The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (24 page)

“Absolutely wonderful,” said Holmes, rejoining our group. “A perfect marvel of the arboreal form. Mr. Asbury, I confess that I covert your tree. I would like to purchase it from you.”

The man was plainly flabbergasted. “What, now?”

“Indeed, sir. Name your price.”

The man obstinately shook his head. “It’s not for sale.”

“Come now, sir. You were once a businessman, where you not? Any object has a price beyond which it would be foolish not to part with it.”

“But it’s just a five sovereign tree,” protested Asbury.

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “And I am offering you a hundred.”

The man’s eyes goggled at the Holmes’ proposal. “Are you mad, sir? It’s hardly worth that. You could buy a dozen trees for that price, and have money left over for the goose and pudding. I would not sleep well knowing I cheated a man so thoroughly.”

Holmes shook his head. “I have made my offer, and I stand by it.”

“Very well, if you are that fond of it. Although I am, of course, in no need of the money, I will have my man take it down and send it around to your chambers in the morning.”

Holmes held up a hand to forestall Mr. Asbury. “That is quite alright, sir. I will take possession of it now, if you will. Here is a cheque, from the Oxford Street branch of the Capital and Counties Bank,
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made out for one hundred pounds. In return, in the presence of these fine gentlemen, you agree to turn over to me all rights to this fir tree.”

“I agree, sir, though again, I hate to take your money.”

Holmes smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Asbury, you are an honest man. I think I shall see a sufficient return upon my investment. Perhaps immediately. Watson, if you would be so kind to step over to the tree and help me extinguish these candles?”

I followed Holmes’ orders unquestioningly, and within minutes the tree’s lights were dimmed. “Excellent,” said Holmes. “Now then, Watson, the axe, please.”

I handed him the weapon, with which he immediately chopped into the tree. “What are you doing to my tree?” exclaimed Asbury, stepping forward in alarm.

After a few more swings, Holmes paused long enough to address the man. “Need I remind you, Mr. Asbury, that technically, this is my tree, as you sold it to me for more than a fair price. I freely admit that it currently resides in your hall, but that is only because I previously promised you a recompense for interrupting your Christmas party, which you would forego if I delayed in order to haul this tree outside. Besides the light is better in here for the task at hand. Now please step back.” And with that speech concluded, he resumed his attack upon the tree. Holmes possessed a vigorous strength when sufficiently aroused, and this was such a moment. In less than five minutes, the tree was fully dismantled. Holmes set down the axe and bent eagerly over the growing pile of shavings. The next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one splinter, in which a round, bluish-white object was fixed like a coin in a Christmas cake.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “permit me to acquaint you with the celebrated Star of India!”
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The stunned silence was prolonged. The first response came from Mr. Blunt, who sighed loudly. This broke the spell, and Lestrade, Gregson, Farrar, and I broke out with loud cheers of acclaim, like the ovation of a particularly moving symphony. Holmes brought the diamond to his breast, and bowed deeply before us, a conductor of the human orchestra. It was in a rare moment such as this that I was able to glimpse a hint of the proud heart that stealthily beat within the firm shell of the great reasoning machine.

The only one who seemed unimpressed was Mycroft, who removed a tortoise-shell box from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch of snuff. He then brushed the stray grains from the front of his red coat front with a large, white silk handkerchief. “Very nice, Sherlock,” said he, “I assume that you now plan to enlighten us by showing us the missing links of your chain of inferences which allowed you to be standing before us with Her Majesty’s property in your hand.”

“Her Majesty?” I exclaimed.

“Oh yes, Watson,” interjected Holmes. “There is no doubt that the Queen will be most relieved to learn that she no longer has to wear paste after all these years. Is that not so, Mr. Farrar?”

The small man finally stepped forward. “You are correct, Mr. Holmes. My firm was ordered to craft a glass jewel that would perfectly match the Star of India twelve years ago. This task was especially difficult in that the original was not made available for our inspection. However, with the use of some well-taken photographs and detailed paintings of Her Majesty, we were eventually able to complete the task to her satisfaction. We were never told the exact reason why the Crown needed a duplicate diamond, and in our business it does not do to speculate overly much on the actions of our royalty.”

