to work hard enough for it. Yes, I grew up on a farm, but I didn’t stay there. You see, I walked for many miles to hear Abraham Lincoln talk at one of his great debates with Stephen Douglass and that changed my life. Lincoln inspired me to go east to study and get a college degree. Then, I got into politics and became Secretary of the Navy under Grant,” he said. “Anybody who is willing to work as hard as me might be able to do the same.”

“Aye. May I ask... There was a navy man on our ship, an engineer, named Gritz, claimed he built electric boats,” I said.

Mr. Foster squinted and looked away. “Never heard of the fellow,” he snapped.

He was abrupt and said no more; I settled back and scratched Sasha’s ears. The driver whipped up the three matched, grey horses to a fast pace. I knew little about horses, but Dr. Bell became excited. “What breed are these horses?”

“Orlov Trotters, came out of an Arabian stallion years ago. There is nothing like them; when hitched to a troika, the center animal trots while the two on the side canter,” the ambassador said.

We were flying along. “How can I help with this business?” Dr. Bell asked, once we left the city streets.

“I love horse racing and, you see, this fellow, Cowboy Bill, had a remarkable way with horses. He was clever, too. Learned the language well enough to get a job training race horses for a Colonel Shirapov.” the ambassador said.

“How did he die?” Dr. Bell asked.

“They say he took his own life. But I knew Cowboy Bill and I just don’t believe he was the type of man to commit suicide.”

“Yes, I can look into it for you.”

“I have to tell you, I don’t trust these damn Russian officers. They don’t do a damned thing but drink and gamble. I want someone who speaks English to look into this matter and you are well known for your ingenious detective work. I am grateful that you have agreed to accompany me today.”

The rains had settled the dust, so the drive through the country was pleasant. The leaves were turning yellow, and the birch trees were already dropping leaves. Within an hour, we reached a regimental summer camp with a race track, stables, and officer’s quarters. We paused to watch grooms exercise horses, and then, the ambassador directed our driver to Captain Shirapov’s stables.

A half-dozen somber grooms and trainers idled under a tree with wide, spread limbs in front of the stable. Inspector Koivisto of the St. Petersburg police met us at the stable door with a wide smile and an extended hand. He shook hands with the professor. “Welcome, Dr. Bell. It’s good to see you, but why are you here? The cowboy’s death is a clear case of suicide.”

“I would be interested in your findings, especially, since we have come a long way,” Dr. Bell said.

“The man clearly killed himself with his own pistol.”

The ambassador puffed out his cheeks and spoke in a loud voice and in poor French. “The dead man was a citizen of the United States. And as a representative of the U.S.A., I demand a full investigation. If you don’t cooperate, I will go the tsar himself.”

“Well...” Inspector Koivisto scowled and jutted out his chin in a fit of anger, but his demeanor quickly changed. “Fine! Out of respect for Dr. Bell, I will allow him to view the scene. But I am certain he will merely confirm my conclusions.”

Sasha scampered at our heels as we entered the long, low shed with stalls where a half-dozen horses fed on hay and oats. A small double door led to the trainer’s room. The stables were clean, with the pleasant smell of hay and horse. The room where Cowboy Bill had lived was comfortable though spartan. Cowboy Bill, dressed in a blue shirt and tan trousers, leaned back on a chair with his legs folded beneath. He looked almost jaunty with a red scarf at his neck, but his dim, sightless eyes were glazed.

“This is exactly how we found him,” Inspector Koivisto said. “I opened his shirt to inspect the wound, but touched nothing else. He does need to be buried or shipped back to the United States at once.”

Dr. Bell, chin in hand, surveyed the room. There was one window, a small, black, iron stove, and a neat, made-up bunk. The body faced a table with a nearly empty bottle of brandy and one glass. It appeared as if Cowboy Bill had been drinking alone. A pair of high, cowhide boots stood next to the door. The floor was spotless. Nothing was disturbed and there was no blood. In a way, the death scene was serene; too serene.

“May I see the wound, please?” Dr. Bell asked.

Inspector Koivisto casually pointed. “Here is a hole in his shirt over the entrance wound on the right side of his chest. There is no exit.”

Dr. Bell went to his knees next to the body and gazed, intently, at the small bullet hole just beneath the breast on the right side. He gently palpated the surrounding skin and, after a moment, deliberately moved his index finger medially towards the breast bone. “Hmm, strange. There is very little blood.”

