The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

A Scandal in Winter Gillian Linscott

Gillian Linscott is a professional writer who began as a journalist for The Guardian and the BBC before becoming a full-time author of mystery fiction. In that genre, she has shown range, with her major books being about the suffragette detective Nell Bray, for which she has won the (British) Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Historical Dagger. She has also written stories set in ancient Egypt and is an aficionado of Sherlock Holmes, having written stories for such anthologies as Murder in Baker Street (New York, Carroll & Graf, 2001) and Sherlock Holmes in America (New York, Skyhorse, 2009). “A Scandal in Winter” was first published in another Holmes collection, Holmes for the Holidays, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Waugh (New York, Berkley, 1996).

At first silver stick and his Square Bear were no more to us than incidental diversions at the Hotel Edelweiss. The Edelweiss at Christmas and the new year was like a sparkling white desert island, or a very luxurious ocean liner sailing through snow instead of sea. There we were, a hundred people or so, cut off from the rest of the world, even from the rest of Switzerland, with only each other for entertainment and company. It was one of the only possible hotels to stay at in 1910 for this new fad of winter sporting. The smaller Berghaus across the way was not one of the possible hotels, so its dozen or so visitors hardly counted. As for the villagers in their wooden chalets with the cows living downstairs, they didn’t count at all. Occasionally, on walks, Amanda and I would see them carrying in logs from neatly stacked woodpiles or carrying out forkfuls of warm soiled straw that sent columns of white steam into the blue air. They were part of the valley like the rocks and pine trees but they didn’t ski or skate, so they had no place in our world — apart from the sleighs. There were two of those in the village. One, a sober affair drawn by a stolid bay cob with a few token bells on the harness, brought guests and their luggage from the nearest railway station. The other, the one that mattered to Amanda and me, was a streak of black and scarlet, swift as the mountain wind, clamourous with silver bells, drawn by a sleek little honey-coloured Haflinger with a silvery mane and tail that matched the bells. A pleasure sleigh, with no purpose in life beyond amusing the guests at the Edelweiss. We’d see it drawn up in the trampled snow outside, the handsome young owner with his long whip and blonde moustache waiting patiently. Sometimes we’d be allowed to linger and watch as he helped in a lady and gentleman and adjusted the white fur rug over their laps. Then away they’d go, hissing and jingling through the snow, into the track through the pine forest. Amanda and I had been promised that, as a treat on New Year’s Day, we would be taken for a ride in it. We looked forward to it more eagerly than Christmas.

But that was ten days away and until then we had to amuse ourselves. We skated on the rink behind the hotel. We waved good-bye to our father when he went off in the mornings with his skis and his guide. We sat on the hotel terrace drinking hot chocolate with blobs of cream on top while Mother wrote and read letters. When we thought Mother wasn’t watching, Amanda and I would compete to see if we could drink all the chocolate so that the blob of cream stayed marooned at the bottom of the cup, to be eaten in luscious and impolite spoonfuls. If she glanced up and caught us, Mother would tell us not to be so childish, which, since Amanda was eleven and I was nearly thirteen, was fair enough, but we had to get what entertainment we could out of the chocolate. The truth was that we were all of us, most of the time, bored out of our wits. Which was why we turned our attention to the affairs of the other guests and Amanda and I had our ears permanently tuned to the small dramas of the adults’ conversation.

“I still can’t believe she will.”

“Well, that’s what the headwaiter said, and he should know. She’s reserved the table in the corner overlooking the terrace and said they should be sure to have the Tokay.”

“The same table as last year.”

“The same wine, too.”

Our parents looked at each other over the croissants, carefully not noticing the maid as she poured our coffee. (“One doesn’t notice the servants, dear, it only makes them awkward.”)

“I’m sure it’s not true. Any woman with any feeling...”

“What makes you think she has any?”

Silence, as eye signals went on over our heads. I knew what was being signalled, just as I’d known what was being discussed in an overheard scrap of conversation between our parents at bedtime the night we arrived. “... effect it might have on Jessica.”

My name. I came rapidly out of drowsiness, kept my eyes closed but listened.

“I don’t think we need worry about that. Jessica’s tougher than you think.” My mother’s voice. She needed us to be tough so that she didn’t have to waste time worrying about us.

“All the same, she must remember it. It is only a year ago. That sort of experience can mark a child for life.”

“Darling, they don’t react like we do. They’re much more callous at that age.”

Even with eyes closed I could tell from the quality of my father’s silence that he wasn’t convinced, but it was no use arguing with Mother’s certainties. They switched the light off and closed the door. For a minute or two I lay awake in the dark wondering whether I was marked for life by what I’d seen and how it would show, then I wondered instead whether I’d ever be able to do pirouettes on the ice like the girl from Paris, and fell asleep in a wistful dream of bells and the hiss of skates.

The conversation between our parents that breakfast time over what she would or wouldn’t do was interrupted by the little stir of two other guests being shown to their table. Amanda caught my eye.

“Silver Stick and his Square Bear are going ski-ing.”

Both gentlemen — elderly gentlemen as it seemed to us, but they were probably no older than their late fifties — were wearing heavy wool jumpers, tweed breeches, and thick socks, just as Father was. He nodded to them across the tables, wished them good morning and received nods and good-mornings back. Even the heavy sports clothing couldn’t take away the oddity and distinction from the tall man. He was, I think, the thinnest person I’d ever seen. He didn’t stoop as so many tall older people did but walked upright and lightly. His face with its eagle’s beak of a nose was deeply tanned, like some of the older inhabitants of the village, but unlike them it was without wrinkles apart from two deep folds from the nose to the corners of his mouth. His hair was what had struck us most. It clung smoothly to his head in a cap of pure and polished silver, like the knob on an expensive walking stick. His companion, large and square shouldered in any case, looked more so in his ski-ing clothes. He shambled and tended to trip over chairs. He had a round, amiable face with pale, rather watery eyes, a clipped grey moustache but no more than a fringe of hair left on his gleaming pate. He always smiled at us when we met on the terrace or in corridors and appeared kindly. We’d noticed that he was always doing things for Silver Stick, pouring his coffee, posting his letters. For this reason we’d got it into our heads that Square Bear was Silver Stick’s keeper. Amanda said Silver Stick probably went mad at the full moon and Square Bear had to lock him up and sing loudly so that people wouldn’t hear his howling. She kept asking people when the next full moon would be, but so far nobody knew. I thought he’d probably come to Switzerland because he was dying of consumption, which explained the thinness, and Square Bear was his doctor. I listened for a coughing fit to confirm this, but so far there’d been not a sign of one. As they settled to their breakfast we watched as much as we could without being rebuked for staring. Square Bear opened the paper that had been lying beside his plate and read things out to Silver Stick, who gave the occasional little nod over his coffee, as if he’d known whatever it was all the time. It was the Times of London and must have been at least two days old because it had to come up from the station in the sleigh.

Amanda whispered: “He eats.”

The waiter had brought a rack of toast and a stone jar of Oxford marmalade to their table instead of croissants. Silver Stick was eating toast like any normal person.

Father asked: “Who eats?”

We indicated with our eyes.

“Well, why shouldn’t he eat? You need a lot of energy for ski-ing.”

Mother, taking an interest for once, said they seemed old for ski-ing.

“You’d be surprised. Dr. Watson’s not bad, but as for the other one — well, he went past me like a bird in places so steep that even the guide didn’t want to try it. And stayed standing up at the end of it when most of us would have been just a big hole in the snow. The man’s so rational he’s completely without fear. It’s fear that wrecks you when you’re ski-ing. You come to a steep place, you think you’re going to fall and nine times out of ten, you do fall. Holmes comes to the same steep place, doesn’t see any reason why he can’t do it — so he does it.”

My mother said that anybody really rational would have the sense not to go ski-ing in the first place. My ear had been caught by one word.

“Square Bear’s a doctor? Is Silver Stick ill?”

“Not that I know. Is there any more coffee in that pot?”

And there we left it for the while. You might say that Amanda and I should have known at once who they were, and I suppose nine out of ten children in Europe would have known. But we’d led an unusual life, mainly on account of Mother, and although we knew many things unknown to most girls of our age, we were ignorant of a lot of others that were common currency.

We waved off Father and his guide as they went wallowing up in the deep snow through the pine trees, skis on their shoulders, then turned back for our skates. We stopped at the driveway to let the sober black sleigh go past, the one that went down the valley to the railway. There was nobody in the back, but the rugs were ready and neatly folded.

“Somebody new coming,” Amanda said.

I knew Mother was looking at me, but she said nothing. Amanda and I were indoors doing our holiday reading when the sleigh came back, so we didn’t see who was in it, but when we went downstairs later there was a humming tension about the hotel, like the feeling you get when a violinist is holding his bow just above the string and the tingle of the note runs up and down your spine before you hear it. It was only mid-afternoon but dusk was already settling on the valley. We were allowed a last walk outside before it got dark, and made as usual for the skating rink. Coloured electric lights were throwing patches of yellow, red, and blue on the dark surface. The lame man with the accordion was playing a Strauss waltz and a few couples were skating to it, though not very well. More were clustered round the charcoal brazier at the edge of the rink where a waiter poured small glasses of mulled wine. Perhaps the man with the accordion knew the dancers were getting tired or wanted to go home himself, because when the waltz ended he changed to something wild and gypsy sounding, harder to dance to. The couples on the ice tried it for a few steps, then gave up, laughing, to join the others round the brazier. For a while the ice was empty and the lame man played on to the dusk and the dark mountains.

Then a figure came gliding onto the ice. There was a decisiveness about the way she did it that marked her out at once from the other skaters. They’d come on staggering or swaggering, depending on whether they were beginners or thought themselves expert, but staggerers and swaggerers alike had a self-conscious air, knowing that this was not their natural habitat. She took to the ice like a swan to the water or a swallow to the air. The laughter died away, the drinking stopped and we watched as she swooped and dipped and circled all alone to the gypsy music. There were no showy pirouettes like the girl from Paris, no folding of the arms and look-at-me smiles. It’s quite likely that she was not a particularly expert skater, that what was so remarkable about it was her willingness to take the rink, the music, the attention as hers by right. She wasn’t even dressed for skating. The black skirt coming to within a few inches of the instep of her skate boots, the black mink jacket, the matching cap, were probably what she’d been wearing on the journey up from the station. But she’d been ready for this, had planned to announce her return exactly this way.

Her return. At first, absorbed by the performance, I hadn’t recognised her. I’d registered that she was not a young woman and that she was elegant. It was when a little of my attention came back to my mother that I knew. She was standing there as stiff and prickly as one of the pine trees, staring at the figure on the ice like everybody else, but it wasn’t admiration on her face, more a kind of horror. They were all looking like that, all the adults, as if she were the messenger of something dangerous. Then a woman’s voice, not my mother’s, said, “How could she? Really, how could she?”

There was a murmuring of agreement and I could feel the horror changing to something more commonplace — social disapproval. Once the first words had been said, others followed and there was a rustling of sharp little phrases like a sledge runner grating on gravel.

“Only a year... to come here again... no respect... lucky not to be... after what happened.”

My mother put a firm hand on each of our shoulders. “Time for your tea.”

Normally we’d have protested, begged for another few minutes, but we knew that this was serious. To get into the hotel from the ice rink you go up some steps to the back terrace and in at the big glass doors to the breakfast room. There were two men standing on the terrace. From there you could see the rink and they were staring down at what was happening. Silver Stick and Square Bear. I saw the thin man’s eyes in the light from the breakfast room. They were harder and more intent than anything I’d ever seen, harder than the ice itself. Normally, being properly brought up, we’d have said good evening to them as we went past, but Mother propelled us inside without speaking. As soon as she’d got us settled at the table she went to find Father, who’d be back from ski-ing by then. I knew they’d be talking about me and felt important, but concerned that I couldn’t live up to that importance. After all, what I’d seen had lasted only a few seconds and I hadn’t felt any of the things I was supposed to feel. I’d never known him before it happened, apart from seeing him across the dining room a few times and I hadn’t even known he was dead until they told me afterwards.

What happened at dinner that evening was like the ice rink, only without gypsy music. That holiday Amanda and I were allowed to come down to dinner with our parents for the soup course. After the soup we were supposed to say good night politely and go up and put ourselves to bed. People who’d been skating and ski-ing all day were hungry by evening so usually attention was concentrated discreetly on the swing doors to the kitchen and the procession of waiters with the silver tureens. That night was different. The focus of attention was one small table in the corner of the room beside the window. A table laid like the rest of them with white linen, silver cutlery, gold-bordered plates, and a little array of crystal glasses. A table for one. An empty table.

My father said: “Looks as if she’s funked it. Can’t say I blame her.”

My mother gave him one of her “be quiet” looks, announced that this was our evening for speaking French and asked me in that language to pass her some bread, if I pleased.

I had my back to the door and my hand on the breadbasket. All I knew was that the room went quiet.

“Don’t turn round,” my mother hissed in English.

