Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  ***

  George was still puzzled. ‘But his own son Kenneth was going to play Santa Claus,’ he said. ‘Or at least he seemed to expect to.’

  Campion nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Welkin had foreseen that difficulty and prepared for it. If Kenneth had been playing Father Christmas and the same thing had happened I think you would have found that the young man had a pretty convincing alibi established for him. You must remember the burglar was not meant to be seen. He was only furnished with the costume in case he was. As it happened, of course, when Welkin père saw that Mike was not too unlike his burglar friend in build, he encouraged the change-over and killed two birds with one stone—or tried to.’

  His host took the diamonds and turned them over. He was slow of comprehension.

  ‘Why steal his own property?’ he demanded.

  Mr. Campion sighed. ‘You have such a blameless mind, George, that the wickedness of some of your fellow-men must be a constant source of astonishment to you,’ he murmured. ‘Did you hear our friend Welkin say that he had insured this necklace?’

  George’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘God bless my soul!’ he said. ‘The bounder! In our house, too,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Miracle you spotted it, Campion. God bless my soul! Draw the insurance and keep the diamonds… Damnable trick.’

  He was still wrathful when the door burst open and Mae Turrett came in, followed by Mike and Sheila.

  ‘The Welkins are going. They’ve ordered their cars. What on earth’s happened, George?’

  Her ladyship was startled but obviously relieved.

  Mr. Campion explained. ‘It had been worrying me all day,’ he said after the main part of the story had been told. ‘I knew Charlie Spring had a peculiarity, but I couldn’t think what it was until I pulled that clock out of the bag. Then I remembered his penchant for the baroque and his sad habit of mistaking it for the valuable. That ruled out the diamonds instantly. They wouldn’t be big enough for Charlie. When that came back to me I recollected his other failing. He never works alone. When Mr. Spring appears on a job it always means he has a confederate in the house, usually an employee, and with these facts in my hand the rest was fairly obvious.’

  Mike moved forward. ‘You’ve done me a pretty good turn, anyway,’ he said.

  George looked up. ‘Not really, my boy,’ he said. ‘We’re not utter fools, you know, are we Mae?’

  Lady Turrett blushed. ‘Of course not, Mike my dear,’ she said, and her smile could be very charming. ‘Take Sheila away and cheer her up. I really don’t think you need wait about to say good-bye to the Welkins. Dear me, I seem to have been very silly!’

  Before she went out Sheila put her hand into Mr. Campion’s.

  ‘I told you I was glad to see you,’ she said.

  As the two cars containing the Welkins, their diamonds and all that was theirs disappeared down the white drive, George linked his arm through Mr. Campion’s and led him back to the library.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘You spotted that pen was a dummy when Miss Hare came in this afternoon.’

  Mr. Campion grinned. ‘Well, it was odd the man didn’t use his own pen, wasn’t it?’ he said, settling himself before the fire. ‘When he ignored it I guessed. That kind of cache is fairly common, especially in the States. They’re made for carrying valuables and are usually shabby bakelite things which no one would steal in the ordinary way. However, there was nothing shabby about Mr. Welkin—except his behaviour.’

  George leant back in his chair and puffed contentedly.

  ‘Difficult feller,’ he observed. ‘Didn’t like him from the first. No conversation. I started him on shootin’, but he wasn’t interested, mentioned huntin’ and he gaped at me, went on to fishin’ and he yawned. Couldn’t think of anything to talk to him about. Feller hadn’t any conversation at all.’

  He smiled and there was a faintly shamefaced expression in his eyes.

  ‘Campion,’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Made a wonderful discovery last week.’ George had lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. ‘Went down to the cellar and found a single bottle of Cockburn’s ’sixty-eight. ’Sixty-eight, my boy! My father must have missed it. I was saving it for to-morrow, don’t you know, but whenever I looked at that feller Welkin, I couldn’t feel hospitable. Such a devilish waste. However, now he’s gone—’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘A very merry Christmas indeed,’ supplemented Mr. Campion.

