Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  "Drilled?" he said in disbelief as we stood together in the library before the dying fire. "Surely you must be mistaken!" But it was barely a protest. In his eyes he knew it was the truth. Holmes would not speak such a thing unless he were certain.

  "Have I your permission, sir, to search for the drill?" Holmes asked.

  Bayliss hesitated. Holmes did not need to say that it must be someone in the household. No stranger could have entered the chapel, nor was it reasonable to suppose any but those closest to him would have motive for such an act, or the knowledge that it was he, and only he, who would ring the bell.

  "Yes, I suppose it must be done," he conceded. "Whoever took it will not have been able to return it to the toolshed, since it is locked at night. I shall help you. Where do you propose to begin?"

  "With Mr. and Mrs. Franklyn's room," Holmes answered soberly.

  "Theodore was with us all evening!" Bayliss protested, then his face became so much paler I feared he may suffer some constriction of the heart. But his courage did not desert him. With a great effort he composed himself and straightened his shoulders. "I cannot think my daughter would do such a thing. The sooner we can clear her of even the faintest suspicion, the better."

  Together we three went up the great sweeping stairway and along the corridor to Aiyson and Theodore's bedroom. Colonel Bayliss knocked sharply, and a moment later it was opened by Theodore, looking curious. He was still fully dressed.

  "What is it?" he asked on seeing Holmes and myself as well. "Has something further happened?"

  Briefly the colonel explained what had transpired, and that he must make a thorough search of all the rooms.

  "Of course," Theodore agreed, but his mouth was pinched with annoyance. "I regret you consider it necessary, but perhaps it will serve to clear your mind."

  Without answering, the colonel went in, and Holmes followed him, and apologized to Aiyson Franklyn, who was seated in a chair by the dressing table. Holmes and I began to search while Colonel Bayliss stood motionless in the centre of the room, his face a mask of grief.

  It was Holmes who found it, wedged under the bed, into the corner so that it was suspended between the side and the foot. He brought it out, complete with the bit still in place, and held it up.

  No explanation was possible. The sawdust of the beam was still in the grooves of the bit. It had not even been cleaned.

  Aiyson and Theodore stared at each other in horror.

  My concern was for Colonel Bayliss. He looked as if he had been struck with a mortal wound. The Zulu spear all those years ago cannot have hurt as this must have. I moved over to him.

  "Come, sir," I said gently. "There is no more purpose to be served here." I offered him my arm. He did not take it, but I knew from his brief glance at me that he was sensible of my tenderness towards him.

  "I shall tell Millicent what has happened," he said huskily. "She will need to know ..."

  "I will do that," Holmes offered. "She is deeply concerned for you, Colonel. It was she who invited Holmes and myself here, in order to forestall any attempt upon your life. She at least is utterly loyal to you."

  Bayliss attempted to smile, and found it beyond him. He nodded his acceptance, and walked away, his shoulders bowed, his feet heavy.

  Holmes and I went to Millicent's door and knocked. I intended to remain only long enough to give her the news, and then see if I could offer the colonel something to help him sleep, and perhaps steady his heart.

  The door was opened by the ladies' maid.

  "Yes?" she enquired.

  "I must speak with Miss Bayliss," Holmes replied. "It is a matter of the deepest importance, or I would not disturb her. There has been an attempt upon her father's life."

  The maid stared at him in a moment's horror, then collected her wits.

  "Is ... is the colonel all right, sir?"

  "Yes, he is quite well, but naturally he was profoundly upset by the event. Will you please fetch your mistress."

  "Yes, sir." And obediently she disappeared and Holmes and I waited impatiently in the landing.

  Miss Bayliss arrived at the door in her nightgown and robe, her hair loose about her shoulders. She looked from Holmes to me and back again.

  "It happened!" she said in a whisper. "Where? What did she do? Dora says Papa is all right. Are you sure?"

  This last question was addressed to me.

  "Indeed he is quite unhurt," I said as kindly as I could. "Except in spirit, of course. Perhaps your presence will be of comfort to him."

