The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (3 page)

He snorted loudly. “Only when I let you win, Watson,” said he, callously. “Did you seriously believe that you could best me? You are not even aware of the King’s Gambit or the Florentine Defense.”
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I attempted to not let his tone ruffle me. “Then backgammon or draughts?”
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He dismissed these with a wave of his hand. “Trifles.”

“Écarté?”
[40]
I persisted. “Or whist?”
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I suggested, knowing his love for that game.

He sighed again. “You are in a particularly pertinacious mood today, Watson. Will you not simply leave me be?”

“Absolutely not, Holmes. Today is Christmas. I will not hear of it!” I looked back into the sitting room, where I spied upon the sideboard a copy of the morning edition of the
Times
. Mrs. Hudson must have feared to carry it herself all of the way into Holmes’ bedchamber. In a few strides, I had commandeered both the paper and the basket chair,
[42]
hauling them back into Holmes’ bedchamber with me.

I sat down solidly in the chair, signaling to Holmes that no force was about to dislodge me. “What about these?” said I, motioning to the leaders of the
Times
. “I am certain that there are a myriad of possible crimes to solve herein.”

“It is a poor season for wrongdoings, Watson,” Holmes protested wearily, though I could tell his heart was not in it.

“Oh, what about this one, Holmes? The British Bankers Club reports that thirty thousand pounds have vanished from the safe on the premises. It was there two nights ago, and was found missing the following morning, though there are no signs of a forced entry and the night watchman, whose honesty is not in doubt, saw nothing.”

Holmes emitted a disgusted sound from between his lips. “Please, Watson. The night watchman suffers from hypnolepsy.
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Mr. Sexton, the manager of the club, whose debts at the tracks have attained new proportions, knew this when he hired him. It was simplicity itself for Sexton to await the man’s inevitable collapse and pilfer the safe while the man slept.”

I stared at the newspaper article in confusion. It mentioned nothing that might hint at a neurologic condition in the watchman. “How could you possibly know that, Holmes?” said I, accusingly.

He shook his head sadly. Inspector Jones mentioned the case when he stopped in. I asked him to describe the watchman in intricate detail, and while I am certain that he left out many instructive features, he did note that the man was yawning excessively and had great dark circles under his eyes. Jones assumed this was a mark of sleep deprivation, and a sign that the man was being truthful that he stayed awake all night.”

“That does seem like a logical conclusion,” I pointed out.

“Not if you wish to solve a so-called impossible crime, Watson! You must always be on the look-out for incongruities, and be willing to consider all possible paths that may explain them. I took the opposite approach. The man was a professional watchman, and had been for many years. His very existence is a mirror image of the average man. When we are awake, he is asleep, and vice versa. There is no reason for him to appear so tired after a typical night’s shift. The man was noted by all who knew him to be exceptionally honest, so why would he lie?”

“To save his job?”

“Possibly, Watson. But perhaps he was ashamed of his affliction? Perhaps he was sufficiently chagrined to seek out professional assistance? We both know that there is only one specialist in London to whom he might go to for advice.”

“So you sent Inspector Jones to go see Dr. Trevelyan?”
[44]

“Exactly, Watson. Dr. Trevelyan would never break his Hippocratic Oath, but he was able to confirm that the man was a patient under his care. Jones directly questioned the man, who corroborated that Mr. Sexton was aware of his condition. That, in addition to Sexton’s debts, was sufficient to explain all, even to a policeman of Jones’ limited acumen. There is a telegram somewhere,” he waved in the direction of the floor, where I caught sight of more than one crumpled note, “that concludes that the unscrupulous Mr. Sexton is now spending the holidays in rather less luxury than he previously imagined.”

“Well, then, what about…” said I, indefatigably.

“Forget it, Watson. I tell you that there is nothing of interest in the paper.”

Not without some degree of exasperation did I look about his room, seeking a new inspiration. Fortunately, I was spared the need to find a distraction for my friend’s brain by the sound of a knock upon the stairway door. I leapt to my feet, and hurriedly opened it to find a middle-aged man with a mousy face standing upon Holmes’ mat, his battered hat being twisted nervously in his gnarled hands. His eyes were a light brown and his thinning hair already gone much to gray. His clothes were of a poor cut, and it was plain that he was not destined to be one of Holmes more illustrious clients. However, at this point in his career Holmes cared little for the weight of a man’s pocketbook when deciding whether to take on a case, and he only required that it possess features of some particular uniqueness to spark his interest. For myself, I was simply glad to see him and hoped that he could help dispel Holmes’
ennui
.

“Mr. Holmes, sir?” he began. “I am in need of your assistance.”

I forestalled any further explanation from the man. “I am not Holmes, but rather Dr. John Watson, at your service. Mr. Holmes is resting in his bedchamber.”

“Ah, I see,” he said anxiously. “Is he ill?”

“No, only injured and confined to his bed.”

The man’s face fell in disappointment. “Oh. Would he be willing to hear me out?”

“Certainly,” said I, warmly. I knew from long experience that Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case, providing it contained a certain element of novelty. He was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge that was sufficient to shed light upon a previously dark matter.
[45]

“Send him away, Watson,” Holmes’ voice suddenly carried from his bedroom.

I smiled reassuringly at the man. “Don’t mind him,” I said in a low voice. “He is a bit out of sorts, but he will get to the bottom of your matter nonetheless. Follow me, please.”

I took the man’s overcoat and led him into Holmes’s room. Ignoring Holmes’ glare, I directed him to the chair which I had recently vacated. I then leaned against the wall, eager to hear the man’s story.

However, before he could even begin, Holmes spoke. “What happened,” he said acerbically. “Did someone skip out on paying his fare?”