“The reason, of course, is that the original diamond went missing,” continued Holmes. “I still am not clear of the exact manner by which it was pinched from the Tower, however, from the great deal of care that went into ensuring that no hint of this theft reached the ear of the public, it would little surprise me if some illustrious member of the family that owned it was excessively careless.
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The identity of the thief was quickly determined by a swift mind, which I suspect may be present in this room.” Here Holmes looked significantly at his brother, who for his part affected an air of silent boredom.

“However,” Holmes continued, “the diamond was not found on his person, nor in any of his possessions or regular haunts. The man refused to admit his guilt and was sentenced to the Princetown prison in Dartmoor, where he served his term of sixteen years, minus a one-fourth remission for earnest labor. During all of that time, there was never any hint on the streets that the diamond had surfaced, either to be smuggled to Amsterdam for cutting up into smaller stones,
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or sold on the black market to those rare criminals of extraordinary worth, such as the late lamented Professor Moriarty.
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In order to avoid a scandal, the Crown engaged the Royal Jewelers to create an illusion that the stone was still in the possession of its rightful owner. However, despite the best efforts of Mr. Farrar, no substitute can ever be perfect, and as we saw on our visit to the Tower today, the stone that currently lies in that case does not quite match the brilliance of the genuine item.”

“But who stole it?” I inquired. “Blunt here would have no method that allowed him to clandestinely enter the Jewel House in the Tower, even if he had delivered Christmas trees to the lodgings of the Warders every winter.”

“Very good, Watson. You are absolutely correct. Mr. George Blunt is innocent of the crime. However, as I have said before,
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Watson, there are some trees which grow to a particular height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. And the same holds true for a certain men. You see, the culprit was Mr. Stephan Blunt, and his access was simplicity itself. For he was once a Yeoman Warder.”

“Surely you jest!” I exclaimed. “The Warders are pillars of trust.”

Holmes nodded sadly. “I would normally agree with you, Watson. But in this instance we are regrettably mistaken. I finally located in my brain-attic the old
Times
article that spoke, in the vaguest of terms, of his disgrace. Gregson can confirm it, if you require,” he said, looking over at the inspector.

“You are correct, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector.

“I am afraid there is only one man who can take us back twelve years to the proceedings in question and clarify what exactly transpired.” He turned to Blunt. “If you will not be honest with me, sir, I will not help you. I warn you again, I know all. Most of all, I know about Colonel Blood.”

The man stared in horror at Holmes for a minute. “I believe you, Mr. Holmes,” he finally said. “I have been listening to you for the last half-hour and have determined that I should put myself in your hands. I will tell you the exact truth as to what occurred twelve years ago, as well as explain the events of the last two days.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “You will realize, Mr. Blunt, that neither the inspectors here nor I can make any promise as to the use we will make of what you tell us. They are naturally the police and must act within the bounds of Justice.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Holmes. But I have been thinking it over, and I have no doubt that it is best to put myself in your hands, and then you will tell me how I stand with respect to the law. I will ask no promise from you.”

Holmes smiled broadly. He motioned to a nearby chair. “Then pray be seated, Mr. Blunt. You have had an active few days. I should be glad to hear anything that you may have to say.”