I turned round and there she was, in black velvet and diamonds. Her hair, with more streaks of grey than I remembered from the year before, was swept up and secured with a pearl-and-diamond comb. The previous year, before the thing happened, my mother had remarked that she was surprisingly slim for a retired opera singer. This year she was thin, cheekbones and collarbones above the black velvet bodice sharp enough to cut paper. She was inclining her elegant head towards the headwaiter, probably listening to words of welcome. He was smiling, but then he smiled at everybody. Nobody else smiled as she followed him to the table in the far, the very far, corner. You could hear the creak of necks screwing themselves away from her. No entrance she ever made in her stage career could have been as nerve racking as that long walk across the hotel floor. In spite of the silent commands now radiating from my mother, I could no more have turned away from her than from Blondin crossing Niagara Falls. My disobedience was rewarded, as disobedience so often is, because I saw it happen. In the middle of that silent dining room, amid a hundred or so people pretending not to notice her, I saw Silver Stick get to his feet. Among all those seated people he looked even taller than before, his burnished silver head gleaming like snow on the Matterhorn above that rock ridge of a nose, below it the glacial white and black of his evening clothes. Square Bear hesitated for a moment, then followed his example. As in her lonely walk she came alongside their table, Silver Stick bowed with the dignity of a man who did not have to bow very often, and again Square Bear copied him, less elegantly. Square Bear’s face was red and flustered, but the other man’s hadn’t altered. She paused for a moment, gravely returned their bows with a bend of her white neck, then walked on. The silence through the room lasted until the headwaiter pulled out her chair and she sat down at her table, then, as if on cue, the waiters with their tureens came marching through the swinging doors and the babble and the clash of cutlery sounded as loud as war starting.

At breakfast I asked Mother: “Why did they bow to her?” I knew it was a banned subject, but I knew too that I was in an obscurely privileged position, because of the effect all this was supposed to be having on me. I wondered when it would come out, like secret writing on a laurel leaf you keep close to your chest to warm it. When I was fourteen, eighteen?

“Don’t ask silly questions. And you don’t need two lumps of sugar in your café au lait.”

Father suggested a trip to the town down the valley after lunch, to buy Christmas presents. It was meant as a distraction and it worked to an extent, but I still couldn’t get her out of my mind. Later that morning, when I was supposed to be having a healthy snowball fight with boring children, I wandered away to the back terrace overlooking the ice rink. I hoped that I might find her there again, but it was occupied by noisy beginners, slithering and screeching. I despised them for their ordinariness.

I’d turned away and was looking at the back of the hotel, thinking no particular thoughts, when I heard footsteps behind me and a voice said: “Was that where you were standing when it happened?”

It was the first time I’d heard Silver Stick’s voice at close quarters. It was a pleasant voice, deep but clear, like the sea in a cave. He was standing there in his rough tweed jacket and cap with earflaps only a few yards away from me. Square Bear stood behind him, looking anxious, neck muffled in a woollen scarf. I considered, looked up at the roof again and down to my feet.

“Yes, it must have been about here.”

“Holmes, don’t you think we should ask this little girl’s mother? She might...”

“My mother wasn’t there. I was.”

Perhaps I’d learnt something already about taking the centre of the stage. The thought came to me that it would be a great thing if he bowed to me, as he’d bowed to her.

“Quite so.”

He didn’t bow, but he seemed pleased.

“You see, Watson, Miss Jessica isn’t in the least hysterical about it, are you?”

I saw that he meant that as a compliment, so I gave him the little inclination of the head that I’d been practising in front of the mirror when Amanda wasn’t looking. He smiled, and there was more warmth in the smile than seemed likely from the height and sharpness of him.

“I take it that you have no objection to talking about what you saw.”

I said graciously: “Not in the very least.” Then honesty compelled me to spoil it by adding, “Only I didn’t see very much.”

“It’s not how much you saw, but how clearly you saw it. I wonder if you’d kindly tell Dr. Watson and me exactly what you saw, in as much detail as you can remember.”

The voice was gentle, but there was no gentleness in the dark eyes fixed on me. I don’t mean they were hard or cruel, simply that emotion of any sort had no more part in them than in the lens of a camera or telescope. They gave me an odd feeling, not fear exactly, but as if I’d become real in a way I hadn’t quite been before. I knew that being clear about what I’d seen that day a year ago mattered more than anything I’d ever done. I closed my eyes and thought hard.

“I was standing just here. I was waiting for Mother and Amanda because we were going out for a walk and Amanda had lost one of her fur gloves as usual. I saw him falling, then he hit the roof over the dining room and came sliding down it. The snow started moving as well, so he came down with the snow. He landed just over there, where that chair is, and all the rest of the snow came down on top of him, so you could only see his arm sticking out. The arm wasn’t moving, but I didn’t know he was dead. A lot of people came running and started pushing the snow away from him, then somebody said I shouldn’t be there so they took me away to find Mother, so I wasn’t there when they got the snow off him.”

I stopped, short of breath. Square Bear was looking ill at ease and pitying but Silver Stick’s eyes hadn’t changed.

“When you were waiting for your mother and sister, which way were you facing?”

“The rink. I was watching the skaters.”

“Quite so. That meant you were facing away from the hotel.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you saw the man falling?”

“Yes.”

“What made you turn round?”

I’d no doubt about that. It was the part of my story that everybody had been most concerned with at the time.

“He shouted.”

“Shouted what?”

“Shouted ‘No.’ ”

“When did he shout it?”

I hesitated. Nobody had asked me that before because the answer was obvious.

“When he fell.”

“Of course, but at what point during his fall? I take it that it was before he landed on the roof over the dining room or you wouldn’t have turned round in time to see it.”

“Yes.”

“And you turned round in time to see him in the air and falling?”

“Holmes, I don’t think you should...”

“Oh, do be quiet, Watson. Well, Miss Jessica?”

“Yes, he was in the air and falling.”

“And he’d already screamed by then. So at what point did he scream?”

I wanted to be clever and grown up, to make him think well of me.

“I suppose it was when she pushed him out of the window.”

It was Square Bear’s face that showed most emotion. He screwed up his eyes, went red, and made little imploring signs with his fur-mittened hands, causing him to look more bear-like than ever. This time the protest was not at his friend, but at me. Silver Stick put up a hand to stop him saying anything, but his face had changed too, with a sharp V on the forehead. The voice was a shade less gentle.

“When who pushed him out of the window?”

“His wife, Mrs. McEvoy.”

I wondered whether to add, “The woman you bowed to last night,” but decided against it.

“Did you see her push him?”

“No.”

“Did you see Mrs. McEvoy at the window?”

“No.”

“And yet you tell me that Mrs. McEvoy pushed her husband out of the window. Why?”

“Everybody knows she did.”

I knew from the expression on Square Bear’s face that I’d gone badly wrong, but couldn’t see where. He, kindly man, must have guessed that because he started trying to explain to me.

“You see, my dear, after many years with my good friend Mr. Holmes...”

Yet again he was waved into silence.

“Miss Jessica, Dr. Watson means well but I hope he will permit me to speak for myself. It’s a fallacy to believe that age in itself brings wisdom, but one thing it infallibly brings is experience. Will you permit me, from my experience if not from my wisdom, to offer you a little advice?”

I nodded, not gracious now, just awed.

“Then my advice is this: always remember that what everybody knows, nobody knows.”

He used that voice like a skater uses his weight on the blade to skim or turn.

“You say everybody knows that Mrs. McEvoy pushed her husband out of the window. As far as I know you are the only person in the world who saw Mr. McEvoy fall. And yet, as you’ve told me, you did not see Mrs. McEvoy push him. So who is this ‘everybody’ who can claim such certainty about an event which, as far as we know, nobody witnessed?”

It’s miserable not knowing answers. What is nineteen times three? What is the past participle of the verb faire? I wanted to live up to him, but unwittingly he’d pressed the button that brought on the panic of the schoolroom. I blurted out: “He was very rich and she didn’t love him, and now she’s very rich and can do what she likes.”

Again the bear’s fur mitts went up, scrabbling the air. Again he was disregarded.

“So Mrs. McEvoy is rich and can do what she likes? Does it strike you that she’s happy?”

“Holmes, how can a child know...?”

I thought of the gypsy music, the gleaming dark fur, the pearls in her hair. I found myself shaking my head.

“No. And yet she comes here again, exactly a year after her husband died, the very place in the world that you’d expect her to avoid at all costs. She comes here knowing what people are saying about her, making sure everybody has a chance to see her, holding her head high. Have you any idea what that must do to a woman?”

This time Square Bear really did protest and went on protesting. How could he expect a child to know about the feelings of a mature woman? How could I be blamed for repeating the gossip of my elders? Really, Holmes, it was too much. This time too Silver Stick seemed to agree with him. He smoothed out the V shape in his forehead and apologised.

“Let us, if we may, return to the surer ground of what you actually saw. I take it that the hotel has not been rebuilt in any way since last year.”

I turned again to look at the back of the hotel. As far as I could see, it was just as it had been, the glass doors leading from the dining room and breakfast room onto the terrace, a tiled sloping roof above them. Then, joined onto the roof, the three main guest floors of the hotel. The top two floors were the ones that most people took because they had wrought-iron balconies where, on sunny days, you could stand to look at the mountains. Below them were the smaller rooms. They were less popular because, being directly above the kitchen and dining room, they suffered from noise and cooking smells and had no balconies.

Silver Stick said to Square Bear: “That was the room they had last year, top floor, second from the right. So if he were pushed, he’d have to be pushed over the balcony as well as out of the window. That would take quite a lot of strength, wouldn’t you say?”

The next question was to me. He asked if I’d seen Mr. McEvoy before he fell out of the window and I said yes, a few times.

“Was he a small man?”

“No, quite big.”

“The same size as Dr. Watson here, for instance?”

Square Bear straightened his broad shoulders, as if for military inspection.

“He was fatter.”

“Younger or older?”

“Quite old. As old as you are.”

Square Bear made a chuffing sound and his shoulders slumped a little.

“So we have a man about the same age as our friend Watson and heavier. Difficult, wouldn’t you say, for any woman to push him anywhere against his will?”

“Perhaps she took him by surprise, told him to lean out and look at something, then swept his legs off the floor.”

That wasn’t my own theory. The event had naturally been analysed in all its aspects the year before and all the parental care in the world couldn’t have kept it from me.

“A touching picture. Shall we come back to things we know for certain? What about the snow? Was there as much snow as this last year?”

“I think so. It came up above my knees last year. It doesn’t quite this year, but then I’ve grown.”

Square Bear murmured: “They’ll keep records of that sort of thing.”

“Just so, but we’re also grateful for Miss Jessica’s calibrations. May we trouble you with just one more question?”

I said yes rather warily.

“You’ve told us that just before you turned round and saw him falling you heard him shout ‘No.’ What sort of ‘No’ was it?”

I was puzzled. Nobody had asked me that before.

“Was it an angry ‘No’? A protesting ‘No’? The kind of ‘No’ you’d shout if somebody were pushing you over a balcony?”

The other man looked as if he wanted to protest again but kept quiet. The intensity in Silver Stick’s eyes would have frozen a brook in mid-babble. When I didn’t answer at once he visibly made himself relax and his voice went softer.

“It’s hard for you to remember, isn’t it? Everybody was so sure that it was one particular sort of ‘No’ that they’ve fixed their version in your mind. I want you to do something for me, if you would be so kind. I want you to forget that Dr. Watson and I are here and stand and look down at the ice rink just as you were doing last year. I want you to clear your mind of everything else and think that it really is last year and you’re hearing that shout for the first time. Will you do that?”

I faced away from them. First I looked at this year’s skaters then I closed my eyes and tried to remember how it had been. I felt the green itchy scarf round my neck, the cold getting to my toes and fingers as I waited. I heard the cry and it was all I could do not to turn round and see the body tumbling again. When I opened my eyes and looked at them they were still waiting patiently.

“I think I’ve remembered.”

“And what sort of ‘No’ was it?”

It was clear in my mind but hard to put into words.

“It... it was as if he’d been going to say something else if he’d had time. Not just no. No something.”

“No something what?”

More silence while I thought about it, then a prompt from Square Bear.

“Could it have been a name, my dear?”

“Don’t put any more ideas into her head. You thought he was going to say something after the no, but you don’t know what, is that it?”

“Yes, like no running, or no cakes today, only that wasn’t it. Something you couldn’t do.”

“Or something not there, like the cakes?”

“Yes, something like that. Only it couldn’t have been, could it?”

“Couldn’t? If something happened in a particular way, then it happened, and there’s no could or couldn’t about it.”

It was the kind of thing governesses said, but he was smiling now and I had the idea that something I’d said had pleased him.

“I see your mother and sister coming, so I’m afraid we must end this very useful conversation. I am much obliged to you for your powers of observation. Will you permit me to ask you some more questions if any more occur to me?”

I nodded.

“Is it a secret?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Holmes, I don’t think you should encourage this young lady...”

“My dear Watson, in my observation there’s nothing more precious you can give a child to keep than a secret.”

My mother came across the terrace with Amanda. Silver Stick and Square Bear touched their hats to her and hoped we enjoyed our walk. When she asked me later what we’d been talking about I said they’d asked whether the snow was as deep last year and hugged the secret of my partnership. I became in my imagination eyes and ears for him. At the children’s party at teatime on Christmas Eve the parents talked in low tones, believing that we were absorbed in the present giving round the hotel tree. But it would have taken more than the porter in red robe and white whiskers or his largesse of three wooden geese on a string to distract me from my work. I listened and stored up every scrap against the time when he’d ask me questions again. And I watched Mrs. McEvoy as she went round the hotel through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, pale and upright in her black and her jewels, trailing silence after her like the long train of a dress.

