The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (18 page)

I thought about this in silence, my equanimity slowly returning, until we reached Baker Street. We paused before Number 221 and I turned to Holmes with an outstretched hand.

“Happy Christmas, Holmes,” said I, smiling.

He took it warmly. “Happy Christmas, Watson.”

§

To Danica

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Let your heart be light.

From now on our troubles

Will be out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Make the yuletide gay.

From now on our troubles

Will be miles away.

Once again as in olden days,

Happy golden days of yore,

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Will be near to us once more.

Through the years we all will be together,

If the fates allow,

Hanging a shining star upon the highest bough,

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”

by Hugh Martin

(1943; alternate lyrics added by Martin 1957)

It is a rare occasion when something truly magnificent results from what at first appears to be a straightforward tragedy. However, twenty-two years after the fact, that is exactly what transpired in 2014, when a long-suppressed manuscript by Dr. John H. Watson was brought to light by the serendipitous accident of the great fire at Windsor Castle, the preferred weekend residence of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.

The fire began in the Queen's Private Chapel at 11:33 am on 20 November, 1992 when a wayward spotlight ignited a nearby curtain. Despite the rapid response of the Castle Fire Brigade, the blaze spread quickly through the original medieval timber ceilings and the later oak paneling which so richly adorned the royal chambers.

In addition to the several hundred firemen directly involved in fighting the fire, the Castle staff and tradesmen swiftly transformed themselves into a volunteer salvage corps. Working with an admirable mix of haste and care, they removed the vast majority of furniture and works of art from the endangered apartments, even including a 150-foot long table and a 120-foot long carpet from the Waterloo Chamber. In an exercise of logistics likened to the Dynamo Operation on the beaches of Dunkirk, three hundred clocks, a collection of miniatures and Ming pottery, and many thousands of valuable books, manuscripts, and old Master drawings from the Royal Library were all saved. Only on the instructions of the fire officers were certain heavy chests and tables left behind to face the destructive wrath of the flames.

Perhaps the greatest wonder of all was that there were no deaths or serious injuries caused by the fire, save for one brave lad who was partially burned while trying to rescue additional paintings. There was, of course, an enormous amount of destruction caused to the rooms of the Castle, over a hundred of which had suffered at least partial damage. It was not until four years and £36.5 million later that the exacting restoration program was finally complete.

A tally of the lost items from the Royal Collection sadly included the Sir William Beechey equestrian portrait of King George III at a Review (which was simply too large to quickly remove), an almost twenty-foot c.1820 sideboard from the state dining room, several pieces of porcelain, numerous chandeliers, and the famous Henry Willis organ from the Chapel itself. Two items were only partially burnt, but deemed to be beyond reasonable hope of repair: the 1851 Great Exhibition Axminster carpet, and an exquisite pendulum clock made in 1719 by John Harrison himself.

Perhaps due to the history intrinsic to the latter item, which was made by the fledgling genius who would later go on to solve the problem of establishing longitude (which launched the modern age of British sea exploration), the pendulum clock was not immediately consigned to the trash heap, but instead removed to a remote storage closet in the Castle’s Riding School. There it lay neglected in the concerted rush to restore the Castle proper, and by the time four years had gone by, its location was essentially forgotten by those who might have appreciated its unique value.

Finally, in early 2014, the lingering presence of the blackened clock was brought to the attention of the Director of the Royal Collection. Impressed with its ornate Victorian outer case, thoughtfully provided with (now-melted) glass windows so that the intricate inner workings could be inspected by the curious, the Director ordered the clock brought out for a long-overdue attempt at restoration. But to the great surprise of the conservators they found tucked within the clock itself, in a cunningly-hidden nickel case, something far more rare and valuable than almost anything else in the Castle’s entire collection (save perhaps some of the drawings and paintings of the great Renaissance artists such as Raphael): the aforementioned lost adventure of Sherlock Holmes, which details his efforts during the 1895 winter holiday season to undo an old embarrassment to the Royal House.