  Christmas Eve

  S.C. Roberts

  Sir Sydney Castle Roberts (1887–1966) was a renowned publisher who played a leading part in Cambridge academic and literary life. Born in Birkenhead, he studied at Pembroke College, Cambridge, and joined Cambridge University Press in 1922. He became Master of Pembroke College in 1948, and Vice-Chancellor of the University from 1949–51, thereafter serving as Chairman of the British Film Institute. His diverse publications included Lord Macaulay: the pre-eminent Victorian (1927) and Samuel Johnson (1954).

  Roberts was also a distinguished Sherlockian, whose enjoyable parodies and pastiches of the great consulting detective included a splendid story, ‘The Case of the Megatherium Thefts’. In a book of memoirs, he recalled playing golf with Conan Doyle in 1911, when the author came to stay with a family friend, and explained how, years later, Ronald Knox’s writings about Holmes inspired his own work in the field, such as Doctor Watson: Prolegomena to the Study of a Biographical Problem (1931). ‘For myself,’ he wrote in the year of his death, ‘I never cease to marvel at the vitality of the Holmesian cult.’ Half a century later, that vitality remains as marvellous as ever. This little play reflects the lighter side of Sherlock.

  ***

  (Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a loafer,

  is discovered probing in a sideboard cupboard

  for something to eat and drink.)

  Holmes: Where in the world is that decanter? I’m sure I—

  (Enter Dr. Watson, who sees only the

  back of Holmes’s stooping figure)

  Watson: (Turning quickly and whispering hoarsely offstage) Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! My revolver, quick. There’s a burglar in Mr. Holmes’s room. (Watson exits)

  Holmes: Ah, there’s the decanter at last. But first of all I may as well discard some of my properties. (Takes off cap, coat, beard, etc., and puts on dressing gown) My word, I’m hungry. (Begins to eat sandwich) But, bless me, I’ve forgotten the siphon! (Stoops at cupboard in same attitude as before)

  (Enter Watson, followed by Mrs. Hudson)

  Watson: (Sternly) Now, my man, put those hands up.

  Holmes: (Turning round) My dear Watson, why this sudden passion for melodrama?

  Watson: Holmes!

  Holmes: Really, Watson, to be the victim of a murderous attack at your hands, of all people’s—and on Christmas Eve, too.

  Watson: But a minute ago, Holmes, there was a villainous-looking scoundrel trying to wrench open that cupboard—a really criminal type. I caught a glimpse of his face.

  Holmes: Well, well, my dear Watson, I suppose I ought to be grateful for the compliment to my make-up. The fact is that I have spent the day loafing at the corner of a narrow street leading out of the Waterloo Road. They were all quite friendly to me there… Yes, I obtained the last little piece of evidence that I wanted to clear up that case of the Kentish Town safe robbery—you remember? Quite an interesting case, but all over now.

  Mrs. Hudson: Lor’, Mr. ’Olmes, how you do go on. Still, I’m learnin’ never to be surprised at anything now.

  Holmes: Capital, Mrs. Hudson. That’s what every criminal investigator has to learn, isn’t it, Watson? (Mrs. Hudson leaves)

  Watson: Well, I suppose so, Holmes. But you must feel very pleased to think you’ve got that Kentish Town case off your mind before Christmas.

  Holmes: On the
contrary, my dear Watson, I’m miserable. I like having things on my mind—it’s the only thing that makes life tolerable. A mind empty of problems is worse even than a stomach empty of food. (Eats sandwich) But Christmas is commonly a slack season. I suppose even criminals’ hearts are softened. The result is that I have nothing to do but to look out of the window and watch other people being busy. That little pawnbroker at the corner, for instance, you know the one, Watson?

  Watson: Yes, of course.

  Holmes: One of the many shops you have often seen, but never observed, my dear Watson. If you had watched that pawnbroker’s front door as carefully as I have during the last ten days, you would have noted a striking increase in his trade; you might have observed also some remarkably well-to-do people going into the shop. There’s one well-set-up young woman whom I have seen at least four times. Curious to think what her business may have been… But it’s a shame to depress your Christmas spirit, Watson. I see that you are particularly cheerful this evening.

  Watson: Well, yes, I don’t mind admitting that I am feeling quite pleased with things today.

  Holmes: So ‘Rio Tintos’ have paid a good dividend, have they?

  Watson: My dear Holmes, how on earth do you know that?