Blunt sank into the proffered chair, where Lestrade and Gregson stationed themselves on either side in order to prevent any attempt at escape. He rubbed his hands over his face, and took several deep breaths before beginning his tale. “Do you know, Mr. Holmes, that two lads can spring from the same tree and grow up sheltered by the same arms, yet turn out completely different? That was Stephan and I. Our father was a simple woodsman in Farnham, but he was descended from a vigorous stock. Although he was proud of our original name, Blut or Blood, he ultimately decided that it carried with it too many negative connotations. So he was the one that added the extra “n.” Nevertheless, when were both lads, he regaled Stephan and I with lurid tales about our infamous ancestor, Colonel Thomas Blood.
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Perhaps that is ultimately what made Stephan join the Beefeaters, to somehow atone for Blood’s actions. Our father died when I was sixteen and Stephan two years my junior. With our small funds, I started a Christmas tree farm, which has proven to be a rough labor, with uneven income even in the best of times. When our sainted mother grew ill shortly after August Bank Holiday, I did not have the money to pay for a Harley Street doctor. I was desperate, and in my foolishness I tried to convince Ned that there was only one solution. Having visited him at the Tower before, I knew that there was infinite wealth lying at his fingertips, ripe for the taking. He resisted my suggestion for many months while our mother grew weaker. I finally convinced him to take some leave and visit her. When he saw the reaper’s hand on her, he suddenly shared in my desperation. He returned to London, and within a few days had carried out his plan. But it was too late. On the night he arrived in Farnham, our mother had died not two hours before.”

Blunt paused to gather his wits, clearly still emotional about these events.

“We argued bitterly. He never forgave me for inciting him to betray his oath, and I never forgave him for hesitating until it was too late to help our mother. Finally, realizing we had no more to say to each other, I stormed away, and he promptly quitted the tree farm. Realizing that his guilt would soon be discovered, he fled to Southampton, where he was arrested trying to board a ship bound for Australia. He was sent to prison, but never admitted to anyone where he hid the stone. I haven’t spoken to him since that terrible day, and I did not even know he had been released until I saw the report of his death in the evening paper. I recognized the description of Stephan, and immediately knew what his final words meant.”

“‘The First Star,’” I interjected. “That was never what he said. It was the ‘Fir’s Star.’”

Blunt nodded miserably. “You are absolutely spot-on, Doctor. I dropped the paper and immediately raced outside to the farm. I could recall precisely the location where we had quarreled. It was an isolated spot, and once I had departed the scene there was no reason for him to hide the diamond anywhere else. Although he had chosen a different occupation, he still learned at our father’s knee, same as me, and knew his way around a forest. He would have understood that the trees surrounding us had a good dozen plus years to go before they would have grown to a height sufficient for harvesting. It would have taken him a matter of moments to carve a fissure large enough to wedge the diamond safely inside, then disguise the damage with some artfully applied sap. Over the span of the next twelve years, quite a burr would have developed over the spot. But burrs occur with sufficient regularity that I never suspected the vast fortune that was growing silently in my fields. To my dismay, however, I quickly realized that the grove of Scotch firs in question had been harvested not a week earlier. Studying my records, I found that this lot had been sent to a man named Clancy here in the City. Travelling up to London, I looked through his books when he wasn’t watching, but could not tell which of three possible trees was marked by a burr of unusual properties. I tackled them in order of ease. Last night, Mr. Asbury’s house here was occupied, so I instead broke into those homes on Albion Grove and Garden Road, as you have already noted, Mr. Holmes. The first two trees were a bust. The third, you can see for yourself.”

His tale concluded Blunt sank back into his chair with the appearance of a broken man.

We all sat in silence for a moment. Then Holmes nodded in grim satisfaction. “I believe you, Mr. Blunt.” He stood, and the rest of us followed his lead.

“I still don’t understand, Mr. Holmes,” Gregson interjected. “Who pushed Stephan Blunt?”

Holmes shook his head. “No one. At least not purposefully. Did you not smell the man’s breath, Gregson? It was rank with cheap whiskey. I suspect that upon his release from Princetown, Stephan surreptitiously visited the farm of his brother. He too soon realized that the tree containing the diamond was no longer present, but the long stint in gaol must have dulled his ability to ratiocinate. Rather than the industrious, albeit illegal, activities of his brother who followed the diamond all the way to its actual locale, and who would even now be in possession of it, were it not for our timely intervention, Stephan Blunt wrongly concluded that the stone was lost forever. When he could have reached out to another human being, he instead sought solace in the form of a bottle. Whether he accidentally stumbled from the platform in a drunken haze, or whether he purposefully strove for a hasty path to oblivion, we shall never know for certain.”