“Yes, but…” the man began, before stopping himself and starting in amazement. “Do you know me, sir?”

“My good man, it hardly takes a personal familiarity to discern that you are a London cabman. Even Watson here can spot the distinctive marks upon your person,” he turned his gaze upon me, questioningly.

I will admit that I was surprised, for this humble person little appeared to be one of the typical insolent cabmen that rule London’s streets.
[46]
Attempting to conceal this from Holmes, I straightened up, and addressed the challenge. “Yes, well, the clues are self-evident. We start with your hands, which you hold in a partially clenched position. This is a form of rheumatism, a locking of the muscles into the form where they spend the majority of their time. And yet you are still a relatively young man, so only years of exposure to cold weather could thus mimic the effect of age. This is also apparent from the reddened and wind-chapped appearance of your face, as even the thick muffler that you wear has failed to fully shield you from long nights on the streets of London. The other item of note is, of course, your boots and pant-legs, which are often a source of much information about a man’s habits. Your left leg remains quite clean, but the right side is heavily stained with browning snow. How else could a man acquire such a pattern than by sitting all day and night upon the right-sided seat of a brougham cab?”

When I concluded, I glanced over at Holmes to gage his approval. “Not bad, Watson. Not bad at all. You missed the two most evident clues, however, without which our visitor here could just as easily be a railway-man changed out of his uniform.”

“And what are those?” I inquired, as politely as possible.

“First, the piece of straw upon the distal edge of the left sleeve of his jacket. I presume you will find more on his overcoat, but this one crept under the coat while adding feed to the horse’s nose bag. But the most distinctive sign of all is not a visual finding, but an olfactory one. Close your eyes, Watson, and tell me what you smell.”

I followed his instructions and breathed in deeply, but failed to note anything out of place. I admitted as such, and Holmes shook his head. “You must train all of the senses, Watson. Perhaps too many years of dealing with the various foul emanations that can come from the human body, living or deceased, has inured your senses. To my nose, I clearly detect the subtle aroma of horse manure. His boots are clean, however, so he could only have acquired this from long hours of sitting directly in the line of fire, so to speak.” With that conclusion, Holmes turned his piercing gaze back upon the man.

Our visitor followed this train of logic with growing admiration. “What my friend Mr. Jabez Wilson
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said is true. You are a magician, Mr. Holmes, and a magician it will take to solve what has happened.”

“You said that someone skipped out on their fare, Mr…?”

“Fenwick, sir. Gavin Fenwick, at your service. Yes, my most recent client failed to pay for his ride, that is true.…”

“This is hardly interesting then,” Holmes interrupted. “No matter how large the fare, even if I could recover it, it would hardly recompense you sufficiently in order to pay my fees.”
[48]

“Oh, no, I agree, sir. I am a poor man, but every cabby loses a fare once in a while when a man suddenly skips out, or conveniently forgets that they have no money upon their person. But this was different. You see, Mr. Holmes, the strange thing is that the man who stepped into my cab never made it to his destination. I saw him enter, and when I pulled up at Victoria Station no one exited. I finally climbed down, figuring that the man had fallen asleep, but the inside was empty.”

Holmes shrugged, plainly bored by the conversation. “He jumped out while you were not looking, Mr. Fenwick. It has been known to happen.”

“Yes, sir. But I’ve never seen anyone leave behind anything like this.” Fenwick held up a coin that shimmered in the firelight like gold. He held it out and deposited it into my outstretched hand for examination. There was no mark of value upon the face, which showed a majestic portrait of a young king, wearing a crown and cuirass, and carrying an orb and sword. Along the edge it read, ‘Edward VI,’
[49]
with the others letters or numbers worn down to illegibility. I turned it over and saw a crowned shield in the center with the Royal Arms of England supported by the lion and dragon.

Only his eyebrows rose slightly, but I knew that Holmes’ interest had been stoked. I passed the coin to my friend, who studied it carefully before commenting. “This is a rare coin indeed, Mr. Fenwick. It is an English sovereign.”

“A sovereign?” the man said in a tone of wonderment. “That’s a fine wage, for certs!
[50]
But it looks like no sovereign I’ve ever seen before.”

“That is because it is not a British sovereign, Mr. Fenwick.”

The man frowned in confusion. “You just said it was, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not at all. The British sovereign has been minted since 1817, since it’s revival during the Great Recoinage, and most that you see today carry the face of Queen Victoria, as the majority of the older ones with William IV
[51]
were sufficiently worn so as to have been removed from circulation and re-minted. This particular specimen, however, dates from a period before that of the United Kingdom. It is an English sovereign, the likes of which have not been coined for almost three hundred years.
[52]
Why don’t you start from the beginning?” A gleam had risen in Holmes’ eyes, and I knew that this humble cabman had accomplished what I could not, stimulating the engine in Holmes’ brain and putting aside all thoughts of unhappy indulgences.

“Very well, sir. I picked up the man in Portland Place. He climbed into my cab and asked to be taken to Victoria Station.”

“Hold a minute,” interrupted Holmes. “Can you describe him?”

Fenwick grimaced and cocked his head from side to side. “Well, I didn’t take much note of him, Mr. Holmes. He was young, say only a few years past twenty, and of a middling height. He was dressed for travel in a well-made suit and coat, and he carried a small Gladstone bag.
[53]
He had a dark complexion and black hair, mainly covered by a small hat. But there must be a thousand men like that in the city.”

“What about his voice? Could you place where he came from?”

The man thought about this for a moment. “Now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, his accent was strange. He didn’t appear to come from any part of the country that I am familiar with, and I’ve had all sorts in my cab. Mayhaps his English came from a book?”

“That is excellent, Mr. Fenwick,” said Holmes approvingly. “And what time was this?”