Since by 2014 the restoration was long complete and there was no pressing need for additional funds, the curators of Windsor Castle (presumably with the blessing of the Queen to whom it must be considered to officially belong) have decided to donate the tale to the world
pro bono
for five days every 20 November, in commemoration of the great fire which so fortuitously finally brought it to light.

§

THE ADVENTURE OF

THE FIRST STAR

Sherlock Holmes was not a man much given to the celebration of holidays, especially ones which were driven by sentiments of goodwill towards the masses of mankind. To those who knew Holmes but slightly, he could easily be mistaken for a man purposefully devoid of common feelings, as unwelcome distractions to his cold, precise, and finely honed mind. In many ways, he was like an automaton, perfectly crafted to observe and reason through any problem, no matter how perplexing and inexplicable.

And yet, a man is not born in such a state. He comes to it only through conscious choice and after years of effort to surgically excise all typical emotions from his breast. In so doing, he cuts himself off from the normal flow of humanity and companionship. Despite his carefully constructed facade, however, I knew Holmes was not entirely devoid of feelings, and thus, on this December day in 1895, I found myself pondering why Holmes had such little interaction with his family.

The holiday of Christmas has a different meaning for every person, but as a youth I had always considered it a time to spend with loved ones celebrating the happiness that you shared. And yet, in all the years that I had known Sherlock Holmes, I never once heard him voice any desire to pass the holiday with his relations. In fact, I knew very little of them.
[223]
That they were originally country squires, with an imported vein of artistic blood, was almost the limit of my understanding. Only the indisputable fact that he had a brother, so similar in intelligence, if not physical form, was proof that Holmes had not formed fully developed, like Athena from the brow of Zeus.

For one such as myself, with all my kith and kin, my dear wife included, passed on to that undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns,
[224]
Holmes’ evident lack of inclination to spend Christmas with his brother struck me as exhibiting a small measure of ungratefulness. Not for the last time I wondered if Holmes had an unhappy childhood.

However, as events ultimately unfurled, Holmes would have a chance to spend at least a portion of the holiday season with his family, while simultaneously sparing the reputation of the realm. Unfortunately, given the need for absolute discretion, I fear that it will be impossible for me to make the facts public for many years to come, though I will nevertheless detail the case in these pages to guard against any waning of my memory.
[225]

On the day in question, Holmes and I had just finished attending a morning concert of Handel at the Albert Hall.
[226]
We had retrieved our winter coats and hats from the cloakroom and stepped out into the chilly day. I put on my rather fashionable black silk top-hat, while Holmes insisted upon his close-fitting cloth cap.

“Care for a stroll, Watson?” asked Holmes. “The frozen snow upon the ground will make any attempt to take a cab a dangerous proposition.
[227]
But the sun is shining, and it is only a walk of three-quarters of an hour through Hyde Park.”
[228]

I nodded my acquiescence and off we went along the carriage drive, where we passed others out upon a similar mission of enjoying the rare winter sunshine. As we crossed the Serpentine Bridge, I recollected the role that this body of water had played in one of Holmes’s great triumphs of deduction. “I’m glad that Lestrade doesn’t need to drag the Serpentine today, for he would have a hard go of it through all of this ice,” I remarked.

Holmes laughed heartily. “Do not mock the poor Inspector, Watson.
[229]
He cannot be faulted for employing a bit of imagination and recollecting poor Shelley’s wife
[230]
when Lord St. Simon’s went missing. And his efforts did provide the essential clue, even if he failed to recognize it.”

After leaving the bridge, we veered off the main drive onto one of the snow-covered, tree-lined footpaths that led vaguely in the northeastern direction of our rooms. When we approached the Marble Arch, Holmes suddenly spoke. “I agree, Watson, that it is difficult to reconcile the more forward-thinking aspects of Cromwell with his hypocritical and repressive nature.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “How could you possibly know that I was thinking about the Protectorate?”