My call came on Boxing Day. There was another snowball fight in the hotel grounds, for parents as well this time. I stood back from it all and waited by a little clump of bare birches and, sure enough, Silver Stick and Square Bear came walking over to me.

“I’ve found out a lot about her,” I said.

“Have you indeed?”

“He was her second husband. She had another one she loved more, but he died of a fever. It was when they were visiting Egypt a long time ago.”

“Ten years ago.”

Silver Stick’s voice was remote. He wasn’t even looking at me.

“She got married to Mr. McEvoy three years ago. Most people said it was for his money, but there was an American lady at the party and she said Mr. McEvoy seemed quite nice when you first knew him and he was interested in music and singers, so perhaps it was one of those marriages where people quite like each other without being in love, you know?”

I thought I’d managed that rather well. I’d tried to make it like my mother talking to her friends and it sounded convincing in my ears. I was disappointed at the lack of reaction, so brought out my big guns.

“Only she didn’t stay liking him because after they got married she found out about his eye.”

“His eye?”

A reaction at last, but from Square Bear, not Silver Stick. I grabbed for the right word and clung to it.

“Roving. It was a roving eye. He kept looking at other ladies and she didn’t like it.”

I hoped they’d understand that it meant looking in a special way. I didn’t know myself exactly what special way, but the adults talking among themselves at the party had certainly understood. But it seemed I’d over-estimated these two because they were just standing there staring at me. Perhaps Silver Stick wasn’t as clever as I’d thought. I threw in my last little oddment of information, something anybody could understand.

“I found out her first name. It’s Irene.”

Square Bear cleared his throat. Silver Stick said nothing. He was looking over my head at the snowball fight.

“Holmes, I really think we should leave Jessica to play with her little friends.”

“Not yet. There’s something I wanted to ask her. Do you remember the staff at the hotel last Christmas?”

Here was a dreadful comedown. I’d brought him a head richly crammed with love, money, and marriages and he was asking about the domestics. Perhaps the disappointment on my face looked like stupidity because his voice became impatient.

“The people who looked after you, the porters and the waiters and the maids, especially the maids.”

“They’re the same... I think.” I was running them through my head. There was Petra with her thick plaits who brought us our cups of chocolate, fat Renata who made our beds, grey-haired Ulrike with her limp.

“None left?”

“I don’t think so.”

Then the memory came to me of blonde curls escaping from a maid’s uniform cap and a clear voice singing as she swept the corridors, blithe as a bird.

“There was Eva, but she got married.”

“Who did she marry?”

“Franz, the man who’s got the sleigh.”

It was flying down the drive as I spoke, silver bells jangling, the little horse gold in the sunshine.

“A good marriage for a hotel maid.”

“Oh, he didn’t have the sleigh last year. He was only the under porter.”

“Indeed. Watson, I think we must have a ride in this sleigh. Will you see the head porter about booking it?”

I hoped he might invite me to go with them but he said nothing about that. Still, he seemed to be in a good temper again — although I couldn’t see that it was from anything I’d told him.

“Miss Jessica, again I’m obliged to you. I may have yet another favour to ask, but all in good time.”

I went reluctantly to join the snowballers as the two of them walked through the snow back to the hotel.

That afternoon, on our walk, they went past us on their way down the drive in Franz’s sleigh. It didn’t look like a pleasure trip. Franz’s handsome face was serious and Holmes was staring straight ahead. Instead of turning up towards the forest at the end of the hotel drive they turned left for the village. Our walk also took us to the village because Father wanted to see an old man about getting a stick carved. When we walked down the little main street we saw the sleigh and horse standing outside a neat chalet with green shutters next to the church. I knew it was Franz’s own house and wondered what had become of his passengers. About half an hour later, when we’d seen about Father’s stick, we walked back up the street and there were Holmes and Watson standing on the balcony outside the chalet with Eva, the maid from last year. Her fair hair was as curly as ever but her head was bent. She seemed to be listening intently to something that Holmes was saying and the droop of her shoulders told me she wasn’t happy.

“Why is Silver Stick talking to her?”

Amanda, very properly, was rebuked for staring and asking questions about things that didn’t concern her. Being older and wiser, I said nothing but kept my secret coiled in my heart. Was it Eva who pushed him? Would they lock her up in prison? A little guilt stirred along with the pleasure, because he wouldn’t have known about Eva if I hadn’t told him, but not enough to spoil it. Later I watched from our window hoping to see the sleigh coming back, but it didn’t that day. Instead, just before it got dark, Holmes and Watson came back on foot up the drive, walking fast, saying nothing.

Next morning, Square Bear came up to Mother at coffee time. “I wonder if you would permit Miss Jessica to take a short walk with me on the terrace.”

Mother hesitated, but Square Bear was so obviously respectable, and anyway you could see the terrace from the coffee room. I put on my hat, cape, and gloves and walked with him out of the glass doors into the cold air. We stood looking down at the rink, in exactly the same place as I’d been standing when they first spoke to me. I knew that was no accident. Square Bear’s fussiness, the tension in his voice that he was so unsuccessful in hiding, left no doubt of it. There was something odd about the terrace, too — far more people on it than would normally be the case on a cold morning. There must have been two dozen or so standing round in stiff little groups, talking to each other, waiting.

“Where’s Mr. Holmes?”

Square Bear looked at me, eyes watering from the cold.

“The truth is, my dear, I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. He gave me my instructions at breakfast and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Instructions about me?”

Before he could answer, the scream came. It was a man’s scream, tearing through the air like a saw blade, and there was a word in it. The word was “No.” I turned with the breath choking in my throat and, just as there’d been last year, there was a dark thing in the air, its clothes flapping out round it. A collective gasp from the people on the terrace, then a soft thump as the thing hit the deep snow on the restaurant roof and began sliding. I heard “No” again and this time it was my own voice, because I knew from last year what was coming next — the slide down the steep roof gathering snow as it came, the flop onto the terrace only a few yards from where I was standing, the arm sticking out.

At first the memory was so strong that I thought that was what I was seeing, and it took a few seconds for me to realise that it wasn’t happening that way. The thing had fallen a little to the side and instead of sliding straight down the roof it was being carried to a little ornamental railing at the edge of it, where the main hotel joined onto the annex, driving a wedge of snow in front of it. Then somebody said, unbelievingly: “He’s stopped.” And the thing had stopped. Instead of plunging over the roof to the terrace it had been swept up against the railing, bundled in snow like a cylindrical snowball, and stopped within a yard of the edge. Then it sat up, clinging with one hand to the railing, covered from waist down in snow. If he’d been wearing a hat when he came out of the window he’d lost it in the fall because his damp hair was gleaming silver above his smiling brown face. It was an inward kind of smile, as if only he could appreciate the thing that he’d done.

Then the chattering started. Some people were yelling to get a ladder, others running. The rest were asking each other what had happened until somebody spotted the window wide open three floors above us.

“Her window. Mrs. McEvoy’s window.”

“He fell off Mrs. McEvoy’s balcony, just like last year.”

“But he didn’t...”

At some point Square Bear had put a hand on my shoulder. Now he bent down beside me, looking anxiously into my face, saying we should go in and find Mother. I wished he’d get out of my way because I wanted to see Silver Stick on the roof. Then Mother arrived, wafting clouds of scent and drama. I had to go inside, of course, but not before I’d seen the ladder arrive and Silver Stick coming down it, a little stiffly but dignified. And one more thing. Just as he stepped off the ladder the glass doors to the terrace opened and out she came. She hadn’t been there when it happened but now in her black fur jacket, she stepped through the people as if they weren’t there, and gave him her hand and thanked him.

At dinner that night she dined alone at her table, as on the other nights, but it took her longer to get to it. Her long walk across the dining room was made longer by all the people who wanted to speak to her, to inquire after her health, to tell her how pleased they were to see her again. It was as if she’d just arrived that afternoon, instead of being there for five days already. There were several posies of flowers on her table that must have been sent up especially from the town, and champagne in a silver bucket beside it. Silver Stick and Square Bear bowed to her as she went past their table, but ordinary polite little nods, not like that first night. The smile she gave them was like the sun coming up.

We were sent off to bed as soon as we’d had our soup as usual. Amanda went to sleep at once but I lay awake, resenting my exile from what mattered. Our parents’ sitting room was next to our bedroom and I heard them come in, excited still. Then, soon afterwards, a knock on the door of our suite, the murmur of voices, and my father, a little taken aback, saying yes come in by all means. Then their voices, Square Bear’s first, fussing with apologies about it being so late, then Silver Stick’s cutting through him: “The fact is, you’re owed an explanation, or rather your daughter is. Dr. Watson suggested that we should give it to you so that some time in the future when Jessica’s old enough, you may decide to tell her.”

If I’d owned a chest of gold and had watched somebody throwing it away in a crowded street I couldn’t have been more furious than hearing my secret about to be squandered. My first thought was to rush through to the other room in my nightdress and bare feet and demand that he should speak to me, not to them. Then caution took over, and although I did get out of bed, I went just as far as the door, opened it a crack so that I could hear better, and padded back to bed. There were sounds of chairs being rearranged, people settling into them, then Silver Stick’s voice.

“I should say at the start, for reasons we need not go into, that Dr. Watson and I were convinced that Irene McEvoy had not pushed her husband to his death. The question was how to prove it, and in that regard your daughter’s evidence was indispensable. She alone saw Mr. McEvoy fall and she alone heard what he shouted. The accurate ear of childhood — once certain adult nonsenses had been discarded — recorded that shout as precisely as a phonograph and knew that strictly speaking it was only half a shout, that Mr. McEvoy, if he’d had time, would have added something else to it.”

A pause. I sat up in bed with the counterpane round my neck, straining not to miss a word of his quiet, clear voice.

“No — something. The question was, no what? Mr. McEvoy had expected something to be there and his last thought on earth was surprise at the lack of it, surprise so acute that he was trying to shout it with his last breath. The question was, what that thing could have been.”

Silence, waiting for an answer, but nobody said anything.

“If you look up at the back of the hotel from the terrace you will notice one obvious thing. The third and fourth floors have balconies. The second floor does not. The room inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. McEvoy had a balcony. A person staying in the suite would be aware of that. He would not necessarily be aware, unless he were a particularly observant man, that the second-floor rooms had no balconies. Until it was too late. I formed the theory that Mr. McEvoy had not in fact fallen from the window of his own room but from a lower room belonging to somebody else, which accounted for his attempted last words: “No... balcony.”

My mother gasped. My father said: “By Jove...”

“Once I’d arrived at that conclusion, the question was what Mr. McEvoy was doing in somebody else’s room. The possibility of thieving could be ruled out since he was a very rich man. Then he was seeing somebody. The next question was who. And here your daughter was incidentally helpful in a way she is too young to understand. She confided to us in all innocence an overheard piece of adult gossip to the effect that the late Mr. McEvoy had a roving eye.”

My father began to laugh, then stifled it. My mother said “Well” in a way that boded trouble for me later.

“Once my attention was directed that way, the answer became obvious. Mr. McEvoy was in somebody else’s hotel room for what one might describe as an episode of galanterie. But the accident happened in the middle of the morning. Did ever a lady in the history of the world make a romantic assignation for that hour of the day? Therefore it wasn’t a lady. So I asked myself what group of people are most likely to be encountered in hotel rooms in mid-morning and the answer was...”

“Good heavens, the chambermaid!”

My mother’s voice, and Holmes was clearly none too pleased at being interrupted.

“Quite so. Mr. McEvoy had gone to meet a chambermaid. I asked some questions to establish whether any young and attractive chambermaid had left the hotel since last Christmas. There was such a one, named Eva. She’d married the under porter and brought him as a dowry enough money to buy that elegant little sleigh. Now a prudent chambermaid may amass a modest dowry by saving tips, but one look at that sleigh will tell you that Eva’s dowry might best be described as, well... immodest.”

Another laugh from my father, cut off by a look from my mother I could well imagine.

“Dr. Watson and I went to see Eva. I told her what I’d deduced and she, poor girl, confirmed it with some details — the sound of the housekeeper’s voice outside, Mr. McEvoy’s well-practised but ill-advised tactic of taking refuge on the balcony. You may say that the girl Eva should have confessed at once what had happened...”

“I do indeed.”

“But bear in mind her position. Not only her post at the hotel but her engagement to the handsome Franz would be forfeited. And, after all, there was no question of anybody being tried in court. The fashionable world was perfectly happy to connive at the story that Mr. McEvoy had fallen accidentally from his window — while inwardly convicting an innocent woman of his murder.”

My mother said, sounding quite subdued for once: “But Mrs. McEvoy must have known. Why didn’t she say something?”