“Yes, I commented on that in my report and concluded that he was dead before he had a chance to bleed.”

“Where was the weapon?” Dr. Bell asked.

“In his right hand with his finger on the trigger.” Koivisto replied.

“May I see the weapon?”

The inspector removed the revolver from a leather bag and passed it to Dr. Bell. It was an old-fashioned pocket pistol that had seen hard use but was clean and well-oiled. The wooden handle was scratched, and the brown finish on the barrel was worn down to bare metal. The barrel was marked, ‘Patented 1855, Samuel Colt.’

Dr. Bell removed the cylinder and examined the chambers. “Inspector Koivisto, will you permit me to fire a shot?”

“Sir, I don’t see the point. I must be leaving here soon; this isn’t my only case, you know.” the inspector said.

“Please, in the interest of truth, allow me just one shot. It will require but a few seconds.”

“Very well.”

“Dr. Doyle, kindly place a wad of paper just to the right of that hole in the wall.”

I had not noticed the rat hole, perhaps two inches or less in diameter in the far wall, right at floor level. I tore a page from my notebook, wadded the paper into a small ball, and placed it as directed.

Dr. Bell took careful aim and pulled the trigger. There was a soft bang and a puff of smoke. The wad of paper ‘jumped,’ with a bullet hole left in dead center. Behind the paper, a small lead ball was about half-embedded in the wood.

“There! Your evidence! This was not a suicide.”

The inspector balked. “What? I don’t see how you can say that after firing one shot.”

“It is basic ballistics. The ball is only .31 calibre. The powder charge was sufficient to kill a rat, but it would hardly scratch a man. Cowboy Bill could not have killed himself with this pea-shooter of a pistol.”

Not a word was spoken while Dr. Bell spent a great deal of time filling and tamping his curved pipe with Cavendish. When it suited him, he lit up and puffed a cloud of fragrant, blue smoke.

The inspector coughed. “This is preposterous. Of course he died by his own hand. There could have been a heavier load in the chamber. There is certainly no other cause of death.”

“Hmmm.” Dr. Bell put down his pipe and minutely scrutinized the body. “Dr. Doyle, maybe you can shed some light on this case. If you will, tell us what you observe and your conclusions.”

Why did he always have to treat me like a school boy, especially when I was not feeling up to par? I walked about the room glancing here and there.

I idly noted a plate, fork, and spoon, with another glass on a shelf. A dish towel hung from a nail next to the sink. To stall for time, I took another look at the body. Damn, why hadn’t I noticed it before? There was bleeding in his eyes. “Sir, there are sub-conjunctival hemorrhages in both eyes.”

The tiniest hint of a smile appeared and disappeared on Dr. Bell’s lips. “Ah yes. How could I have missed it? So sloppy of me. Thank you, Dr. Doyle.” He then looked around the room. “Gentlemen, Cowboy Bill was dead before he received his gunshot wound. This is murder and should be treated as such,” Dr. Bell said.

“Bah. Preposterous! How can you say that without demonstrating any other cause of death?” Koivisto responded.

“Dr. Doyle, kindly remove that red scarf from his neck.”

The red scarf, what the Americans call a bandanna, was tightly knotted in back and folded in a triangle in the front of his neck. The knot was so tight that I had to pry it apart with a surgical probe. There was a slight bruise over Cowboy Bill’s windpipe but nothing else.

Dr. Bell pointed at the bruise with his pipe. “Hemorrhages in the eyes indicate compression of the jugular veins causing severe intracranial pressure.”

“They could’ve been caused by sand or dirt that got in his eyes while he was working with the horses.”

“No, Inspector. An assassin garroted Cowboy Bill with his own scarf.”

“I am sorry to say this, Dr. Bell, but that’s impossible. That bruise is nothing. I say he died by his own hand.”

“I most respectfully disagree, sir. He died by the slow compression of his jugular veins and the carotid arteries with his own scarf. It had to be a slow, painful death by strangulation. The knot was pulled tight when a stick or other instrument twisted the scarf about his neck.” Dr. Bell said.

“But how can you prove it was murder?” asked Mr. Foster.

“Mr. Foster, since the deceased is an American, I need your permission to prove my point with one simple skin incision.”

“Well, I don’t know. This is highly irregular,” the ambassador said. “We don’t know if he has family and if they would approve of such a thing.”