  "Of course. I'll go to him immediately. Does he know yet that it was Alyson?"

  Holmes explained very briefly what had occurred.

  "I see," she said solemnly. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes. You have saved the life of a brave man. I wish you had not had to do it at such a cost." She looked very pale, as if in spite of her own foreboding, the actuality had still shocked her.

  "Are you sure you are well enough?" the maid asked uncertainly, then looked at me. "Miss Millicent has been in bed all evening, sir. I know because I never left the dressing room. Please do see to it she's cared for. It's a horrible thing, and such a shock!"

  "I will," I promised, and stepped back to allow Miss Bayliss to pass. As she did so Holmes suddenly stiffened, then shot out his hand and grasped her by the wrist, almost wrenching her to a stop.

  She let out a cry of pain and surprise.

  "What is it?" she gasped. "Whatever is the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Is there a fire in your room, Miss Bayliss?" he demanded.

  "Of course," she replied.

  "And is it lit? Has it been lit all evening?"

  I was about to protest, but something held me back, some trust in his judgement deeper than any conscious thought.

  "Yes it is lit," she said, facing him boldly. "Why do you ask?"

  "At what hour was it lit?" he pressed.

  "I... I don't know ..."

  "About half an hour ago, miss," the maid replied for her. "You said particular not to light it earlier, as you were already too warm."

  "What on earth does it matter, Holmes?" I was bewildered.

  Holmes, who was still holding Miss Bayliss by the wrist, with his other hand pulled back the heavy curtain of her hair and showed several dark marks on her neck, behind her ears, and on her scalp.

  "Soot," he said with a bitter smile. "It is not easy to wash off. It gets into everything. I have seen small boys who climb up chimneys to clean them, with marks such as these." He turned to her.

  "Only you went up not to clean but to escape your room, to drill through the beam which held up the chapel bell, and to leave the auger and bit in your sister's room, while she was out. Thus you could dispose of your father and your sister in one blow, and use us as your cat's-paw. You did not succeed, Miss Bayliss. Your father is alive and well, and your sister will have her full inheritance, whatever she may choose to do with it!"

  She stared at him with her chin high, her eyes blazing.

  "She will squander it on that worthless husband!" she said in contempt. "And he is worthless, Mr. Holmes, a deceiver and a cheat. I know that better than you may imagine, because he courted me first!"

  Holmes did not reply. He had misjudged both her subtlety and the bitterness of character and the strength of her nerve, and he knew it. He had allowed his prejudice to sway him, and only his keen observation and his deductive power had saved him from being precisely the tool in her plan that she had intended.

  It was a sobering thought, and one which caused him to display an unusual humility that strange and quiet Christmas in Allenbury Hall. It lingered even into Boxing Day.

  In fact it was New Year's Eve, and we were back in Baker Street, before he gave me permission to write up the affair, with a rueful suggestion that next time a woman's silliness caused him to disregard her, I should discreetly mention the name of Miss Millicent Bayliss to him, and he might reconsider his judgement.

  The Sleuth of Christmas Past

&nb
sp; Barbara Paul

  Never had I seen Holmes in so buoyant a mood; he was like a man from whose shoulders an onerous weight had been lifted ... as indeed he was. Only the day before had he concluded his investigation into the affair of the clock that ran backward—a lengthy, strenuous investigation which at times I feared was exacting a toll on my friend's health. But all had been concluded satisfactorily, and discreetly; not only had Holmes been remunerated handsomely, but he was also enjoying the sweet euphoria that only the successful solution of a knotty problem can bring.

  "Shall we take a stroll to Manchester Square, Watson?" Holmes asked. "I'm of a mind to listen to the carolers."

  "Ah," I said, taken by surprise. "Then you intend to celebrate Christmas this year?"

  "I always celebrate Christmas," he replied flatly. "But not always at the same time others do. Christmas is a state of mind, Watson! Come, let us be off. Today is Christmas."

  It was, as a matter of fact, only the twenty-first of the month, in the year 1887. But if Holmes was inclined to celebrate the holiday four days early, who was I to say him nay? I wrapped my black wool muffler over my head before donning my hat; I'd been disposed toward the earache lately.