“Ah, to answer that one needs to know something about Mrs. McEvoy’s history, and it so happens that Dr. Watson and I are in that position. A long time ago, before her first happy marriage, Mrs. McEvoy was loved by a prince. He was not, I must admit, a particularly admirable prince, but prince he was. Can you imagine how it felt for a woman to come from that to being deceived with a hotel chambermaid by a man who made his fortune from bathroom furnishings? Can you conceive that a proud woman might choose to be thought a murderess rather than submit to that indignity?”

Another silence, then my mother breathed: “Yes. Yes, I think I can.” Then, “Poor woman.”

“It was not pity that Irene McEvoy ever needed.” Then, in a different tone of voice: “So there you have it. And it is your decision how much, if anything, you decide to pass on to Jessica in due course.”

There were sounds of people getting up from chairs, then my father said: “And your, um, demonstration this morning?”

“Oh, that little drama. I knew what had happened, but for Mrs. McEvoy’s sake it was necessary to prove to the world she was innocent. I couldn’t call Eva as witness because I’d given her my word. I’d studied the pitch of the roof and the depth of the snow and I was scientifically convinced that a man falling from Mrs. McEvoy’s balcony would not have landed on the terrace. You know the result.”

Good-nights were said, rather subdued, and they were shown out. Through the crack in the door I glimpsed them. As they came level with the crack, Silver Stick, usually so precise in his movements, dropped his pipe and had to kneel to pick it up. As he knelt, his bright eyes met mine through the crack and he smiled, an odd, quick smile unseen by anybody else. He’d known I’d been listening all the time.

When they’d gone Mother and Father sat for a long time in silence.

At last Father said: “If he’d got it wrong, he’d have killed himself.”

“Like the ski-ing.”

“He must have loved her very much.”

“It’s his own logic he loves.”

But then, my mother always was the unromantic one.

The Christmas Client Edward D. Hoch

While such masters of the form as Edgar Allan Poe and O. Henry became famous having written only short stories, and Arthur Conan Doyle had little success with Sherlock Holmes until he produced short stories, it has been virtually impossible for an author to earn a living as a short story writer during the last half century or more, but Edward D. Hoch was a rare exception. He produced more than nine hundred stories in his career, his most famous being “The Oblong Room” (1967), for which he won the Edgar Award, and “The Long Way Down” (1965), in which a man goes out the window of a skyscraper but doesn’t land until hours later; it was the basis for a two-hour episode of the television series McMillan and Wife. “The Christmas Client” was first published in Holmes for the Holidays, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Waugh (New York, Berkley, 1996).

It was on Christmas day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day, and when we heard her on the stair I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.

“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.”

“On Christmas Day?” I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption, and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I’d been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.

“My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day it must be a matter of extreme urgency — either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”

Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build, with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake. “Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my dear friend Dr. Watson.”

The man shook my hand too and spoke in a soft voice. “Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir, and I... I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days.”

As he spoke I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke. “Please be seated,” Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. “Now tell us what brought you out on Christmas Day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church up in Oxford.”

Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. “Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford’s Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried, and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today.”

“Are you a wizard?” Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.

Holmes, for his part, casually reached for his pipe and tobacco. “Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket I can see a small pamphlet on which the author’s name is given as Reverend Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today the ticket would not still be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also on the front of your pamphlet I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of passing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?”

“What about the unpleasant experience?” I reminded Holmes.

“You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor’s pants are scraped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London.”

“You’re correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Dodgson told him. “I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago but I... I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater.”

“And what brought you to London this day?”

Dodgson took a deep breath. “You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What I am about to say is highly embarrassing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an-any moral wrong.”

“Go on,” Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.

“I am being blackmailed.” He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none he continued. “Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I... I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents I sometimes did nude studies.” His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.

“My God, Dodgson!” I exclaimed before I could help myself.

He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired. Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he’d just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, “Was this after you had taken holy orders?”

“I sometimes use ‘Reverend’ before my name but I am only a deacon. I nev-never went on to holy orders because my speech defect makes it difficult for me to preach. Some-sometimes it’s worse than this. I also have some deafness in one ear.”

“Tell me about the pictures. How old were the girls?”

“They were usually prepubescent. I took the photographs in all innocence, you — you must realize that. I photographed adults, too, people like Ellen Terry and Tennyson and Rossetti.”

“With their clothes on, I trust,” said Holmes with a slight smile.

“I know what I did was viewed with distaste by many of my acquaintances,” our white-haired visitor said. “For that reason I abandoned photography some eight years ago.”

“Then what is the reason for this blackmail?”

“I must go back to 1879, when I published my mathematical treatise Euclid and His Modern Rivals. Although the general public paid it little heed, I was pleased that it caused something of a stir in mathematical circles. One of the men who contacted me at the time was a professor who held the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities. We became casual friends and he learned of my photographic interests. Later, af-after I’d ceased my photography, he apparently did some picture taking of his own. I was at the beach in Brighton this past summer when I met a lovely little girl. We chatted for a time and I asked if she wouldn’t like to go wading in the surf. I carried some safety pins with me and I used them to pin up her skirt so she co-could wade without getting it wet.”

I could restrain myself no longer. “This is perversion you speak of! These innocent children—”

“I swear to you I did nothing wrong!” he insisted. “But somehow this former friend arranged to have me photographed in the very act of pinning up the little girl’s skirt. Now he is using these pictures to blackmail me.”

“What brought you to London today,” Holmes asked, “and what unpleasantness brought you here to seek my help?”

“The professor contacted me some months ago with his threats and blackmail. He demanded a large sum of money in return for those pictures taken at the beach.”

“And what made him believe that a retired mathematics instructor, even at Oxford, would have a large sum of money?”

“I have ha-had some success with my writing. It has not made me wealthy, but I live comfortably.”

“Was your Euclid treatise that successful?” Holmes chided.

“Certain of my other writings...” He seemed reluctant to continue.

“What happened today?”

“The professor demanded that I meet him here at Paddington Station, with one hundred quid. I came down from Oxford on the noon train as instructed, but he was not at the station to meet me. Instead I was assaulted by a beggar, who pushed me down in the street after handing me an odd message of some sort.”

“Did you report this to the police?”

“How could I? My rep-reputation—”

“So you came here?”

“I was at my wit’s end. I knew of your reputation and I hoped you could help me. This man has me in his clutches. He will drain me of my money and destroy my reputation as well.”

“Pray tell me the name of this blackmailer,” Holmes said, picking up a pencil.

“It is Moriarty — Professor James Moriarty.”

Sherlock Holmes put down his pencil and smiled slightly. “I think I will be able to help you, Reverend Dodgson.”

It was then that Mrs. Hudson interrupted us with word that the Christmas goose would be served in thirty minutes. We were welcome to come down earlier if we liked, to partake of some holiday sherry. Holmes introduced her to Dodgson and then a remarkable event occurred. She stared at him through her spectacles and repeated his name to be sure she’d heard it correctly. “Reverend Charles Dodgson?”

“That’s correct.”

“It would be a pleasure if you joined us, too. There is enough food for four.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances. Mrs. Hudson had never even conversed with a visitor before, to say nothing of inviting one to dinner. Still, it was Christmas Day and perhaps she was only being hospitable.

While she escorted Dodgson downstairs, I whispered to Holmes, “What’s this about Moriarty? You spoke of him earlier this year in connection with the Valley of Fear affair.”

“I did indeed, Watson. If he is Dodgson’s blackmailer, I welcome the opportunity to challenge him once again.”

We said nothing of our visitor’s problems during dinner. Mrs. Hudson entertained him with accounts of her young nieces and their occasional visits to Baker Street. “I read to them often,” she said, gesturing toward a small shelf of children’s books she maintained for such occasions. “All children should be exposed to good books.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dodgson replied.

As we were finishing our mince pie and Mrs. Hudson was busy clearing the table, Holmes returned to the subject that had brought Dodgson to us. “If you and Professor Moriarty were casual friends, what caused this recent enmity between you?”

“It was the book, I suppose. Moriarty’s most celebrated volume of pure mathematics is The Dynamics of an Asteroid. When I followed it with my own somewhat humorous effort, The Dynamics of a Particle, he believed the satire was aimed at him. I tried to explain that it dealt with an Oxford subject, a contest between Gladstone and Gathorne Hardy, but he would have none of it. From then on, he seemed to be seeking ways to destroy me.”

Holmes finished the last of his pie. “Excellent, Mrs. Hudson, excellent! Your cooking is a delight!”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She retreated to the kitchen while he took out his pipe but did not light it.

“Tell me about this cryptic message you alluded to earlier.”

“I can do better than that.” He reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “This is what the beggar gave me. When I tried to stop him he knocked me down and escaped.”

Holmes read the message twice before passing the paper to me:

“It makes no sense, Holmes” was my initial reaction. “It’s just some childish verse, and not a very good one.”

“I can make nothing of it,” Dodgson admitted. “Who is Benjamin Ca-Caunt?”

“He was a prizefighter,” Holmes remarked. “I remember hearing my father speak of him.” He puzzled over the message. “From what I know of Moriarty, it would be in character for him to reveal everything in this verse, and challenge us to decipher it.”

“What of Caunt’s lofty face?” I asked.

“It could be a statue or a portrait in a high place. His day could be the day of his birth, or of some special triumph, or perhaps the day of his death? I have nothing about the man in my files upstairs, and it will be two days before the libraries are open.”

“And what is this about the Mad Hatter?” I inquired.

Mrs. Hudson had returned from the kitchen at that moment and heard my question. “My niece prefers the March Hare, Mr. Dodgson,” she told him. “But then little girls usually like soft, furry animals.” She walked over to the little bookshelf and took out a slender volume. “See? Here is my copy of your book. I have the other one, too.”

She held a copy of Alice in Wonderland.

Holmes put a hand to his forehead, as if pained by his failure. “My mind must be elsewhere today. Of course! You are the author of Alice and Through the Looking Glass under the pseudonym of Lewis Carroll!”

Charles Dodgson smiled slightly. “It seems to be an open secret, though it is something I neither confirm nor deny.”

“This puts a whole new light on the affair,” said Holmes, laying down his pipe and turning to Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you for refreshing my memory.” He looked again at the message.

I puzzled over it myself before turning once again to our client. “Moriarty must know of your writing, since he makes reference to the Mad Hatter.”

“Of course he knows. But what does the message mean?”

“I believe you should remain in the city overnight,” Holmes told him. “All may come clear tomorrow.”

“Why is that?”

“The message speaks of Benjamin Caunt’s Day, and he was a prizefighter — a boxer. Tomorrow, of course, is Boxing Day.”

Charles Dodgson shook his head in amazement. “That is something worthy of the Mad Hatter himself!”

Mrs. Hudson found an unoccupied room in which Dodgson spent the night. In the morning I knocked at his door and invited him to join us for breakfast. Holmes had spent much of the night awake in his chair, poring over his books and files, studying maps of the city and lists of various sorts. Dodgson immediately asked if he had discovered anything, but my friend’s answer was bleak. “Not a thing, sir! I can find no statue in all of London erected to the boxer Benjamin Caunt, nor is there any special portrait of him. Certainly there is none in a lofty position as the verse implies.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“The entire matter seems most odd. You have the blackmail money on your person. Why did not this beggar simply take it, instead of giving you a further message?”

“It’s Moriarty’s doing,” Dodgson insisted. “He wants to humiliate me.”

“From my limited knowledge of the good professor, he is more interested in financial gain than in humiliation.” Holmes reached for another of his several guidebooks to the city and began paging through it.

“Have you ever met Moriarty?” our visitor asked.

“Not yet,” Holmes responded. “But someday— Hello, what’s this?” His eyes had fallen upon something in the book he’d been skimming.

“A portrait of Caunt?”

“Better than that. This guidebook states that our best-known tower bell, Big Ben, may have been named after Benjamin Caunt, who was a famous boxer in 1858, when the bell was cast at the Whitechapel Foundry. Other books attribute the name Big Ben to Sir Benjamin Hall, chief commissioner of the works. The truth is of no matter. What does matter is that Big Ben, the clock, certainly does have a lofty face looking out over Parliament and the Thames.”

“Then he is to meet Moriarty at one o’clock today — Boxing Day — beneath Big Ben,” I said. At last it was becoming clear to me.

But Charles Dodgson was not so certain. “The Mad Hatter’s clock, meaning the watch he carried in his pocket, told the day of the month but not the time.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I bow to your superior knowledge of Alice in Wonderland.”

“But where does that leave us?” I asked, pouring myself another cup of breakfast tea. “The number one in the message must refer to a time rather than a date. Surely you are not to wait until New Year’s Day to pay this blackmail when the first line speaks of Benjamin Caunt’s day. It has to be Boxing Day!”

“Agreed,” Holmes said. “I suggest we three travel to Big Ben and see what awaits us at one o’clock.”

The day was pleasant enough, with even a few traces of sunshine breaking through the familiar winter clouds. A bit of snow the previous week had long since melted, and the day’s temperature was hovering in the low forties. We took a cab to Westminster Abbey, just across the street from our destination, and joined the holiday strollers out enjoying the good weather.

“There’s no sign of anyone waiting,” I observed as we walked toward Westminster Bridge.

Holmes’s eyes were like a hawk’s as he scanned the passersby. “It is only five to the hour, Watson. But I suggest, Mr. Dodgson, that you walk a bit ahead of us. If no one attempts to intercept you by the time you reach the bridge, pause for a moment and then walk back this way.”