“Even if I can prove that he was murdered?” Dr. Bell asked.

Mr. Foster dithered, pursed his lips, and pulled at his side whiskers. “Is it absolutely necessary?”

“Yes, with one small incision I will prove that a bullet did not cause his death.”

“Very well, Doctor.”

“Doyle, a probe and a scalpel, please.”

I placed the instruments on the table while Dr. Bell rolled up his sleeves and removed Cowboy Bill’s shirt. No one spoke while Dr. Bell deliberately inserted the steel probe into the wound. The probe slid along the top of the fifth rib for a distance of four inches and obviously did not penetrate the chest cavity.

With a quick slash, he laid open the skin and demonstrated the round, lead ball buried in muscle tissue. There was no bleeding and it had not struck a vital organ.

Dr. Bell plucked out the harmless ball. “This bit of lead did not cause his death. The assailant first killed Cowboy Bill then fired the shot to make it look like suicide,” he said.

The ambassador turned white, covered his mouth, and ran from the room. “Inspector, you must search for an exceptionally powerful man. The murderer was probably a soldier trained in the killing arts,” Dr. Bell said.

“Da.” Inspector Koivisto wrote in his notebook. “I stand corrected, Dr. Bell. It does appear to be murder, but still...” he said, rather sullenly.

“If you need more proof, Inspector, here it is.” Dr. Bell rinsed the instruments and his hands at the sink and picked up the dish towel. He inhaled deeply and glanced up at the empty glass on the shelf. “If you look closely, you will note that both the towel and the empty glass have traces of brandy. Another person drank with the victim and then rinsed the glass in hopes of misleading us to think that Cowboy Bill drank alone.”

Damn, I had missed another clue. In the hope of redeeming myself, I again examined the corpse. I saw nothing new, though idly wondered why the left hand was open but the right was tightly clenched. The fingers were rigid even more than one would expect with rigor mortis.

I did not want to touch that cold, dead hand but forced down sour bile and pulled on his middle finger with all my strength. It broke with a sickening snap as I pried it open. At first glance, there was only a handful of horse feed inside his fist, but on closer inspection, I could see that a coarse brown powder was mixed in with the oats.

“What is this brown substance?” I asked.

“Ah, Doyle, you might amount to something, after all.” Dr. Bell said, as he rolled the brown powder between his fingers. He smelled it, placed a small amount on his tongue, and poured the remainder into a glass jar. “It is quite bitter and appears to be some type of ground root that has been mixed with the oats.”

Sasha came dashing into the room, her bushy tail sweeping back and forth. She immediately laid back her ears and, with her nose in the air, circled the corpse on stiff legs. She sniffed the dead body and, with surprising tenderness, licked the outstretched left hand.

At that moment, a carriage drawn by a fine pair of chestnut bays dashed into the little, grassy yard in front of the stable.

The driver, a white-haired but heavily-muscled man in the uniform of a Cossack sergeant, dropped the reigns and slowly stepped down. The fellow, with a hard, weathered face of an old campaigner, opened the carriage door and carefully assisted an army officer with a colonel’s epaulettes and gold braid out of the carriage.

The colonel, nearly as old as his servant, stumbled, but the servant caught his arm and spoke gently to him. “Batya, take care. Please take care,” he said.

“Batya means father, a term of endearment for a good commander. His driver was an old denshchik, or as the English say, a ‘valet’ or ‘personal servant,’” Inspector Koivisto whispered.

The colonel tucked his chin into his chest and stood very erect, facing the crowd as if he were reviewing troops. He had the air of a man accustomed to command. Unlike many high ranking officers, he was clean shaven, except for a long salt and pepper mustache.

We came to attention and Koivisto saluted. “Good day, Colonel Shirapov,” he said.

The colonel turned and gallantly assisted a strikingly handsome woman down from the carriage. She was an inch or two taller than the colonel and clung to his arm with a possessive air while holding a bright red parasol. She was at least twenty years his junior, dressed in the latest Parisian style and adorned with rings, bracelets, and a diamond necklace.

“Where is the American?” she asked. “I want to see Mercury.”

“I am sorry. The American is dead.” Inspector Koivisto said.

“Oh, that is too bad. He was so good with Mercury.” She shook her head. “Still, I’d like to see my horse. Would someone please bring out Mercury? I am looking forward to seeing my husband ride him in the steeplechase tomorrow.”

