The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (25 page)

We bid our adieus to our perplexed, but ultimately contented, host for the evening and stepped forth back into the night, where a light snow had again started to fall.

I blew out a long breath, which crystalized in the now frigid night air. “I still can’t quite see how you figured it all out, Holmes.”

“I agree, Watson, that the jump from a massacred tree to a missing Crown Jewel was not an immediately obvious one. However, the key points were simple. Two trees from the same locale with similar distinctive burrs were thoroughly dissected. Why? Because someone was looking for an item. It could only be something small. And based on the growing cycle of a fir tree cultivated for use as a Christmas decoration, it must have been placed there between eight to twelve ten years ago. As you are aware, I have made a systematic study of the annals of crime.
[320]
Therefore, once I knew the name of the man who had until lately owned the trees, and the former occupation of his brother, the final links in my chain were forged. As Mycroft pointed out at the club, the trip to the Tower was merely a formality. I knew the third tree must contain some royal gemstone, but I wished to have a firmer identification only possible by studying the luster of the current stones
in situ
.”

“Very good, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Though you have already done your bit to the satisfaction of our reigning house, and have that emerald tie-pin to show for it,
[321]
I say again that you may see your name in the next honors list.”

My friend held up his hand again. “No, no, brother. I have refused before, and I shall do so again.
[322]
Though I find that my funds are not what they once were. I may not be a poor man, but I would not look amiss at the prospect of some small finder’s fee for my role in locating this particular lost trove.”

Mycroft smiled. “I will ensure that your message is passed along the appropriate channels, Sherlock.”

“Hold a minute, Lestrade,” said Holmes, noting that the two inspectors were in the process of restraining the arms of Mr. Blunt with some thin rope, presumably the first step towards transporting him to the cells at Bow Street. “I am unaware that Mr. Blunt has committed any crime meriting a felony charge. No one was harmed. Even his two episodes of property destruction were brought on by a temporary madness from a surfeit of grief at the tragic death of his brother. If Mr. Blunt will promise to forward to Sir James Oldcastle and Mr. Torben Heppenstall, say thrice what they paid for their respective trees, I am certain that would sufficiently recompense them for their losses. I doubt that a magistrate would impose a harsher sentence.”

Blunt gazed at Holmes with hope in his eyes for the first time. “I would so promise, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes turned to look at Lestrade and Gregson, who in turn mutely sought the advice of Mycroft. The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment, before Mycroft finally smiled.

“The law of Britain has often been accused of being rigid and inflexible,” said Mycroft, “but even the sturdiest tree can occasionally bend in the wind of a good cause.” He then nodded his agreement to Lestrade, who promptly began to untie Blunt’s hands.

The man rubbed his wrists for a moment, and looked around as if hesitant to believe that he had actually been granted his freedom. Holmes’ hawk-life stare focused upon the man, “I will be watching, Mr. Blunt. I will be watching. And I know all. So be good.”

The man’s eyes grew even wider and he visibly swallowed. And then, as swiftly as his legs would carry him, he ran off down the street. We watched his vanishing form until he turned the corner, at which point Holmes broke into a merry laugh. “I think our friend will never be so tempted again, at least not while he is aware that I draw breath. And perchance he has learned a lesson that will serve him well in years to come.” He turned to the inspectors. “Goodnight, Lestrade, Gregson. I apologize that I am sending you back to the Yard empty-handed, at least in a materialistic sense. But perhaps you are a bit richer in the loftier realm of the imagination?”

I could tell from the expression upon their faces that Lestrade and Gregson may not have been in complete accord with this pronouncement, but they were too overawed by Holmes’ recent
tour de force
of deductive reasoning to protest strongly. They eventually ambled off together in search of a hansom that would carry them swiftly back to Whitehall.

Holmes turned to me. “And you, Watson, do you consider this a satisfactory conclusion to your little problem?”

“Which problem was that, Holmes?”

“Your task of keeping my mind occupied. That was why you read the case of Sir James to me in the first place, was it not?”