“Do you have a description of Moriarty?” I asked as Dodgson walked ahead of us as instructed.

“He will not come himself. It will be one of his hirelings, and all the more dangerous for that.”

“What should we look for?”

He seemed to remember the poem. “An old lady, Watson.”

But there was no old lady alone, no one who paused as if waiting for someone or attempted to approach Charles Dodgson. He had reached the bridge and started back along the sidewalk, stepping around a small boy who was chalking a rough design on the sidewalk.

It was Holmes whose curiosity was aroused. As the boy finished his drawing and ran off, he paused to study it. “What do you make of this, Watson?”

I saw nothing but a crude circle drawn in chalk, with clocklike numbers running around the inner rim from one to thirty-one. An arrow seemed pointed at the number twenty-six, the day’s date.

“Surely no more than a child’s drawing,” I said.

Dodgson had returned to join us and when he saw the chalked design he gave a start of surprise. “It’s the Mad Hatter’s watch, with dates instead of the time. Who drew this?”

“A young lad,” said Holmes. “No doubt paid and instructed by Moriarty. He’ll be blocks away by now.”

“But what does it mean?” Dodgson asked.

“ ‘Come by there at one, on Mad Hatter’s clock,’ ” Holmes quoted from memory. “There is no time on the clock, only dates. The phrase ‘on Mad Hatter’s clock’ must be taken literally. You must stand on the chalk drawing of the clock.”

Dodgson did as he was told, attracting the puzzled glances of passersby. “Now what?”

It was I who noticed the box about the size of my medical bag, carefully wrapped and resting against the wall to the east of the Big Ben tower. “What’s this?” I asked, stooping to pick it up. “Perhaps they’re your pictures.”

“Watson!”

It was Holmes who shouted as I began to unwrap the box. He was at my side in a flash, yanking it from my grasp just as I was about to open it. “What is it, Holmes?”

“One o’clock!” he yelled as the great bell above our heads tolled the hour. He ran several steps and hurled the box with all his strength toward the river. He had a strong arm, but his throw was a good deal short of the water when the box exploded in a blinding flash and a roar like a cannon.

Two strollers near Westminster Bridge had been slightly injured by the blast and all of us were shaken. Within minutes police were everywhere, and somehow I was not even surprised when our old friend Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard arrived on the scene about fifteen minutes later.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, they said you were involved in this. I was hoping for a peaceful holiday.”

“The Christmas box held an infernal machine,” Holmes told him, having recovered his composure. “I glimpsed a clock and some sticks of dynamite before I hurled it away. It was set to go off at one o’clock, exactly the time that Mr. Dodgson here had been lured to Big Ben.”

Lestrade, lean and ferretlike as always, stepped forward to brush a speck of dirt from my coat. “And, Dr. Watson, I trust you weren’t injured in this business.”

“I’m all right,” I answered gruffly. “Mr. Dodgson here was the target of the attack, or so we believe.”

People were clustered around, and it was obvious Lestrade was anxious to get us away from there. “Come, come, here is a police carriage. Let us adjourn to my office at Scotland Yard and get to the bottom of this matter.”

I was concerned for Charles Dodgson, who seemed to have been in a state of shock since the explosion. “Why should he want to kill me?” he kept asking. “I was willing to pay him his hundred quid.”

“Professor Moriarty is after bigger game than a hundred quid,” Holmes assured him.

“But what?”

The police carriage was pulling away as Lestrade shouted instructions to the driver. Holmes peered at the vast number of bobbies and horse-drawn police vehicles attracted by the explosion. “You have a great many men out here on a holiday.”

“It’s Big Ben, Mr. Holmes — one of London’s sacred institutions! We don’t take this lightly. It could be some revolutionary group behind it.”

“I doubt that,” Holmes responded with a smile.

He said no more until we had reached the dingy offices at Scotland Yard. “Our new building will be ready soon,” Lestrade informed us a bit apologetically. “Now let us get down to business.”

Charles Dodgson told his story somewhat haltingly, explaining how he’d come to Holmes on Christmas Day after being roughed up at Paddington Station. He tried to treat the episodes with the young girls with some delicacy, but Lestrade gnawed away at the story until he grasped the full picture. “You are being blackmailed!” he said with a start. “This should have been reported to the Oxford police at once.”

“More easily said than done,” the white-haired man responded. “A hundred is not a bad price to save my reputation and my honor.”

It was here that Sherlock Holmes interrupted. “Surely, Lestrade, you must see that the plot against Mr. Dodgson is merely a diversion, a red herring. And if it is a diversion, why cannot the bomb at Big Ben also be a diversion?”

“What are you saying?”

“We must return to Moriarty’s cryptic message. All has been explained except the final two lines: ‘The Old Lady’s done / And gone ’neath the block.’ ”

“A nonsense rhyme,” Dodgson insisted. “Nothing more.”

“But your own nonsense rhymes usually have a meaning,” Holmes pointed out. “I admit to a sparse knowledge of your work, but I know a great deal about London crime. I ask you, Lestrade, which Old Lady could the verse refer to?”

“I have no idea, Holmes.”

“Robbing an old lady would be akin to blackmailing a retired Oxford professor. Unless it was a particular old lady.”

Lestrade’s face drained of blood. “You can’t mean” — his voice dropped to a whisper — “Queen Victoria!”

“No, no, I refer to the playwright Sheridan’s quaint phrase, The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.”

Lestrade and I spoke the words in the same breath. “The Bank of England!”

“Quite so,” Holmes said. “The Big Ben bombing brought out virtually all the police on duty today. The financial district, closed for the holiday in any event, is virtually unguarded. I would guess that at this very moment Moriarty’s men are looting the Bank of England and escaping back through their tunnel ’neath the block.”

“My God!” Dodgson exclaimed. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Not only possible, but probable for Professor Moriarty. Lestrade, if you will bring me a large-scale map of the area, I will show you exactly where to find this tunnel.”

“If you do that,” said Dodgson, “you are truly a wizard.”

“Hardly,” Holmes said with a smile. “If you are tunneling under a street between buildings, you naturally would choose the shortest route.”

Less than an hour later, while I watched with Holmes and Dodgson from a safe distance, Lestrade’s men took the tunneling bank robbers without a struggle. Moriarty, unfortunately, was not among them.

“One day, Watson,” Holmes said with confidence. “One day we will meet. In any event, Mr. Dodgson, I believe your troubles are over. All this blackmail business was a sham, and now that you have made a clean slate of it to the authorities there is nothing to be gained by blackmail.”

“I cannot thank you enough, sir,” the white-haired author said. “What do I owe you for your services?”

“Consider it a Christmas gift,” Holmes announced with a wave of his hand. “Now, if I am not mistaken, you have just time to catch the next train back to Oxford. Let us escort you to Paddington Station and wish you an uneventful journey home.”

The Secret in the Pudding Bag & Herlock Sholmes’s Christmas Case Peter Todd

One of england’s most prolific and popular authors (especially in the first half of the twentieth century), Charles Hamilton is largely unknown in the United States. He used more than twenty-five pseudonyms to produce more than seventy million words (the equivalent of nearly a thousand novels). His most popular creation was Billy Bunter, who appeared under the Frank Richards byline in more than fourteen hundred novellas. He used the Peter Todd pseudonym for his one hundred Herlock Sholmes stories, the first Sherlock Holmes parody cycle. “The Secret in the Pudding Bag” was first published in the December 27, 1924, issue of Penny Popular; “Herlock Sholmes’s Christmas Case” was first published in the December 3, 1916, edition of The Magnet.

Before revealing the amazing Secret of the Pudding Bag, I, Herlock Sholmes, detective of Shaker Street, London, desire to explain my action to my readers.

For years my faithful friend, Dr. Jotson, who assists me to pay Mrs. Spudson’s exorbitant rent, had acted as the official recorder of my cases. Never was there a better man. Although a general practitioner, he is an expert on disordered brains. As I have told him many a time, he should be in a mental asylum — as house-surgeon, of course. Yet his great talents have not been wasted altogether in Shaker Street.

But his very devotion to me has one drawback. He refuses to record any but my astounding successes. And the case of the Pudding Bag can hardly be classified as one. But because of its Christmas flavour the Editor desired it greatly — the story, not the pudding bag.

One day just after I had successfully solved the mystery of the Poisoned Doughnut, in Tooting Bec, I found the Great Man in our consulting-room at Shaker Street, begging Jotson to narrate the tale for the benefit of his readers. Jotson refused. Therefore, I insisted on recording this amazing case myself.[2]

For long Dr. Jotson had been run-down and depressed. Ever since that day when he left his best pair of silver-plated scissors inside the patient upon whom he had operated for liver trouble, he had not been himself.

For some time I must admit it did not occur to me that there was anything else wrong with poor Jotson save worry for the loss of his patient and the scissors. But shortly before Christmas it was borne on me that something else was amiss.

One night as I sat in my armchair playing Schnoffenstein’s Five-Finger Exercise in B Flat on my violin, curious rumbling noises assailed my ear. At first I thought the G string wanted tightening; then it occurred to me that the strange, deep sounds were proceeding from the next room.

I ceased playing. Creeping stealthily towards the bed-room door, my fiddle grasped in my right hand ready for any emergency, I stooped down with the skilled grace of long practice, and applied my ear to the keyhole.

Now I could hear the rumbling clearly. Dr. Jotson was talking to himself. Throwing open the door, I stood a tall and, I hope, dignified figure in my purple dressing-gown with the little green birds on the holly branches round the hem.

“Jotson!” I cried. “You are distraught.”

My old friend Jotson, who had been pacing the bed-room, stopped, his hands behind him. There was a startled look on his face, his sandy, walrus moustache drooping guiltily.

“Sholmes,” he said, “you have been listening. What have you heard?”

“Aah,” I said. “What! Well might I ask you a question. What are you concealing from me, Jotson? What have you behind your back?”

“He, he, he! Only a couple of patches,” replied Jotson, faintly laughing at his own feeble joke. “Now pray go and resume your amateur vivisection on my guinea pigs!”

Candidly, I felt offended, and I left the room. But I resolved to keep my eye on my old and faithful friend for any further symptoms before formally notifying Colney Hatch.

Gradually, as the days sped by, I became more convinced that Jotson was ailing mentally. Several times I heard him mumbling behind closed doors. Occasionally, too, he left the house in the evenings on some pretext or another. But I felt that when Jotson needed my help he would tell me. So I snuffed my cocaine, played my violin, and solved a couple of dozen poison mysteries which had baffled Scotland Yard and the Continental police, and temporarily left Jotson to look after himself.

On Christmas Eve Dr. Jotson made one more of his mysterious disappearances. For long I sat before the fire in the consulting-room, casually perusing the evening paper as I smoked my pipe. Outside the snow snowed and the waits waited — I was hard up that Christmas.

Suddenly a paragraph on an inner news page riveted my attention. It was headed: “Proposed River Trip for Crown Prince,” and read: “The Crown Prince of Schlacca-Splittzen, who arrived this afternoon in London from Paris, has expressed a desire to see the London County Council Hall from the river. He remarked to reporters that his view of this magnificent structure from the railway reminded him of the municipal Torture House in Tchmnomzyte, the capital of his own state of Schlacca-Splittzen, which lies to the south of Russia. The Crown Prince is being carefully guarded by Inspector Pinkeye and three other well-known detectives from Scotland Yard. These precautions are being taken because it is rumoured that the Schlacca-Splittzen Co-operative Society of Anarchists have threatened to drop a bomb into his porridge if he visited Britain’s shores.”

As I read this little paragraph a dark suspicion entered my mind, and there I determined that Jotson must be watched.

It was eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Spudson, her hair in curl-papers, had retired to rest. I damped down the fire, covered the canary’s cage, turned the consulting-room lights out, chained up the dog, put out the cat, and left the key under the front doormat for Jotson. Then I went to my room.

I was about to doff my dressing-gown when I heard Jotson enter the house. Slowly he came upstairs, and I heard him switch on the consulting-room light. Leaving my room, I crept along the passage and quickly opened the door of the consulting-room.

As I did so Jotson leaped from the hearth as though stung.

“Great porous plasters!” he gasped. “What a fright you gave me! For a moment I thought you were the ghost of Old Man Scrooge. You see, I’ve been attending the recital of the ‘Christmas Carol.’ He, he, he!”

The halting words of my old friend and his musical cackle told me he was not speaking the truth.

“Jotson,” I said sternly, “you’ve no more been to any recital to-night than I’ve been to the tax-collector to pay next year’s income-tax in advance. Now, tell me. Where have you been?”

As I spoke, my trained eye swept the fire grate. From the flames and ashes which I saw there I deduced that Jotson had been burning something. Quickly I averted my gaze so that he should not know I knew.

My old friend tugged nervously at his moustache.

“It’s nothing, really, my dear Sholmes,” he said nervously. “If I told you, you would only laugh at me. And I hate being laughed at!”

“Nonsense, Jotson!” I said heartily. “Everyone laughs at you — er — except your patients, of course. And they usually don’t last long enough to laugh long.”

