The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (8 page)

I stared at the two-story white-painted brick building for some time, contemplating my next move. But the Inn was not divulging its secrets. I then recalled Holmes’ advice to utilize my other senses. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath through my nose. I smelled the typical scents of a country community in which horses played a significant role, but nothing that would help lead me from this shuttered tavern to the locale of the missing Señor Márquez. But then I heard something. It was a faint music coming from the west of the town. I set off down the street towards the source of the sounds, and after a hike of a few minutes I finally discovered where all of the townsfolk had gone.

Gathered in and around a large barn on the edge of town, the people of Burford were throwing a holiday party of a sort that I did not think still existed in today’s day and age. A tributary from the nearby river fed what in the summer might be a moderate-sized fish pond. But the winter cold had frozen it fast, and upon the ice the local villagers had enacted their own modern version of the Thames Frost Fairs of yore.
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Wreathed tents and booths of all sizes had been erected, where great legs of meat and mugs of wassail were being passed out to the eagerly awaiting crowds. In one corner a puppet show entertained a group of warmly-bundled small children, while some older lads were sliding around the entire area with skates tied to their shoes. Inside the barn proper, its lights shining forth onto the pond, was assembled a rag-tag band. I could hear the sounds of a fiddle, bass, banjolele, piano, and even a snare-drum, all accompanying a small chorus of tambourine-shaking young women who were singing carols with great enthusiasm and even some measure of skill. To these tunes merrily danced a swirling crowd of smiling country-folk, all outfitted in their finest for this wondrous winter festival.

My presence at the entrance to the barn was soon noticed by a trim young lass in a high-buttoned fancy white dress, which was enlivened by a neck brooch and a brilliant red poinsettia bloom pinned above her left breast. Her auburn hair was elaborately tied up behind her head, and her green-eyes sparkled vivaciously. Despite the fact that I was a stranger, she smiled kindly and gestured for me to enter.

“Hello, good sir, welcome to Burford!” said she, merrily. “A Happy Christmas to you! How can I be of assistance?”

“Happy Christmas to you as well. I am Dr. John Watson, and I am looking for someone.”

She smiled again. “I would say you have found someone. And if I will not suffice, the rest of the town is here as well.”

“Ah, yes,” I stammered. “Well, the matter is a bit of a mystery.”

“Oh!” she cried and clapped her hands excitedly. “Like those of Mr. Collins?
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What a treat! But you look like a man who has skipped a meal in the pursuit of this mystery. Come and explain it to me over a mince pie and a mug of wassail.” She took my hand and pulled me in the direction of a rough wooden slab propped up over two barrels. Despite the roughness of the setting, the elaborate shapes of the pies were a sign that the people of Burford took their holiday celebration seriously.
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I realized that she was entirely correct, and that I had consumed nothing since the morning’s broken fast. As much as I admired certain of my friend’s talents, Holmes’ utter disregard of his body’s requirement for nourishment while pursuing a case was not something that I considered healthy. Holmes might disparage the acumen of my nostrils, but even I could tell that the pies smelled divinely of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. “Do you have a recommendation?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Barnes made every one herself. You cannot go wrong.”

I chose a star-shaped pie and happily bit into it. She watched me and seemed pleased when I had finished it. “That was exceptional,” I said, truthfully.

“I am glad. Now you have but eleven more to go.”

My eyes must have widened at this remark. The pie was tasty, for certs, but also very filling. There was no way I could complete such a feat!

“Not right now, Dr. Watson!” she laughed merrily. “One a day from now until Twelfth Night. Do you not know the tradition?”

I assured her that I did not.

“Oh dear, you poor man,” she said, taking my hand again. “If you do so, you will find happiness for the next twelve months.”
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She beamed invitingly at me. “Perhaps this happiness will begin with a dance?”
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I smiled gently at her. “I see. Unfortunately, my mystery will not wait for such pleasures. I am seeking a stranger to this town.”

She waved her free hand over the merrymaking crowd. “You will find no strangers here, though I would not even count you as one now that you have broken bread with us, so to speak.”

“And has everyone in the village attended this wonderful party?”

Her brow furrowed as she contemplated this. “Well, now that you mention it, there are the tenants of the old Belknap Estate. They did not come.”

“Who are they?” I inquired.

She shook her head. “I know little about them. They took the estate several months ago on a year lease, but are rarely present. They go up to London most of the time. They are a foreign couple, I think, and they keep to themselves. Everyone just calls them the Germans.”

“That is very interesting. Could you direct me to the Belknap Estate?”

A disappointed look came over her face. “Is your mystery so pressing that you would seek out a boring old foreign couple over the company that you could find here?”

“I am afraid it is,” said I gently. I felt a pang of guilt over my free association with this comely lass, though I knew that my wife would forgive me if she knew, as it was in a good cause.

“So be it. Take the main road east out of town until you come to a fork. At the fork, bear left in a northerly direction. Several roads will branch off, but stay on the main track. After about a mile, the Belknap Estate will be on your right. The name is wrought in iron upon the gate, so you cannot miss it, though dusk be falling.”

“I thank you for your kindness and your hospitality. I feel confident that the mince pies may work their magic for you this year. And he will be a lucky man.”

She blushed prettily and said no more as I bowed and departed.

§

Within minutes, I had followed her directions and had already cleared the outskirts of the village, its scattered cottages still dark while their occupants celebrated by the frozen pond. Night had fully settled before I finally located the Belknap Estate. Fortunately, a full moon lit my path so that I had no mishaps in the dark. I studied the brick-and-timber gabled building, a broad tennis lawn before it, and groves of trees surrounding it on all other sides. Now that I was there, I felt certain that I was on the right track. This remote house was the perfect locale for a foreign agent to engage in nefarious deeds.
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But how was I to effect an entrance? Should I make a frontal assault upon the porticoed door, or attempt a surreptitious entrance? After some debate, I decided that I lacked Holmes’ skills in egresses of a questionable legality,
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so simply I pushed open the gate and strode up to the door. I knocked strongly upon it, certain to attract the attention of any within.