  Manchester Square was only three streets away. The crisp December day was invigorating, and I was pleased my companion had suggested an outing. In the past he'd displayed a tendency to stay cooped up in our rooms at Baker Street when he had no case pending; it was heartening to learn that Sherlock Holmes, of all men the most impervious to sentiment, was as susceptible as the rest of us to the joyous appeal of the holiday season.

  The carolers were all children. Their dulcet young voices floated through the clear air to bring a smile to the faces of all who passed by. All but one, I noticed. A tall man in a brown greatcoat stood scowling at the children as they sang. "I say, Holmes," I ventured, "isn't that.. . ?"

  "Our Mr. Curtis," he agreed. "And looking every inch a man who abominates Christmas or child singers or both. I wonder what dismays him so."

  Curtis and Company was a prosperous chemist's shop on Crawford Street, the nearest such to Baker Street; Holmes and I both frequented the establishment on a regular basis. On every occasion of my own visits, Curtis had been quite affable, clearly a man at peace with himself and the world. His present thunderous visage made him almost unrecognizable.

  He did not notice our approach. "Are you not enjoying the music, Mr. Curtis?" Holmes asked.

  The chemist started and with an effort focused on our faces. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," he said in a distracted manner. "Dr. Watson, good day. The music? Yes, yes, quite nice. Quite nice indeed."

  "Yet I fear you may be frightening the children," Holmes persisted in a playful manner, "glowering at them in so fearsome a way."

  "Was I glowering?" Curtis looked toward the carolers and smiled and nodded, as if to compensate for any earlier lapse in goodwill. "I was preoccupied, Mr. Holmes. Another matter entirely was demanding my full attention."

  "No trouble, I hope?"

  He hesitated. "I am uncertain. You know of our Merchants Association's Christmas Charities Fund? Oh, what am I thinking— of course you know. And I want to thank you again for your generous subscriptions, both of you."

  "You are most welcome," I said. "Is the Fund not doing well?"

  "Exceedingly well, Dr. Watson," Curtis replied. "That is not the problem. It's only that—" He broke off abruptly, apparently changing his mind about telling us. "But I don't want to trouble you about a matter that is undoubtedly only a misunderstanding. Gentlemen, I wish you the joy of the season."

  "And to you, sir."

  We watched as he hurried off in a direction opposite to that of his place of business. "He suspects someone of stealing from the Fund," Holmes remarked. "Or of planning to."

  "From a charitable fund?" I objected. "Surely no man would be so low as to steal from the poor at Christmastime."

  Holmes looked at me with a glimmer of amusement. "I fear I cannot share your faith in the essential goodness of mankind, my friend. To many among us, perhaps to most of us—money is money. It does not matter where the money comes from or where it is intended to go. By all means let us hope that Curtis is mistaken and his fund is in no danger of being misappropriated. But at the same time let us not assume that all is well."

  I had heard Holmes make similar cynical pronouncements before and knew from past experience that argument was futile. Holmes liked to claim that expecting the best of people was to assure that one lived a life of constant disappointment. To avoid listening to the repetition of a dogma that was distasteful to me, I said the only thing one can say in such a situation. "Tea?" I suggested.

  "An excellent idea! Chatterby's, I think."

  "Very well." I started walking toward Wigmore Street, where we would be most likely to find a hansom cab for hire.

  "No, Watson—this way!" Holmes called. "We walk!"

  "But Chatterby's is over two miles distant!" I protested.

  "Just enough to get our blood circulating! The tea will taste all the sweeter afterward. Come, Watson. We walk."

  We walked.

  # # #

  Upon our return to Baker Street (by hansom cab, I might add), we were met at the door by Mrs. Hudson with the news that a young woman was waiting for us in our rooms.

  "I hope you don't mind that I let her in," the housekeeper said. "The poor young thing had been crying, and it's so bitterly cold outside that I didn't have the heart to send her away."

  "It's not that cold, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, "but you did right. Thank you."