This I said in a gentle, bantering tone to cheer Jotson up. To my surprise, it seemed to have the opposite effect, and he stumped out of the room in a huff.

That was the opportunity I wanted. In a moment my nose was in the fender. Quickly I peered about. Before you could say “force-meat stuffing” I had found a narrow strip of torn paper bearing some typewritten words. Hearing Jotson’s footsteps returning I hastily crammed it in my pocket, and was innocently cracking Brazil nuts with my teeth when he entered the consulting-room to apologise for his former rudeness.

I said nothing about my discovery, but in my bedroom I examined the find carefully. To my stupefaction the typewritten words, which were in English, read as follows:

“... this honour. You have been chosen, comrade. See you fail not.”

Ding, dong! Clatter Bang! Ding dong!

The merry Christmas bells were chiming as Jotson and I met at breakfast on the following morning and exchanged greetings.

My eagle eye was quick to notice that Dr. Jotson was not himself at breakfast. Quite absent-mindedly he helped me to the larger half of the breakfast kipper, and then gave me the first cup from the coffee-pot, instead of the usual dregs. All my old fears for my poor friend’s condition returned with renewed force.

Sitting in my chair, daintily flicking the kipper-bones from the lapel of my mauve dressing-gown, I watched Jotson as he went to the window and tried to entice the friendship of a robin redbreast by means of a fish-head.

“What do you say to a walk round Marylebone Station or the Waxworks, to get an appetite for our Christmas dinner, Jotson!” I remarked casually.

Jotson’s walrus moustache gave a perceptible quiver.

“Er — I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, my dear Sholmes!” he stammered. “A new patient of mine, a dear old lady who is suffering from a temporary attack of suspended vibration of the right bozookum, and wishes me to test her high tension battery to enable her to get 2LO for the Christmas glee singers. I’m afraid—”

“Tut, tut!” I said. “I’ll come with you, Jotson.”

“No, my dear Sholmes,” said Jotson very firmly. “I shouldn’t think of taking you to a case like this on Christmas Day. Why don’t you take the bus up to the Zoological Gardens, or, if you prefer it, remain in front of the fire cracking a few monkey-nuts yourself?”

I said no more, but I thought a lot. For a time I sat myself in the armchair.

Speedily it became apparent that Jotson was up to some game. It seemed almost impossible to keep track of his movements. He was as slippery as an eel in an old pail. But at last I heard him stealthily take his hat and coat from the peg in the hall and leave the house.

Within a minute I was tracking my old friend down Shaker Street. Dr. Jotson had a large brown paper parcel under his right arm. The parcel looked innocent enough. What did that parcel contain? That I was determined to find out.

Poor Jotson was worried. I deduced that from the absent-minded way that he pushed the face of a little boy who asked him for a cigarette-card. Stopping at the corner outside the Goat and Gooseberry Bush, he hesitated a moment, and then leaped on a passing bus. I waited until he had gone inside with his parcel; then I swung myself on the step and darted aloft.

Peering from the bus top, I saw Jotson alight at Charing Cross. I waited a few moments until the bus had started to move again, and then I ran nimbly down the steps. As I did so, with consummate cunning I knocked off the conductor’s hat and leaped into the road. As he prepared to stop the bus I swiftly tossed him my own cap, and retrieved his fallen property. Then replacing the peaked, blue cap on my head and gumming a false black moustache to my upper lip, I followed in the track of my old friend.

Once Jotson stopped and looked back. All he saw, apparently, was an attenuated bus-conductor about to turn into a near by chop-house.

Waiting in the shelter of the doorway a minute, I emerged and followed him again. As I watched his stocky form stumping down Whitehall towards the Houses of Parliament, a gust of wind blew the paper from under his arm. A white, earthenware pudding basin was revealed, with a cloth over the top of it.

After a vain attempt to retrieve the paper Jotson went on his way, looking uncommonly foolish walking down Whitehall holding that pudding-cloth, with the basin swinging at his side.

At first the sight of that pudding-basin brought a sense of relief to me. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. This was no pudding-basin. It was a bomb! Rapidly I reviewed in my mind the events leading up to this Christmas morning walk. I remembered Jotson’s curious mumblings. I remembered the paragraph about the Crown Prince of Schlacca-Splittzen. I called to mind the mysterious message on the scrap of paper I had taken from the fire-grate. With a bomb in that innocent-looking bag, Jotson was on his way to the river to fulfill his dread mission.

My friend strode firmly to the Thames Embankment.

Quite a crowd was lining the parapet.

“What’s the excitement?” I heard him ask a low-looking ruffian.

“It’s that there Crown Prince of Slaccy-Splittern,” replied the fellow. “He’s just about to land at the jetty.”

Jotson pushed his way through the crowd to the parapet. I kept close at his heels, my heart hammering against my ribs.

With a gasp of dismay I saw Jotson hoist the pudding-basin on to the parapet and give it a gentle shove.

“Stop!” I cried, and thrust my hand forward.

I must have diverted Jotson’s aim, for the basin struck against a jutting ledge of the Embankment. There was no time to duck, for I feared the next moment there would be an explosion that would bring about the end of all things as far as we were concerned. To my surprise, however, the basin broke, and out shot a great plum-pudding. It struck a boatman standing on the jetty waiting for the prince’s launch right on the back of the neck and burst into fragments, while the onlookers gasped with astonishment. Then when they realised what had happened, a great shout of laughter burst forth. The boatman was annoyed — very! He looked aloft, with a great piece of pudding crowning his head, and passed a few remarks totally unconnected with that “peace on earth and good will to men” which one associates with the Yuletide season. Then, as the fellow turned to help with the mooring of the prince’s launch, I grasped Jotson by the hand and dragged him away.

“You thundering idiot!” I said. “What do you mean by it all?”

“Sholmes!” cried Jotson. There was both surprise and disappointment in his tone.

And then bit by bit I dragged the story out of Jotson. He knew that Mrs. Spudson had made a Christmas pudding and that she would insist on him and me partaking of it at the Christmas dinner.

“Knowing your good nature, Sholmes,” he said, “I knew that you would have eaten some of it to avoid offending our landlady. You did last year, and what was the consequence? For two days you groaned on the couch with the collywobbles. This year I determined at all costs I would get rid of the Christmas pudding. As a medical man I knew it was positively dangerous, but I didn’t want to drag you into the matter, nor did I wish to offend Mrs. Spudson. And so I quietly lifted the basin containing the pudding, intending to dispose of it in the first possible way that presented itself. As you know, in desperation I finally toppled it over into the river.”

Then I told him how his rumblings had roused my suspicions, and the finding of the torn piece of typewritten paper had corroborated them.

Now it was Jotson’s turn to laugh.

“ ’Pon my word, Sholmes!” he chuckled. “I didn’t know you were so worried about me! You see, a fortnight ago I joined the Marylebone Dramatic Society, and was offered the role of Koffituppe in the play, “Crown Jewels in Pawn,” by Msmooji, the famous Russian dramatist. Afraid you would laugh at me, I would retire to my bed-room to study my role. Finally, in disgust at my inability to learn the part, I tore it up and threw it on the fire. The typewritten piece of paper you found was a portion of the play.”

“But why on earth didn’t you tell me all this before, my dear fellow?” I cried.

“Because,” answered Jotson, “I should have had to acknowledge failure, and, as you know, no man likes to do that.”

“Ah, well,” I laughed, “the mystery is solved! And we can safely return to Shaker Street to pull the wish-bone of a turkey without the fear of having to partake of any of the amazing stodgy concoction which Mrs. Spudson calls Christmas pudding!”

“Christmas tomorrow!” Herlock Sholmes remarked thoughtfully.

I started.

“My dear Sholmes!” I murmured.

Herlock Sholmes smiled.

“You are surprised, Jotson, to hear me make that statement with such positiveness,” he remarked. “Yet, I assure you that such is the case.”

“I acknowledge, Sholmes, that I ought no longer to be surprised at anything you may say or do. But from what grounds do you infer—”

“Quite simple, my dear Jotson. Look from the window upon the slushy streets and the hurrying crowds, all indicative of the approach of Christmas!”

“True! But why tomorrow precisely?”

“Ah, there we go a little deeper, Jotson. I deduce that Christmas occurs tomorrow from a study of the calendar!”

“The calendar!” I exclaimed, in astonishment.

“Exactly!”

“As you know, Sholmes, I have endeavoured to study your methods, in my humbler way, yet I confess that I do not see the connection—”

“Probably not, Jotson. But to the trained, professional mind it presents no difficulties. Christmas, you are aware, falls upon the twenty-fifth day of the month!”

“True!”

“Look at the calendar, Jotson!”

I obeyed.

“It tells you nothing?”

“Nothing!” I confessed.

Sholmes smiled again, a somewhat bored smile.

“My dear fellow, the calendar indicates that today is the twenty-fourth!”

“Quite so. But—”

“And as Christmas falls upon the twenty-fifth, it follows — to an acute mind accustomed to rapid deductions — that tomorrow is Christmas!”

I could only gaze at my amazing friend in silent admiration.

“But there will be no holiday for us tomorrow, my dear Jotson,” resumed Herlock Sholmes. “I have received a wire from the Duke of Hookeywalker, who — Ah, his Grace has arrived!”

Even as Sholmes spoke, the Duke of Hookeywalker was shown into our sitting-room.

Herlock Sholmes removed his feet from the mantelpiece with the graceful courtesy so natural to him.

“Pray be seated,” said Sholmes. “You may speak quite freely before my friend, Dr. Jotson!”

“Mr. Sholmes, I have sustained a terrible loss!”

Sholmes smiled.

“Your Grace has lost the pawnticket?” he inquired.

“Mr. Sholmes, you must be a wizard! How did you guess—”

“I never guess,” said Herlock Sholmes quietly. “My business is to deal with facts. Pray let me have some details.”

“It is true, Mr. Sholmes, that the pawnticket is missing,” said the duke in an agitated voice. “You are aware that the house of Hookeywalker has a great reputation for hospitality, which must be kept up even in these days of stress. It was necessary for me to give a large Christmas party at Hookey Castle, and, to obtain the necessary funds, the family jewels were pledged with Mr. Ikey Solomons, of Houndsditch. The ticket was in my own keeping — it never left me. I kept it in my own card-case. The card-case never left my person. Yet now, Mr. Sholmes, the ticket is missing!”

“And the card-case?”

“Still in my pocket!”

“When were the Hookeywalker jewels placed with Mr. Solomons?”

“Yesterday morning!”

“And the ticket was missing—”

“Last night,” faltered the duke. “I looked in my card-case to make sure that it was still safe, and it was gone. How it had been purloined, Mr. Sholmes, is a mystery — an unfathomable mystery!”

“No mystery is unfathomable to a trained mind,” said Sholmes calmly. “I have every hope of recovering the missing pawnticket.”

“Mr. Sholmes, you give me new life. But how—”

Sholmes interrupted.

“After leaving Mr. Solomons’s establishment, where did your Grace go?”

“I had to make a call at the Chinwag Department of the War Office, and from there I returned to Hookey Castle.”

“You made no other call?”

“None.”

“It is scarcely possible that a skilled pickpocket is to be found in the Chinwag Department,” said Sholmes thoughtfully.

“Impossible, Mr. Sholmes! Every official of that great Department is far above suspicion of being skilled in any manner whatsoever!”

“True!”

“There is no clue!” said the duke in despairing tones. “But unless the missing ticket is recovered, Mr. Sholmes, the famous Hookeywalker jewels are lost!”

“You may leave the case in my hands,” said Herlock Sholmes carelessly. “I may call at Hookey Castle with news for you tomorrow.”

“Bless you, Mr. Sholmes!”

And the duke took his leave.

Herlock Sholmes lighted a couple of pipes, a habit of his when a particularly knotty problem required great concentration of thought. I did not venture to interrupt the meditations of that mighty intellect.

Sholmes spoke at last, with a smile.

“A very interesting little problem, Jotson. I can see that you are puzzled by my deduction that the pawnticket was lost before his Grace had mentioned it.”

“I am astounded, Sholmes.”

“Yet it was simple. I had heard of the great social gathering at Hookey Castle,” explained Sholmes. “I deduced that his Grace could only meet the bills by hypothecating the family jewels. His hurried visit to me and his agitation could have had but one meaning — I deduced that the pawnticket was lost or stolen. Quite elementary, my dear Jotson! But the recovery of the missing ticket—”

“That will not be so simple, Sholmes.”

“Who knows, Jotson?” Sholmes rose to his feet and drew his celebrated dressing-gown about him. “I must leave you for a short time, Jotson. You may go and see your patients, my dear fellow.”

“One question, Sholmes. You are going—”

“To the Chinwag Department.”

“But—”

But Herlock Sholmes was gone.

I confess that Sholmes’s behaviour perplexed me. He had declared that the pickpocket could not be found in the Chinwag Department, yet he had gone there to commence his investigations. When he returned to Shaker Street, he made no remark upon the case, and I did not venture to question him. The next morning he greeted me with a smile as I came down into the sitting-room.

“You are ready for a little run this morning, Jotson?” he asked.

“I am always at your service, Sholmes.”

“Good! Then call a taxi.”

A few minutes later a taxicab was bearing us away. Sholmes had given the direction to the driver — “Hookey Castle.”