A few moments passed before I heard footsteps approaching the door. Finally, the door creaked open a small amount, and a thin face peered out at me. From what I could see, the man’s attire was neat, but rather plain. He was close to forty years of age, with near-black hair and deep brown eyes. But it was the sharp nose and chin that brought to mind the description by the watchman Mr. Wickham.

“What do you want?” said the man, a German accent plain in his suspicious voice.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Dr. John Watson. I am an inspector for the Board of Health. As you have probably read in the papers, there has been a cholera outbreak in this district. I must inspect your home immediately and ensure that there are no cases which have not been brought to our attention.” I have often said that the stage lost a fine actor when Holmes decided to pursue detection as a career,
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and while I might lack his facility with disguises, I have learned something from him over the last nine years of our association. I think he would be proud at this particular subterfuge of mine.

“That is impossible,” said the man, brusquely.

“It is most certainly not impossible, Mr….”

He hesitated for a moment, and then finally replied. “Meyer.”

The name rang a bell. “Ah, yes, Mr. Adolph Meyer. I tell you, sir, that the Health Acts of 1848 and 1858 bestow upon me the Powers to enter any house in a cholera-afflicted district. If you do not let me inspect this house, I will return in twenty minutes with the support of the local constabulary to fully enforce this law.”

He stared at me for a moment, and then licked his lips. “You may enter, Doctor. But there is nothing to see. My wife is in London tonight and I am alone in the house.” He stepped back and tentatively allowed the door to open just wide enough for me to cross the threshold.

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer. I am certain that you have no reason to falsify the occupants of the household, but the regulations are quite clear that the inspection must be a visual one and not rely solely upon a verbal history. I assure you that it will only take a moment. I will soon be gone and you can resume your holiday celebrations.” I began to traipse about the house, Meyer fast upon my heels. To keep the man distracted, I regaled him with an account of the great cholera outbreaks of the century and the various methods by which the Health Boards were combating this plague. As we went along, I opened doors and peered into them. On the first floor, we came to a door that was locked.

“Please open this door, if you will, Mr. Meyer.”

The man smiled and laughed nervously. “I am afraid that the estate agent failed to provide us with a key to that room. It has never been opened in the months that we have lived here.”

I looked down at the floor and then back up at him. “Really? Then why is there a partial footprint leading inside that is plainly visible in the gathered dust?” I reached into my overcoat and swiftly pulled out the Webley, training it upon him. “I insist that you open it, sir.”

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the gun, though to his credit I saw no fear in his eyes. “Who are you?” he exclaimed angrily.

“Someone who wishes to speak to Señor Márquez.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise that I knew the name of the room’s occupant, but he acknowledged his defeat and carefully drew a key from his pocket. Inserting it into the lock, he threw open the door. The room was dark, but from the gas-lights in the hallway, I could just make out the shape of a man curled on the bare floor.

“Bring him out into the light,” I ordered, motioning with the Webley.

Meyer entered the room and reached down to cup his arms into the man’s axillae. He began to drag the body towards the door. I grimaced at the rough treatment, but could foresee no other way to simultaneously cover Meyer and attend to the man. When Meyer had finally brought him into the light I could tell from his dark complexion that this was indeed our missing Spanish attaché. Meyer let go of the man’s arms, and I motioned for him to back away. I bent down and felt the man’s neck. The pulse was feeble but present, and I knew with the application of sufficient ammonia and brandy he could be roused.

My attention distracted for a moment, Meyer suddenly turned and fled. He must have calculated, rightly so, that I would hesitate to shoot a man in the back, and before I could do anything, he was gone. I thought about chasing after him, but reckoned that my duty remained with the injured man.

I made Márquez as comfortable as I could, and induced him to take a sip of brandy from my flask. This seemed to enliven his pulse and his breaths became stronger. I was calculating whether I could carry him the entire distance back to Burford, or whether I should try to conceal him somewhere safe nearby, when I heard the pounding of feet upon the drive outside.

Fearing that Meyer had returned with reinforcements, I straightened up and stood my ground over the injured man, Webley in hand. Fortunately, my concerns were unfounded, for I soon heard the Aberdonian accent of Inspector MacDonald shouting my name.

I called out my location, and within moments, the inspector and five constables appeared. A quick discussion revealed that Holmes, after hearing of my plan from Mycroft, had sensed the danger and decided to send the Inspector to accompany me. But they had missed the train that I had taken and were forced to await for another that left an hour later. After some initial confusion as to my exact whereabouts, the lass from the barn finally pointed them in the right direction.

Unfortunately, they had arrived too late to apprehend Meyer,
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but the constables were a great assistance in seeing that Señor Márquez found his way to the office of the local medico. There he could complete his recovery, watched over by several officers of the law, both for his safety and to question him about what had occurred at the hands of Meyer. Unfortunately, the signs were clear that he was about to descend into a full bout of brain fever, so I realized that it would be quite some time before Señor Márquez would be of much assistance.
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A careful search of the premises failed to turn up any signs of papers that would be sufficient to launch a war. Inspector MacDonald was of the opinion that they were already on their way to Germany via some diplomatic post. However, I postulated that there would have been little reason to cruelly mistreat Señor Márquez if Meyer had already been in possession of the papers in question. I could only think that the interrupted voyage of Márquez home to Spain must have been a diversion, and the papers were still in the possession of Don Francisco Tomás Velásquez y Reales.