He smiled. “I really should not need to explain, Watson. You have had ample opportunity to familiarize yourself with my methods. But if you insist, I will oblige. First, your attention was drawn to that of the strident voices coming from the corner of the park where relatively unrestricted free speech is permitted.
[231]
Since there is no one of particular note gesticulating today, the frown upon your face instead suggested that you were reminded that the tradition dates back to the time when this area was within a stone-cast of the old Tyburn tree of evil memory, where Mr. Wild met his due fate.
[232]
From the sudden turn of your head to the south-east, in which direction lies Westminster Abbey, and the rueful shake of your head, it was clear that your thoughts then turned to the most famous occupant of that tree, the headless corpse of Cromwell.
[233]
And then a smile dawned upon your face when your eyes came to rest upon a group of child carolers. This reminded you of the fact that Cromwell banned the celebration of Christmas entirely as a pagan festival. Hence your conclusion that the motives of Cromwell were relatively inscrutable.”
[234]

I shook my head in wondrous appreciation for Holmes’ continued ability to follow the precise directions of my thoughts. Not for the last time, I was grateful that his powers were directed towards the solitary pursuit of halting the activities of London’s criminals, for if he had chosen to pursue a life of misdeeds, it was certain that no one could have stood in his way.

Soon enough we found ourselves making the turn from Oxford Street onto Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was out upon some holiday errand, but Billy
[235]
opened the door so that we could mount the seventeen stairs leading up to our suite of rooms.

As soon as we entered, Holmes turned to me. “I was just thinking, Watson, that the London criminal is a boring chap.
[236]
Instead we have been honored with a visit by Inspector Gregson, which can only mean that something unique, and beyond the imagination of Scotland Yard, has occurred.”

I looked about the sitting room, but failed to see how Holmes could ascertain such a fact. Everything appeared just as we had left it, with my possessions in their usual state of order, and Holmes’ rather less so. His desk was littered with papers yet to be filed in his index, his singlestick occupied his armchair, the loose tobacco and cigars were in their customary places, and the unanswered correspondence remained transfixed to the mantelpiece. “I give up, Holmes, how could you possibly know that the inspector has been here?”

“It is rather straightforward, Watson. As we approached the threshold, I noted a set of footprints,
[237]
which not there when we departed this morning. They were left by someone who failed to knock all of the dirty snow from their boots before ascending to our room, hence someone either quite careless or in a great hurry. The boot’s outline is that of the kind issued to police detectives of Scotland Yard, and the size of the print suggests one of the larger men on the force. In combination with the new ash in our tray, which even from over here I can tell belongs to a type of cigar known to be favored by Inspector Gregson,
[238]
leaves us with only one possible conclusion.”

I stared first at the doorstep, followed by the ashtray, and was yet again amazed at my friend’s ability to notice the smallest details of any room in which he entered. “But why didn’t Billy tell us that Gregson had been here?”

Holmes shook his head despondently. “The boy’s brain is addled, Watson, like that of most denizens of London as the holiday grows ever closer. He is dreaming of figgy pudding and presents. Ring for him, and you shall see for yourself.”

In Billy’s defense, when he responded to our call, he immediately recalled his overdue task. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, I’ve plum forgot! There was a policeman here, looking for you. He came in quite excited, and though I told him you were out, he waited in your sitting room for some time. Finally, he left and…”

“Very good, Billy,” interrupted Holmes. “Run round to the Green Man
[239]
and fetch him.”

Billy frowned, but knew better than to question Holmes when given such a specific task. Holmes glanced over at me, but I purposefully refrained from asking how he deduced the current location of the inspector at the local public house. Instead, I sank into my armchair and picked up my copy of Scott’s archer tale,
[240]
which I had been reading the night before.