  Holmes: Elementary, my dear Watson. You told me years ago that ‘Rio Tintos’ was the one dividend which was paid in through your bank and not direct to yourself. You come into my room with an envelope of a peculiar shade of green sticking out of your coat pocket. That particular shade is used by your bank—Cox’s—and by no other, so far as I am aware. Clearly, then, you have just obtained your pass-book from the bank and your cheerfulness must proceed from the good news which it contains. Ex hypothesi, that news must relate to ‘Rio Tintos.’

  Watson: Perfectly correct, Holmes; and on the strength of the good dividend, I have deposited ten good, crisp, five-pound notes in the drawer of my dressing table just in case we should feel like a little jaunt after Christmas.

  Holmes: That was charming of you, Watson. But in my present state of inertia I should be a poor holiday companion. Now if only—(Knock at door) Come in.

  Mrs. Hudson: Please sir, there’s a young lady to see you.

  Holmes: What sort of young lady, Mrs. Hudson? Another of these young women wanting half a crown towards some Christmas charity? If so, Dr. Watson’s your man, Mrs. Hudson. He’s bursting with banknotes today.

  Mrs. Hudson: I’m sure I’m very pleased to ’ear it, sir; but this lady ain’t that kind at all, sir. She’s sort of agitated, like… very anxious to see you and quite scared of meeting you at the same time, if you take my meaning, sir.

  Holmes: Perfectly, Mrs. Hudson. Well, Watson, what are we to do? Are we to interview this somewhat unbalanced young lady?

  Watson: If the poor girl is in trouble, Holmes, I think you might at least hear what she has to say.

  Holmes: Chivalrous as ever, my dear Watson—bring the lady up, Mrs. Hudson.

  Mrs. Hudson: Very good, sir. (To the lady outside) This way, Miss.

  (Enter Miss Violet de Vinne, an elegant

  but distracted girl of about twenty-two)

  Holmes: (Bowing slightly) You wish to consult me?

  Miss de Vinne: (Nervously) Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?

  Holmes: I am—and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

  Watson: (Coming forward and holding out hand) Charmed, I am sure, Miss—

  Holmes: (To Miss de Vinne) You have come here, I presume, because you have a story to tell me. May I ask you to be as concise as possible?

  Miss de Vinne: I will try, Mr. Holmes. My name is de Vinne. My mother and I live together in Bayswater. We are not very well off but my father was… well… a gentleman. The Countess of Barton is one of our oldest friends—

  Holmes: (Interrupting) And the owner of a very wonderful pearl necklace.

  Miss de Vinne: (Startled) How do you know that, Mr. Holmes?

  Holmes: I am afraid it is my business to know quite a lot about other people’s affairs. But I’m sorry. I interrupted. Go on.

  Miss de Vinne: Two or three times a week I spend the day with Lady Barton and act as her secretary in a casual, friendly way. I write letters for her and arrange her dinner-tables when she has a party and do other little odd jobs.

  Holmes: Lady Barton is fortunate, eh, Watson?

  Watson: Yes, indeed, Holmes.

  Miss de Vinne: This afternoon a terrible thing happened. I was arranging some flowers when Lady Barton came in looking deathly white. ‘Violet,’ she said, ‘the pearls are gone.’ ‘Heavens,’ I cried, ‘what do you mean?’ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘having quite unexpectedly had an invitation to a reception on January 5th, I thought I would make sure that the clasp was all right. When I opened the case (you know the special place where I keep it) it was empty—that’s all.’ She looked as if she was going to faint, and I felt much the same.

  Holmes: (Quickly) And did you faint?

  Miss de Vinne: No, Mr. Holmes, we pulled ourselves together somehow and I asked her whether she was going to send for the police, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said Jim (that’s her husband) hated publicity and would be furious if the pearls became ‘copy’ for journalists. But of course she agreed that something had to be done and so she sent me to you.

  Holmes: Oh, Lady Barton sent you?

  Miss de Vinne: Well, not exactly. You see, when she refused to send for the police, I remembered your name and implored her to write you… and… well… here I am and here’s the letter. That’s all, Mr. Holmes.

  Holmes: I see. (Begins to read letter) Well, my dear lady, neither you nor Lady Barton has given me much material on which to work at present.

  Miss de Vinne: I am willing to answer any questions, Mr. Holmes.

  Holmes: You live in Bayswater, Miss Winnie?