“Indeed,” I nodded. “I believe that my job here is done. However, I will point out that it was not one of your original seven hypotheses, Holmes.”

His right eyebrow rose slightly and he shook his head ruefully. “The key of detection, Watson, much like that of acting, is improvisation. You must be willing to adapt, or even abandon, theories as new facts emerge, and be ever ready to spin a new one. By the way, Watson, I am certain that Mr. Blunt will not mind if you keep that,” he said, motioning to the axe that I still carried in my arms. “Consider it a memento, however poor, of tonight’s adventure.”

I smiled broadly. “I will do so. I think it would look quite fine hung up above our mantel. It should nicely compliment the jack-knife. Shall we return to the warmth of Baker Street and some glasses of port? What about you, Mr. Farrar? Mycroft? Care to join us?”

Mycroft shook his head regretfully. “I thank you for your kind offer, Doctor, but I think I have travelled far enough beyond my usual bounds for one evening. And I have a few more miles to go before I sleep. Mr. Farrar,” said Mycroft, “if you will please accompany me, I think the use of Mr. Asbury’s carriage will help us see that the Star finds its way home at long last.” He nodded at Holmes and myself and began to move off towards the waiting carriage. With his heavy black cloak thrown about him and his slow, lumbering gait, Mycroft brought to mind an ancient magi, ponderously following a Star to his final destination.

Farrar first climbed into the carriage. However, before Mycroft could do so, Holmes called out to him. “Happy Christmas to you, Mycroft.”

A rare smile lit up the face of the elder Holmes brother, who nodded slowly back at my friend. “And to you a good night, Sherlock.”
[323]

§

THE

GRAND GIFT OF SHERLOCK

In the pedestrian passage of Cecil Court
[324]
which connects Charing Cross Road
[325]
to St. Martin’s Lane
[326]
lies the small, almost forgotten (by all but the most loyal of repeat customers) antiquarian bookshop with the apparently misspelled appellation of ‘The Guilded Rose.’
[327]
Therein, on 1 January,
[328]
2014, an astonishing discovery was made by a mostly deaf nonagenarian from Arundel, West Sussex, who has asked to remain nameless. Her eyes are still sharp, though she spends most of her dwindling days lost in the mystical kingdoms of romance evocable by a good book. In the last few years she has acquired a rather peculiar, but ultimately harmless,
idée fixe
[329]
that she is in fact the reincarnation
[330]
of the historical Guinevere, wife of the
Dux Bellorum
[331]
of post-Roman Britain. She has therefore established a fairly significant collection of books containing the assorted tales that constitute the Arthurian genre.

On the day in question, this quixotic quest had led her to seek out a rather modern version of the legend, entitled
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
, by the American author who went by the pen-name of Mark Twain.
[332]
Her hunt that particular day was ultimately unsuccessful as far as her primary goal was concerned, but produced an extraordinary by-product. In the “T” section, she found a curious little hardback he had penned by the name of
Tom Sawyer, Detective
, a sequel of sorts to his much more famous novel
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she noted one passage marked by the purple ink of a J-pen with the note ‘Holmes?’:

“Think of that now. I never see such a head as that boy had. Why, I had eyes and I could see things, but they never meant nothing to me. But Tom Sawyer was different. When Tom Sawyer seen a thing it just got up on its hind legs and talked to him – told him everything it knowed. I never see such a head.”

Intrigued by this, she turned to the fly-leaf in order to ascertain who the prior owner may have been. There was no formal bookplate, but rather a simple handwritten ‘
Ex libris John H. Watson
.’
[333]
Although mystery novels did not much fall within her sphere of interest, it was impossible that she could fail to take note (marked, I imagine, only by a mildly upturning of her white eyebrows) of one of the most celebrated names in Victorian literature. However, the most remarkable finding of all was, folded and tucked away in the book, a typed nine-page letter signed by his even more-famous friend. With her permission, I now present to you the unedited last-known words of the world’s foremost consulting detective, embellished (by this literary agent) with a somewhat fantastic title derived from one of Sherlock Holmes’ more pithy utterances.
[334]