Colonel Shirapov said nothing, but he tensed and one eye twitched. We waited at the open stable door while a groom went to fetch the horse. The groom hesitated, was about to say something, but unlatched the gate. Mercury, a great, black stallion, laid back his ears, feebly kicked, and attempted to rear.

“I can’t.” The groom backed away. “The horse is too dangerous. Only the American could handle him. I will not,” he said.

“That horse is sick,” exclaimed Mr. Foster.

Colonel Shirapov walked a few steps. “He is just high strung... If you have finished your investigation, please leave my property,” he said, in a low voice.

“He was perfectly gentle when Cowboy Bill worked with him,” Mr. Foster said.

“I am a doctor. Please let me see him.” Dr. Bell edged his way closer to the stall and peered intently at the stallion. “His nose is congested and there is sweat on his hindquarters. He does indeed appear to be ill and he should not be ridden.”

“No!” The old Cossack growled. “Obey my colonel! That is an order. Prepare the horse.”

And so they did. There was nothing else to do; we trudged away to the troika while Inspector Koivisto arranged for the body to be delivered to the American Embassy.

I whistled for Sasha. I called again and, in defiance of the colonel, returned to the stable. The poor dog was lying on a pile of hay, frothing at her mouth. Her eyes were closed and her head lay on her paws. She barely moved when I picked her up and carried her to the troika. What had happened to her? I felt bloody awful.

I petted her tangled fur and talked to her as if she were a baby. She didn’t respond, and mucous bubbled from her nose. I was convinced she was dying, but she feebly raised her head when Dr. Bell looked into her eyes and applied his stethoscope to her chest.

He sighed and sat back with his legs outstretched, silent and deep in thought. What did he think happened to poor Sasha? What was wrong with her?

Dr. Bell said nothing and seemed unconcerned about my obvious distress. I hated him at that moment, but then I realized that maybe he had larger issues than the health of one poor dog on his mind. Had cocaine hardened him to all suffering?

It was my fault. I should not have brought poor Sasha on this trip. If I had left her at home, she would be fine now. What had she gotten into here that had made her so sick? I felt so horrible about saving her from the lab only then to lead her to her death here...

I stroked her silky ears and begged her forgiveness. She made a low woof and licked my hand. It was as if she sensed my distress and, even though she was ill, wanted to comfort me. I carried her to the troika and we set off for home.

The ambassador talked about horses most of the way home. “Mercury is a great horse, but hard to handle. Cowboy Bill claimed he could talk to horses like an Indian. Within three weeks, he had Mercury eating out of his hand, and damn, was that horse ever so quick. You’ve never seen such a fast horse, especially when Cowboy Bill took the reins. Now, that young woman expects Colonel Shirapov to ride him and win the steeplechase, but the colonel can’t handle Mercury the way that Bill did. If you ask me, the whole thing is going to end badly.”

We arrived home in the late afternoon. I carried Sasha to my room and gave her a bowl of water. She took a bit but gagged, spit, and went to sleep.

I prayed that she would feel better and stayed by her side for the next few hours, petting her as she slept. When she awoke at nine p.m. or so, much to my relief, she stood on shaky legs and walked about the room. I was overjoyed. Later this evening, she lapped up a bowl of soup, breathed normally, and thumped her tail just like her old self.

I went to tell Dr. Bell the good news and found him pacing the room with excited, glittering eyes. Blue, fragrant smoke hung over the room like a mist. “Ah, Doyle, that is wonderful news! Pour a dram for yourself and sit with me for a moment.”

Ah, so he did care after all. I cupped the glass of whiskey in my hands and inhaled the peaty smell of prime Scottish single malt while Dr. Bell paced the length of the room and back. He stabbed the air with his pipe. “Well, there is still one piece of missing information, but by tomorrow afternoon, we will see the case solved,” he said.

“But sir, all we know is the method of the murder. We have no motive, let alone a culprit.”

“Au contraire, my lad. It is perfectly clear, and you and your canine friend helped us find the missing clue.”

What was he talking about? How was he always one step ahead of me or, for that matter, everybody else? “I don’t understand, sir.”

“You will soon, laddie. You will soon. Now, go and get some rest. I have work to do. Goodnight.”

Reluctantly, I went off to bed and was drifting off to sleep, when Sasha pounced on the bed and licked my face. I cuddled with her and soon we were both floating off into dreamland.