  Watson: (Whispering) ‘De Vinne,’ Holmes.

  Holmes: (Ignoring Watson) You said Bayswater, I think, Miss Winnie?

  Miss de Vinne: Quite right, Mr. Holmes, but—forgive me, my name is de Vinne.

  Holmes: I’m sorry, Miss Dwinney—

  Miss de Vinne: De Vinne, Mr. Holmes, D…E…V…

  Holmes: How stupid of me. I think the chill I caught last week must have left a little deafness behind it. But to save further stupidity on my part, just write your name and address for me, will you? (Hands her pen and paper, on which Miss de Vinne writes) That’s better. Now, tell me, Miss de Vinne, how do you find Bayswater for shopping?

  Miss de Vinne: (Surprised) Oh, I don’t know. Mr. Holmes, I hardly—

  Holmes: You don’t care for Whiteley’s, for instance?

  Miss de Vinne: Well, not very much. But I can’t see…

  Holmes: I entirely agree with you, Miss de Vinne. Yet Watson, you know, is devoted to that place—spends hours there…

  Watson: Holmes, what nonsense are you—

  Holmes: But I think you are quite right, Miss de Vinne. Harrod’s is a great deal better in my opinion.

  Miss de Vinne: But I never go to Harrod’s, Mr. Holmes, in fact I hardly ever go to any big store, except for one or two things. But what has this got to do—

  Holmes: Well, in principle, I don’t care for them much either, but they’re convenient sometimes.

  Miss de Vinne: Yes, I find the Army and Navy stores useful now and then, but why on earth are we talking about shops and stores when the thing that matters is Lady Barton’s necklace?

  Holmes: Ah, yes, I was coming to that. (Pauses) I’m sorry, Miss de Vinne, but I’m afraid I can’t take up this case.

  Miss de Vinne: You refuse, Mr. Holmes?

  Holmes: I am afraid I am obliged to do so. It is a case that would inevitably take some time. I am in sore need of a holiday and only today my devoted friend Watson has made all arrangements to take me on a Mediterranean cruise immediately after Christmas.

 
; Watson: Holmes, this is absurd. You know that I merely—

  Miss de Vinne: Dr. Watson, if Mr. Holmes can’t help me, won’t you? You don’t know how terrible all this is for me as well as for Lady Barton.

  Watson: My dear lady, I have some knowledge of my friend’s methods and they often seem incomprehensible. Holmes, you can’t mean this?

  Holmes: Certainly I do, my dear Watson. But I am unwilling that any lady should leave this house in a state of distress. (Goes to door) Mrs. Hudson!

  Mrs. Hudson: Coming, sir. (Mrs. Hudson enters)

  Holmes: Mrs. Hudson, be good enough to conduct this lady to Dr. Watson’s dressing room. She is tired and a little upset. Let her rest on the sofa there while Dr. Watson and I have a few minutes’ quiet talk.

  Mrs. Hudson: Very good, sir.

  (Exeunt Mrs. Hudson and Miss de Vinne,

  the latter looking appealingly at Dr. Watson)

  Holmes: (Lighting cherry-wood pipe) Well, Watson?

  Watson: Well, Holmes, in all my experience I don’t think I have ever seen you so unaccountably ungracious to a charming girl.

  Holmes: Oh, yes, she has charm, Watson—they always have. What do you make of her story?

  Watson: Not very much, I confess. It seemed fairly clear as far as it went, but you wouldn’t let her tell us any detail. Instead, you began a perfectly ridiculous conversation about the comparative merits of various department stores. I’ve seldom heard you so inept.

  Holmes: Then you accept her story?

  Watson: Why not?

  Holmes: Why not, my dear Watson? Because the whole thing is a parcel of lies.

  Watson: But, Holmes, this is unreasoning prejudice.

  Holmes: Unreasoning, you say? Listen, Watson. This letter purports to have come from the Countess of Barton. I don’t know her Ladyship’s handwriting, but I was struck at once by its laboured character, as exhibited in this note. It occurred to me, further, that it might be useful to obtain a specimen of Miss de Vinne’s to put alongside it—hence my tiresome inability to catch her name. Now, my dear Watson, I call your particular attention to the capital B’s which happen to occur in both specimens.