§

South Downs, 22 December, 1918

My dear Watson,
[335]

I hope the years have used you well.  More than a month has turned since the final passing of that cold and bitter east wind, bringing a conclusion to those most terrible four years.
[336]
Although we can expect that a cleaner, better, stronger land lies upon our broad sunlit fields now that the storm has cleared, far too many good men have withered before its blast. It is to be hoped that we shall never again witness such a horror.
[337]

I believe that you and I can claim with some veracity that the conflict would have lasted even longer, or perhaps ended in a far more terrible fashion, if not for our combined services. I have heard from my brother
[338]
that you acquitted yourself with great honor upon the fields of Flanders,
[339]
and that your Victoria Cross
[340]
was well deserved, to say the least. It could be argued that you should have also received a Bar
[341]
for your excellent driving, Watson, as without it we likely would even now be under the yoke of the Pr
ussian Juggernaut.
[342]

I am unfortunately not at liberty to provide much in the way of details regarding my own war-time efforts after the Von Bork affair, though you may freely imagine that they continued in a similar vein. Nevertheless, I can only speculate that my successes would have been greater had the Damon for my Pythias
[343]
been present, as there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place.
[344]
It would have made a considerable difference, having someone with me on whom I could thoroughly rely.
[345]

However, with the conflict finally behind us, we may turn our attention to happier matters. Although I am imminently pleased to see that after all these years we are not sharing the same cell,
[346]
I hope that we can resume our regular week-end visits,
[347]
and I assure you that my larder will be well-stocked with some epicurean delights and wines of a unique caliber.
[348]
As you know, from the front porch of my villa, I command a magnificent view of that mighty body of water which has not permitted passage of a foreign force since the days of the first William.
[349]
It is a locale more conducive to allowing the mind to roam free upon considerations of a higher matter
[350]
than is possible in the confines of London’s crowded streets. The only significant flaw with Downs is the decided lack of any Turkish Baths to help sooth my rheumatism.
[351]

As for myself, I am busy with another work, which I have tentatively titled,
A Broad Survey of the Medieval English Landscape: Reflections upon the Arts (Manuscripts,
[352]
Music,
[353]
Mystery Plays,
[354]
and Earthenware
[355]
), Barrows,
[356]
and Charters
[357]
of an Age. 
I believe it will be ready for publication soon, and I sincerely hope that you find it of some mild interest.

As you were ever an inveterate historian of our mutual adventures, so I can only assume that you are even now sitting down at the comfortable desk in your tome-lined library to commence work upon yet another volume.
[358]
I admit that there have been one or two moments in which I was found lacking,
[359]
but for the most part we have accomplished something in our time, have we not? Over a thousand capital cases,
[360]
almost all of which were resolved to the satisfaction of either ourselves or our clients, including numerous members of the reigning houses of Europe.
[361]
The more peculiar and incomprehensible the case, the better, for only then we were able to demonstrate the swift deductions, the cunning ruses, and the astute prognostication that ultimately led to the proud proving of our more daring theories. This I take as the justification of our life’s work.
[362]

With some consideration, I have determined that there have been three factors that have most contributed to my small success in the field of deduction over the years:

One, my faculty for careful observation, honed through years of systematic training.
[363]
You have so thoroughly described this particular talent in your fifty-six tales
[364]
that I have no further need to elaborate.

Two, my memory-attic.
[365]
You perhaps recall me speaking of my little brain-attic system before. This is a skill I learned from Cicero,
[366]
where I imagine my mind to be a little empty attic, and then I stock it only with such furniture as I am likely to utilize in my chosen profession, all in most carefully sorted order. All excess items that I come across I consign to separate rooms for spare lumber and boxes and packets of all sorts. This vast store is admittedly more jumbled up, but accessible all the same with some effort.
[367]
I have found, however, that any attempt to stretch the walls of these rooms produces an undesired strain upon the system. Therefore, the optimal method is to continue to construct additional rooms off of the original. These must all be based on some actual locale which I then remember to the most precise details. It may surprise you, Watson, to learn that the room in which I have stored all of the events of the last four years is based upon your own library,
[368]
or at least two full oaken bookcases thereof. I speak of course of the ones that stand immediately behind your writing desk. These have the added attraction of possessing a rather unscientific method of cataloging,
[369]
which varies not only from shelf-to-shelf, but sometimes even within a particular row. When I first studied those rows, they seemed like some exotic cryptogram for me to decipher.
[370]