  She looked at him, surprised. "It's turned near freezing, Mr. Holmes."

  He returned her look. "No, it hasn't."

  "Yes, it has," I interposed. "We don't all have your natural immunity to cold, Holmes."

  "Ah." He said no more but led the way upstairs.

  Our visitor was very young... not more than eighteen, I would venture. And she had indeed been crying, normally a fact to make Holmes impatient rather than sympathetic. But the holiday season was still upon him; he spoke to her gently and offered refreshment, which she declined.

  "I don't know whether you can help me or not, Mr. Holmes," she said in an anguished voice. "But I am in desperate need of advice and I have no one to turn to."

  "No father or mother? No other relative?"

  "None. My mother died when I was a child, and my poor father met with an unfortunate accident not two months hence. There are no others, except my fiancé, and he ... he is part of the problem for which I seek advice."

  I said, "Perhaps you would tell us your name."

  "Oh! Forgive me. My name is Amy Stoddard. I still live in my father's house in Bayswater Road."

  "Your father was an importer of spices?" Holmes asked. "And you assisted in the business—perhaps in keeping the accounts? Or in sending out the bills?"

  Her eyes grew large with astonishment. "How ever did you know that, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I detected a slight scent of cinnamon when I first entered the room," he answered in an offhand manner. "And the middle finger of your right hand has a callus at the point where one normally grips a pen—a more pronounced callus than can be accounted for by the writing out of school exercises."

  "I copied all my father's correspondence for him, as well as sending out the bills." She smiled sadly. "I was the only one who could read his handwriting."

  "Well, now. Suppose you tell us the problem for which you seek advice and the part your fiancé plays in it. First, what is his name?"

  "Thomas Wickham. He is the youngest son of a viscount who incurred his family's displeasure by going into trade. My father met him through the Paddington Merchants Association. They were to work together on the Christmas Charities Fund until. . . until my father ..."

  "So it was your father who introduced you," Holmes interjected quickly, not revealing by so much as a twitch of the eyelid that this was the second mention of the Christmas Charities Fund we'd heard that day.

  "Yes. As
my husband, Thomas will oversee the operation of my father's business, as soon as certain legal matters are attended to. But it is not about the importing of spices that I consult you, Mr. Holmes. It concerns a totally unrelated matter."

  "Proceed."

  Miss Stoddard paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "Last week Mr. John Fulham, a friend of my father's, took me to see Sir Henry Irving's new play at the Lyceum Theatre. As we were leaving at the end of the performance, we encountered purely by chance Thomas's business partner, Etienne Piaget. I introduced him to Mr. Fulham, and then Monsieur Piaget said a most remarkable thing. He expressed regrets that I would not be able to spend Christmas with my fiancé.

  "I asked him whatever did he mean? I was planning a Christmas Eve dinner for Thomas and some friends, and Thomas had been helping me with the arrangements. Mr. Fulham spoke up and said that was quite true, that he had received his invitation two days earlier." She paused. "Then an expression came over Monsieur Piaget's face that I can describe only as the look a Frenchman gets when he realizes he's committed an inexcusable faux pas."

  "Aha!" Holmes exclaimed. "I know that look."

  "He was quite embarrassed," the young woman said. "He murmured something about being mistaken, that he only thought he saw a ticket for passage on the Mary Small for the twenty-third of the month. It had to be something else he'd seen lying on Thomas's desk. He started bowing and backing away—the poor man practically fled."

  "Tell me, Miss Stoddard," Holmes asked, "what business do Mr. Wickham and Monsieur Piaget pursue?"

  "They are wine merchants. Monsieur Piaget buys the wines in France, and Thomas administers the London side of the business."

  "I see. Pray continue. You asked your affianced about the ticket for passage on the Mary Small?"

  "I did. He was astonished. Thomas said he could not imagine what was on his desk that his partner should mistake for a steamship ticket."

  "A simple error, surely," I offered. "Not a cause for concern."

  "Ah, but, Watson," Holmes said, "Miss Stoddard has not finished her story—am I correct?"