I had turned only a few pages before we heard the tread of the inspector upon our steps and he was back in our rooms. Holmes had settled in his high-backed armchair and was lighting his pipe stuffed with some tobacco from the nearby slipper. With a wave of it, he gestured Gregson to the visitor’s seat.

“How did you know that I would be at the Green Man, Mr. Holmes?” asked the inspector.

“It was a rather simple calculation, Gregson. The snow that your boots had left upon our doorstep had completely melted by the time of our return, despite the relative chill of the unheated steps. I estimate that the temperature therein is approximately fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit,
[241]
and at such temperature snow would take at least two hours to reach the state in which we encountered it. This suggests that you had originally arrived at our rooms no later than ten o’clock this morning. From the amount of ash in our tray, I would think that you worked through about three-quarters of your cigar, which would suggest that you waited for our return for at least an hour. Therefore, the object of your visit was not to simply wish us the compliments of the season, but rather an event of some pressing importance. And yet, you eventually left. Given the current time, which most would consider a natural occasion for luncheon, you must have decided that I was unlikely to return in the space of time required for you to secure a quick source of sustenance. Since you would not have wished to venture far from Baker Street, and as it is widely known that the Green Man serves the best Cornish pasties in this district, I deduced that it would be the most logical locale in which to seek you out.”

Gregson shook his head in wonderment. “I’m mighty glad I waited, Mr. Holmes. You are just the man for this job.”

Holmes leaned forward eagerly, his fingers folded together in a steeple before him. “What has happened?”

“There has been a terrible accident in the Underground.
[242]
A man fell under a train at the Metropolitan Station.”

“Fell, or was pushed?” interrupted Holmes.

Gregson shook his head uncertainly. “That is not certain, and part of the reason why I thought to ask for your advice.”

“What is the other reason?”

“Remarkably, the man still possessed a glimmer of life when they pulled him out. He was unconscious, but the sheer act of moving him up onto the platform was sufficient to stimulate a last response. His eyes fluttered open, and though his speech was slurred and indistinct, he managed to utter two words… ‘First Star.’ Then his eyelids closed and he sighed his last breath.”

“First Star?” I repeated. “Whatever does it mean?” I asked, turning to Holmes.

Holmes shrugged. “It is impossible to determine without more facts. Who was the man?”

“That’s just the thing, Mr. Holmes, he had no means of identification.”

Holmes grunted. “It would be rare for the common British workman to be found without his wallet. Was it stolen from him?”

“The man was pulled from the tracks by Commissionaire Price.
[243]
He is a veteran of the Crimea
[244]
and as honest a man as you are likely to meet in this city. If the man’s wallet was lifted, it was before he found his way onto those tracks.”

“Are you suggesting that we have a murderous thief loose in the tunnels below our streets? Someone who picks a man’s pocket seconds before sending them to their doom?” Holmes had the good grace to not look overly excited about this grotesque possibility.

Gregson licked his lips nervously. “I had feared the possibility, Mr. Holmes. If I can imagine such a scenario, it won’t be long before some newspaper reporter has the same thought. It would start a panic, and the Underground would be abandoned. With the number of folks about because of the holidays, and with us due for another winter storm any day now, I thought we best try to solve this before he strikes again.”

“Presuming the existence of your maniac, of course,” said Holmes. “He may have simply been a poor beggar of no means, who tripped or was accidentally jostled onto the rails.”

“We can only hope so, Mr. Holmes. Will you investigate?” asked the inspector.

Holmes shrugged languidly. “I suppose that I have little else to occupy my mind. Who knows? Perhaps there will be something of interest in this.” He turned to me. “Well, Watson, do you fancy a trip to the mortuary?”

I could hardly resist such a tempting offer two days before Christmas, and reluctantly rose to shrug back on my overcoat. The three of us descended to the street, and Holmes hailed a passing hansom. “St. Mary’s is but a short stroll, but we want to arrive before the coroner can disturb any potential clues, so we will risk a cab, however slowly they may travel through the snow.”