Although the eyes are immediately drawn to the top shelf, where your unframed picture of the Earl of Shaftsbury stands,
[371]
I instead prefer to start at the bottom, which is in its entirety taken up with the long row of massive year-books
[372]
and unpublished manuscript volumes
[373]
which are not of a sensitive enough nature to warrant confinement to the safety of the little tin box in the vaults of Cox & Co.
[374]

Moving up one row, we find your dubious collection of yellow-backed novels
[375]
and short story collections. Here we note that the organization is eminently logical, alphabetical by the surname of the author. First, we see
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins,
[376]
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
by Thomas de Quincy,
[377]
and three volumes by Mr. Dickens,
A Christmas Carol,
[378]
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
,
[379]
and
The Pickwick Papers.
[380]
Following on their heels are
The Life of Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great
by Henry Fielding,
[381]
Monsieur Lecoq
by Emile Gaboriau,
[382]
King Solomon’s Mines
by H. Rider Haggard,
[383]
Wolfort’s Roost
by Washington Irving,
[384]
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel
by George Meredith,
[385]
Scènes de la Vie de Bohème
by Henri Murger,
[386]
and
Les Miserables
by Victor Hugo.
[387]
Next comes a collection by Mr. Twain
[388]
and a green-covered volume of
Tales
by Edgar Allen Poe, containing such works of interest as ‘The Gold Bug,’ and of course, ‘Murders in Rue Morgue,’ and ‘The Purloined Letter,’ the last two being accounts of that bungler Dupin.
[389]
Finally, I can see
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
by Samuel Richardson,
[390]
The Wreck of the Grosvenor
by William Clark Russell,
[391]
Ivanhoe
and
Quentin Durward,
[392]
both by Sir Walter Scott,
[393]
The Marchioness of Brinvilliers, the Poisoner of the Seven
by Albert Smith,
[394]
Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson,
[395]
Dracula
by Bram Stoker,
[396]
Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray,
[397]
and
Around the World in Eighty Days
by Jules Verne.
[398]

Within arm’s reach we find your handy reference materials. There we see Whitaker’s Almanack, sadly a year out of date,
[399]
the most recent version of both Bradshaw’s General Railway and Steam Navigation Guide for Great Britain and Ireland
[400]
and the ABC Railway Guide,
[401]
and of course your Baedeker’s Great Britain.
[402]
But the bulk of the shelf is taken up by the twenty-four volumes of the great
Encyclopedia Britannica
, Ninth Edition,
[403]
from which I am aware you have acquired that great supply of minute knowledge that has carefully informed all of your writings.

To the right, and filled with well-thumbed volumes, your medical shelf has grown somewhat over the years.
[404]
The first book, quite reasonably, is the Medical Directory.
[405]
After that, the organization becomes murkier. The
Corpus
of Hippocrates, translated by Francis Adams, is perhaps next because of its historical significance. Rudolph Virchow’s
Die Cellularpathologie
,
[406]
translated by Frank Chance, followed by
A Manual of the Operations of Surgery
by Joseph Bell,
[407]
are perhaps prioritized due to their more general contents. While more specialized works, such as
The Tubercle Bacillus, a Treatise on Virulent Consumption
by Leslie Armstrong,
[408]
Scrofula and its Gland Diseases
by Sir Frederick Treves,
[409]
and
On Catalepsy, and Other Obscure Nervous Lesions
by Dr. Percy Trevelyan,
[410]
come later. The remainder of the shelf is taken up by a smattering of issues of the
British Medical Journal
,
[411]
Lancet
, and
Journal of Psychology
,
[412]
presumably containing what you consider to be the most influential articles in those respective fields.