“We are going to see the duke, Sholmes?” I asked.

He nodded.

“But the missing pawnticket?”

“Wait and see!”

This reply, worthy of a great statesman, was all I could elicit from Sholmes on the journey.

The taxi drove up the stately approach to Hookey Castle. A gorgeous footman admitted us to the great mansion, and we were shown into the presence of the duke.

His Grace had left his guests to see us. There was a slight impatience in his manner.

“My dear Mr. Sholmes,” he said, “I supposed I had given you the fullest particulars yesterday. You have called me away from a shove-ha’penny party.”

“I am sorry,” said Sholmes calmly. “Return to the shove-ha’penny party, by all means your Grace, and I will call another time with the pawnticket.”

The duke bounded to his feet.

“Mr. Sholmes! You have recovered it?”

Sholmes smiled. He delighted in these dramatic surprises.

The duke gazed with startled eyes at the slip of pasteboard my amazing friend presented to him.

“The missing pawnticket!” he ejaculated.

“The same!” said Sholmes.

“Sholmes!” I murmured. I could say no more.

The Duke of Hookeywalker took the ticket with trembling fingers.

“Mr. Sholmes” he said in tones of deep emotion, “you have saved the honour of the name of Hookeywalker! You will stay to dinner, Mr. Sholmes. Come, I insist — there will be tripe and onions!” he added.

“I cannot resist the tripe and onions,” said Sholmes, with a smile.

And we stayed.

It was not till the taxi was whirling us homeward to Shaker Street that Herlock Sholmes relieved my curiosity.

“Sholmes!” I exclaimed as the taxi rolled out of the stately gates of Hookey Castle. “How, in the name of wonder—”

Sholmes laughed.

“You are astounded, as usual, Jotson?”

“As usual, Sholmes.”

“Yet it is very simple. The duke carried the pawnticket in his card-case,” said Sholmes. “He called only at the Chinwag Department of the War Office before returning home. Only a particularly clever pickpocket could have extracted the ticket without the cardcase, and, as his Grace himself remarked, it was useless to assume the existence of any particularly clever individual in a Government department. That theory, therefore, was excluded — the ticket had not been taken.”

“Sholmes!”

“It had not been taken, Jotson,” said Sholmes calmly. “Yet it had left the duke’s possession. The question was — how?”

“I confess it is quite dark to me, Sholmes.”

“Naturally,” said Sholmes drily. “But my mental powers, my dear Jotson, are of quite a different calibre.”

“Most true.”

“As the ticket had not been taken from the duke, I deduced that he had parted with it unintentionally.”

“But is that possible, Sholmes?”

“Quite! Consider, my dear Jotson. His Grace kept the pawnticket, for safety, in his card-case. On calling at the Chinwag Department he sent in his card, naturally. By accident, Jotson, he handed over the pawnticket instead of his own card—”

“Sholmes!”

“And that ticket, Jotson, was taken in instead. That was the only theory to be deduced from the known facts. I proceeded to the Chinwag Department, and interviewed the official upon whom the duke called. There was a little difficulty in obtaining an interview; but he was awakened at last, and I questioned him. As I had deduced, the missing pawnticket was discovered on the salver, where it had lain unnoticed since the duke’s call.”

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed.

Sholmes smiled in a bored way.

“Elementary, my dear Jotson. But here we are at Shaker Street.”

Christmas Eve S. C. Roberts

In addition to being a noted expert in eighteenth century English literature, especially the life and works of Dr. Samuel Johnson, S. C. Roberts (Sydney Castle Roberts) was also a scholar and aficionado of Sherlock Holmes. He wrote analytical works on the subject, such as Holmes and Watson: A Miscellany and Doctor Watson: Prolegomena to the Study of a Biographical Problem, as well as contributing regularly to Holmesian magazines and anthologies. He also wrote parodies and pastiches about Holmes and Watson, including this short play and The Strange Case of the Megatherium Thefts. “Christmas Eve” was first published as a chapbook limited to 100 copies (Cambridge, privately printed, 1936).

(Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a loafer, is discovered probing in a sideboard cupboard for something to eat and drink.)

HOLMES: Where in the world is that decanter? I’m sure I—

WATSON: (Turning quickly and whispering hoarsely offstage) Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! My revolver, quick. There’s a burglar in Mr. Holmes’s room. (WATSON exits)

HOLMES: Ah, there’s the decanter at last. But first of all I may as well discard some of my properties. (Takes off cap, coat, beard, etc., and puts on dressing gown) My word, I’m hungry. (Begins to eat sandwich) But, bless me, I’ve forgotten the siphon! (Stoops at cupboard in same attitude as before)

WATSON: (Sternly) Now, my man, put those hands up.

HOLMES: (Turning round) My dear Watson, why this sudden passion for melodrama?

WATSON: Holmes!

HOLMES: Really, Watson, to be the victim of a murderous attack at your hands, of all people’s — and on Christmas Eve, too.

WATSON: But a minute ago, Holmes, there was a villainous-looking scoundrel trying to wrench open that cupboard — a really criminal type. I caught a glimpse of his face.

HOLMES: Well, well, my dear Watson, I suppose I ought to be grateful for the compliment to my make-up. The fact is that I have spent the day loafing at the corner of a narrow street leading out of the Waterloo Road. They were all quite friendly to me there... Yes, I obtained the last little piece of evidence that I wanted to clear up that case of the Kentish Town safe robbery — you remember? Quite an interesting case, but all over now.

MRS. HUDSON: Lor’, Mr. ’Olmes, how you do go on. Still, I’m learnin’ never to be surprised at anything now.

HOLMES: Capital, Mrs. Hudson. That’s what every criminal investigator has to learn, isn’t it, Watson? (MRS. HUDSON leaves)

WATSON: Well, I suppose so, Holmes. But you must feel very pleased to think you’ve got that Kentish Town case off your mind before Christmas.

HOLMES: On the contrary, my dear Watson, I’m miserable. I like having things on my mind — it’s the only thing that makes life tolerable. A mind empty of problems is worse even than a stomach empty of food. (Eats sandwich) But Christmas is commonly a slack season. I suppose even criminals’ hearts are softened. The result is that I have nothing to do but to look out of the window and watch other people being busy. That little pawnbroker at the corner, for instance, you know the one, Watson?

WATSON: Yes, of course.

HOLMES: One of the many shops you have often seen, but never observed, my dear Watson. If you had watched that pawnbroker’s front door as carefully as I have during the last ten days, you would have noted a striking increase in his trade; you might have observed also some remarkably well-to-do people going into the shop. There’s one well — set-up young woman whom I have seen at least four times. Curious to think what her business may have been... But it’s a shame to depress your Christmas spirit, Watson. I see that you are particularly cheerful this evening.

WATSON: Well, yes, I don’t mind admitting that I am feeling quite pleased with things today.

HOLMES: So “Rio Tintos” have paid a good dividend, have they?

WATSON: My dear Holmes, how on earth do you know that?

HOLMES: Elementary, my dear Watson. You told me years ago that “Rio Tintos” was the one dividend which was paid in through your bank and not direct to yourself. You come into my room with an envelope of a peculiar shade of green sticking out of your coat pocket. That particular shade is used by your bank — Cox’s — and by no other, so far as I am aware. Clearly, then, you have just obtained your pass-book from the bank and your cheerfulness must proceed from the good news which it contains. Ex hypothesi, that news must relate to “Rio Tintos.”

WATSON: Perfectly correct, Holmes; and on the strength of the good dividend, I have deposited ten good, crisp, five-pound notes in the drawer of my dressing table just in case we should feel like a little jaunt after Christmas.

HOLMES: That was charming of you, Watson. But in my present state of inertia I should be a poor holiday companion. Now if only — (Knock at door) Come in.

MRS. HUDSON: Please sir, there’s a young lady to see you.

HOLMES: What sort of young lady, Mrs. Hudson? Another of these young women wanting half a crown towards some Christmas charity? If so, Dr. Watson’s your man, Mrs. Hudson. He’s bursting with bank-notes today.

MRS. HUDSON: I’m sure I’m very pleased to ’ear it, sir; but this lady ain’t that kind at all, sir. She’s sort of agitated, like... very anxious to see you and quite scared of meeting you at the same time, if you take my meaning, sir.

HOLMES: Perfectly, Mrs. Hudson. Well, Watson, what are we to do? Are we to interview this somewhat unbalanced young lady?

WATSON: If the poor girl is in trouble, Holmes, I think you might at least hear what she has to say.

HOLMES: Chivalrous as ever, my dear Watson — bring the lady up, Mrs. Hudson.

MRS. HUDSON: Very good, sir. (To the lady outside) This way, Miss.

HOLMES: (Bowing slightly) You wish to consult me?

MISS DE VINNE: (Nervously) Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?

HOLMES: I am — and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

WATSON: (Coming forward and holding out hand) Charmed, I am sure, Miss—

HOLMES: (To MISS DE VINNE) You have come here, I presume, because you have a story to tell me. May I ask you to be as concise as possible?

MISS DE VINNE: I will try, Mr. Holmes. My name is de Vinne. My mother and I live together in Bayswater. We are not very well off but my father was... well... a gentleman. The Countess of Barton is one of our oldest friends—

HOLMES: (Interrupting) And the owner of a very wonderful pearl necklace.

MISS DE VINNE: (Startled) How do you know that, Mr. Holmes?

HOLMES: I am afraid it is my business to know quite a lot about other people’s affairs. But I’m sorry. I interrupted. Go on.

MISS DE VINNE: Two or three times a week I spend the day with Lady Barton and act as her secretary in a casual, friendly way. I write letters for her and arrange her dinner-tables when she has a party and do other little odd jobs.

HOLMES: Lady Barton is fortunate, eh, Watson?

WATSON: Yes, indeed, Holmes.

MISS DE VINNE: This afternoon a terrible thing happened. I was arranging some flowers when Lady Barton came in looking deathly white. “Violet,” she said, “the pearls are gone.” “Heavens.” I cried, “what do you mean?” “Well,” she said, “having quite unexpectedly had an invitation to a reception on January 5th, I thought I would make sure that the clasp was all right. When I opened the case (you know the special place where I keep it) it was empty — that’s all.” She looked as if she was going to faint, and I felt much the same.

HOLMES: (Quickly) And did you faint?

MISS DE VINNE: No, Mr. Holmes, we pulled ourselves together somehow and I asked her whether she was going to send for the police, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said Jim (that’s her husband) hated publicity and would be furious if the pearls became “copy” for journalists. But of course she agreed that something had to be done and so she sent me to you.

HOLMES: Oh, Lady Barton sent you?

MISS DE VINNE: Well, not exactly. You see, when she refused to send for the police, I remembered your name and implored her to write you... and... well... here I am and here’s the letter. That’s all, Mr. Holmes.

HOLMES: I see. (Begins to read letter) Well, my dear lady, neither you nor Lady Barton has given me much material on which to work at present.

MISS DE VINNE: I am willing to answer any questions, Mr. Holmes.

HOLMES: You live in Bayswater, Miss Winnie?

WATSON: (Whispering) “De Vinne,” Holmes.

HOLMES: (Ignoring WATSON) You said Bayswater, I think, Miss Winnie?

MISS DE VINNE: Quite right, Mr. Holmes, but — forgive me, my name is de Vinne.

HOLMES: I’m sorry, Miss Dwinney—

MISS DE VINNE: De Vinne, Mr. Holmes, D... E... V...

HOLMES: How stupid of me. I think the chill I caught last week must have left a little deafness behind it. But to save further stupidity on my part, just write your name and address for me, will you? (Hands her pen and paper, on which MISS DE VINNE writes) That’s better. Now, tell me, Miss de Vinne, how do you find Bayswater for shopping?

MISS DE VINNE: (Surprised) Oh, I don’t know. Mr. Holmes, I hardly—

HOLMES: You don’t care for Whiteley’s, for instance?

MISS DE VINNE: Well, not very much. But I can’t see...

HOLMES: I entirely agree with you, Miss de Vinne. Yet Watson, you know, is devoted to that place — spends hours there...

WATSON: Holmes, what nonsense are you—

HOLMES: But I think you are quite right, Miss de Vinne. Harrod’s is a great deal better in my opinion.

MISS DE VINNE: But I never go to Harrod’s, Mr. Holmes, in fact I hardly ever go to any big store, except for one or two things. But what has this got to do—

HOLMES: Well, in principle, I don’t care for them much either, but they’re convenient sometimes.

MISS DE VINNE: Yes, I find the Army and Navy stores useful now and then, but why on earth are we talking about shops and stores when the thing that matters is Lady Barton’s necklace?

HOLMES: Ah, yes, I was coming to that. (Pauses) I’m sorry, Miss de Vinne, but I’m afraid I can’t take up this case.

MISS DE VINNE: You refuse, Mr. Holmes?

HOLMES: I am afraid I am obliged to do so. It is a case that would inevitably take some time. I am in sore need of a holiday and only today my devoted friend Watson has made all arrangements to take me on a Mediterranean cruise immediately after Christmas.

WATSON: Holmes, this is absurd. You know that I merely—

MISS DE VINNE: Dr. Watson, if Mr. Holmes can’t help me, won’t you? You don’t know how terrible all this is for me as well as for Lady Barton.

WATSON: My dear lady, I have some knowledge of my friend’s methods and they often seem incomprehensible. Holmes, you can’t mean this?

HOLMES: Certainly I do, my dear Watson. But I am unwilling that any lady should leave this house in a state of distress. (Goes to door) Mrs. Hudson!

MRS. HUDSON: Coming, sir. (MRS. HUDSON enters)

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, be good enough to conduct this lady to Dr. Watson’s dressing room. She is tired and a little upset. Let her rest on the sofa there while Dr. Watson and I have a few minutes’ quiet talk.

MRS. HUDSON: Very good, sir.

HOLMES: (Lighting cherry-wood pipe) Well, Watson?

WATSON: Well, Holmes, in all my experience I don’t think I have ever seen you so unaccountably ungracious to a charming girl.

HOLMES: Oh, yes, she has charm, Watson — they always have. What do you make of her story?

WATSON: Not very much, I confess. It seemed fairly clear as far as it went, but you wouldn’t let her tell us any detail. Instead, you began a perfectly ridiculous conversation about the comparative merits of various department stores. I’ve seldom heard you so inept.

HOLMES: Then you accept her story?

WATSON: Why not?

HOLMES: Why not, my dear Watson? Because the whole thing is a parcel of lies.

WATSON: But, Holmes, this is unreasoning prejudice.

HOLMES: Unreasoning, you say? Listen, Watson. This letter purports to have come from the Countess of Barton. I don’t know her Ladyship’s handwriting, but I was struck at once by its labored character, as exhibited in this note. It occurred to me, further, that it might be useful to obtain a specimen of Miss de Vinne’s to put alongside it — hence my tiresome inability to catch her name. Now, my dear Watson, I call your particular attention to the capital B’s which happen to occur in both specimens.

WATSON: They’re quite different, Holmes, but — yes, they’ve both got a peculiar curl where the letter finishes.

HOLMES: Point No. 1, my dear Watson, but an isolated one. Now, although I could not recognize the handwriting, I knew this notepaper as soon as I saw and felt it. Look at the watermark, Watson, and tell me what you find.

WATSON: (Holding the paper to the light) A. and N. (After a pause) Army and Navy... Why, Holmes, d’you mean that—

HOLMES: I mean that this letter was written by your charming friend in the name of the Countess of Barton.

WATSON: And what follows?

HOLMES: Ah, that is what we are left to conjecture. What will follow immediately is another interview with the young woman who calls herself Violet de Vinne. By the way, Watson, after you had finished threatening me with that nasty-looking revolver a little while ago, what did you do with the instrument?

WATSON: It’s here, Holmes, in my pocket.

HOLMES: Then, having left my own in my bedroom, I think I’ll borrow it, if you don’t mind.

WATSON: But surely, Holmes, you don’t suggest that—

HOLMES: My dear Watson, I suggest nothing — except that we may possibly find ourselves in rather deeper waters than Miss de Vinne’s charm and innocence have hitherto led you to expect. (Goes to door) Mrs. Hudson, ask the lady to be good enough to rejoin us.

MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Very good, sir.

HOLMES: (Amiably) Well, Miss de Vinne, are you rested?

MISS DE VINNE: Well, a little perhaps, but as you can do nothing for me, hadn’t I better go?

HOLMES: You look a little flushed, Miss de Vinne; do you feel the room rather too warm?

MISS DE VINNE: No, Mr. Holmes, thank you, I—

HOLMES: Anyhow, won’t you slip your coat off and—

MISS DE VINNE: Oh no, really. (Gathers coat round her)

HOLMES: (Threateningly) Then, if you won’t take your coat off, d’you mind showing me what is in the right-hand pocket of it? (A look of terror comes on MISS DE VINNE’S face) The game’s up, Violet de Vinne. (Points revolver, at which MISS DE VINNE screams and throws up her hands) Watson, oblige me by removing whatever you may discover in the right-hand pocket of Miss de Vinne’s coat.

WATSON: (Taking out note-case) My own note-case, Holmes, with the ten five-pound notes in it!

HOLMES: Ah!

MISS DE VINNE: (Distractedly) Let me speak, let me speak. I’ll explain everything.

HOLMES: Silence! Watson, was there anything else in the drawer of your dressing table besides your note-case?

WATSON: I’m not sure, Holmes.

HOLMES: Then I think we had better have some verification.

MISS DE VINNE: No, no. Let me—

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson!

MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Coming, sir.

HOLMES: (To MRS. HUDSON off) Kindly open the right-hand drawer of Dr. Watson’s dressing table and bring us anything that you may find in it.

MISS DE VINNE: Mr. Holmes, you are torturing me. Let me tell you everything.

HOLMES: Your opportunity will come in due course, but in all probability before a different tribunal. I am a private detective, not a Criminal Court judge. (MISS DE VINNE weeps)

MRS. HUDSON: I found this, sir. But it must be something new that the doctor’s been buying. I’ve never seen it before. (MRS. HUDSON leaves)

HOLMES: Ah, Watson, more surprises! (Opens case and holds up a string of pearls) The famous pearls belonging to the Countess of Barton, if I’m not mistaken.

MISS DE VINNE: For pity’s sake, Mr. Holmes, let me speak. Even the lowest criminal has that right left him. And this time I will tell you the truth.

HOLMES: (Sceptically) The truth? Well?

MISS DE VINNE: Mr. Holmes, I have an only brother. He’s a dear — I love him better than anyone in the world — but, God forgive him, he’s a scamp... always in trouble, always in debt. Three days ago he wrote to me that he was in an even deeper hole than usual. If he couldn’t raise fifty pounds in the course of a week, he would be done for and, worse than that, dishonored and disgraced forever. I couldn’t bear it. I’d no money. I daren’t tell my mother. I swore to myself that I’d get that fifty pounds if I had to steal it. That same day at Lady Barton’s, I was looking, as I’d often looked, at the famous pearls. An idea suddenly came to me. They were worn only once or twice a year on special occasions. Why shouldn’t I pawn them for a month or so? I could surely get fifty pounds for them and then somehow I would scrape together the money to redeem them. It was almost certain that Lady Barton wouldn’t want them for six months. Oh, I know I was mad, but I did it. I found a fairly obscure little pawnbroker quite near here, but to my horror he wouldn’t take the pearls — looked at me very suspiciously and wouldn’t budge, though I went to him two or three times. Then, this afternoon, the crash came. When Lady Barton discovered that the pearls were missing I rushed out of the house, saying that I would tell the police. But actually I went home and tried to think. I remembered your name. A wild scheme came into my head. If I could pretend to consult you and somehow leave the pearls in your house, then you could pretend that you had recovered them and return them to Lady Barton. Oh, I know you’ll laugh, but you don’t know how distraught I was. Then, when you sent me into that dressing room, I prowled about like a caged animal. I saw those banknotes and they seemed like a gift from Heaven. Why shouldn’t I leave the necklace in their place? You would get much more than fifty pounds for recovering them from Lady Barton and I should save my brother. There, that’s all... and now, I suppose, I exchange Dr. Watson’s dressing room for a cell at the police station!

HOLMES: Well, Watson?

WATSON: What an extraordinary story, Holmes!

HOLMES: Yes, indeed. (Turning to MISS DE VINNE) Miss de Vinne, you told us in the first instance a plausible story of which I did not believe a single word; now you have given us a version which in many particulars seems absurd and incredible. Yet I believe it to be the truth. Watson, haven’t I always told you that fact is immeasurably stranger than fiction?

WATSON: Certainly, Holmes. But what are you going to do?

HOLMES: Going to do? Why — er — I’m going to send for Mrs. Hudson. (Calling offstage) Mrs. Hudson!

MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Coming, sir. (Enters) Yes, sir.

HOLMES: Oh, Mrs. Hudson, what are your views about Christmas?

WATSON: Really, Holmes.

HOLMES: My dear Watson, please don’t interrupt. As I was saying, Mrs. Hudson, I should be very much interested to know how you feel about Christmas.

MRS. HUDSON: Lor’, Mr. ’Olmes, what questions you do ask. I don’t hardly know exactly how to answer but... well... I suppose Christmas is the season of good will towards men — and women too, sir, if I may say so.

HOLMES: (Slowly) “And women too.” You observe that, Watson.

WATSON: Yes, Holmes, and I agree.

HOLMES: (To MISS DE VINNE) My dear young lady, you will observe that the jury are agreed upon their verdict.

MISS DE VINNE: Oh, Mr. Holmes, how can I ever thank you?

HOLMES: Not a word. You must thank the members of the jury... Mrs. Hudson!

MRS. HUDSON: Yes, sir.

HOLMES: Take Miss de Vinne, not into Dr. Watson’s room this time, but into your own comfortable kitchen and give her a cup of your famous tea.

MRS. HUDSON: How do the young lady take it, sir? Rather stronglike, with a bit of a tang to it?

HOLMES: You must ask her that yourself. Anyhow Mrs. Hudson, give her a cup that cheers.

WATSON: (In the highest spirits) Half a minute, Mrs. Hudson. I’m coming to see that Miss de Vinne has her tea as she likes it. And I tell you what, Holmes (Looking towards MISS DE VINNE and holding up note-case), you are not going to get your Mediterranean cruise.

HOLMES: (Relighting his pipe and smiling meditatively) Christmas Eve!

The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle Arthur Conan Doyle

Although written in the Victorian era, the Sherlock Holmes stories lack the overwrought verbosity so prevalent in the prose of that era and remain as readable and fresh as anything produced in recent times. Having created the greatest character in the history of English literature, it is astonishing that Arthur Conan Doyle believed his most important works of fiction were such historical novels and short story collections as Micah Clarke (1889), The White Company (1891), and Sir Nigel (1906). He was further convinced that his most significant nonfiction work was in the spiritualism field, to which he devoted the last twenty years of his life, a considerable portion of his fortune, and prodigious energy. “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” was first published in the January 1892 issue of The Strand Magazine; it was first collected in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (London, Newnes, 1892).

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.

“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”

“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one,” (he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat) “but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it — that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”

“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”

“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”

“Yes.”

“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”

“It is his hat.”

“No, no; he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these. About four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”

“Which surely he restored to their owner?”

“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat; but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”

“What, then, did Peterson do?”

“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”

“Did he not advertise?”

“No.”

“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”

“Only as much as we can deduce.”

“From his hat?”

“Precisely.”

“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”

“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”

“Then, pray tell me, what it is that you can infer from this hat?”

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”

“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”

“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”

“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.”

“The decline of his fortunes, then?”

“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”

“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he, putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”

“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”

“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, gray dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time; while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could, therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”

“But his wife — you said that she had ceased to love him.”

“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”

“But he might be a bachelor.”

“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”

“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?”

“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow — walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”

“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.

“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face.

“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”

“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.”

“It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.”

“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.

“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”

“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of Mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”

“It was lost, if I remembered aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.

“Precisely so, on the twenty-second of December, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fails, I shall have recourse to other methods.”

“What will you say?”

“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then:

That is clear and concise.”

“Very. But will he see it?”

“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”

“In which, sir?”

“Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s Gazette, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.”

“Very well, sir. And this stone?”

“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.”

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.”

“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?”

“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.”

“And you can do nothing until then?”

“Nothing.”

“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.”

“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’s room.

“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’s surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a low staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”

“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”

“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—”

The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum — we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.”

“By all means.”

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he.

“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.

“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”

“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.”

“Indeed! Whose, then?”

“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”

“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”

“Breckinridge is his name.”

“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health, landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.

“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson, that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor, a horsy-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers, was helping a boy to put up the shutters.

“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.

“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”

“That’s no good.”

“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”

“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

“Who by?”

“The landlord of the Alpha.”

“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”

“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.

“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”

“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”

“Well, then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”

“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”

“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”

“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”

“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.

“It’s nothing of the kind.”

“I say it is.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.”

“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”

“Will you bet, then?”

“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”

The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”

“Well?”

“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”

“Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road-249,” read Holmes.

“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”

Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.”

“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”

“ ‘December 22d. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ”

“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’ ”

“What have you to say now?”

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.

“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put a hundred pounds down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for tomorrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?”

“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.

“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”

“She told me to ask you.”

“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gaslight that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.

“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”

“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”

“But you can know nothing of this?”

“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”

“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this windswept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go further, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”

The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance.

“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.”

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well, then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”

“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.”

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine, in which you were interested — white, with a black bar across the tail.”

Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?”

“It came here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead — the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.

“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”

“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice.

“I see — her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room — you and your confederate Cusack — and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—”

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”

“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”

“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.”

“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.”

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe, and wondered what it would be best to do.

“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds — a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prising its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.

“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’

“ ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you — Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’

“ ‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’

“ ‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’

“ ‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.

“ ‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’

“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’

“ ‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’

“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.

“ ‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.

“ ‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’

“ ‘Which dealer’s?”

“ ‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’

“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked. ‘The same as the one I chose.’

“ ‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’

“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not a word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now — and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’s finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

“Get out!” said he.

“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”

“No more words. Get out!”

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.

“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiences. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commiting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaolbird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also, a bird will be the chief feature.”