And so for the next many hours I was alone with no patients on my schedule that day. I found all this irksome with so much leisure time bestowed upon me at such an early hour. I found a publication containing a medical paper I had meant to read, and settled into my chair. Entitled "The Psychic Mechanism of Hysterical Phenomena," the paper written by Dr. Freud and another Austrian, Josef Breuer, startled me by carrying Freud's sudden change of method in his treatment of hysteria. Rather than hypnotism, announced the article, the famed Viennese psychiatrist laid a foundation for analyzing a patient's psyche through something termed "free association."
I continued reading, attempting to absorb the pertinent points, until a mixture of lost sleep and the morning's excitement caused me to doze in my chair.
I awoke to music and straightened, knuckling my eyes. It took another instant to perceive both that Holmes was not present and the melodic noises came from a chorus on the street outside, singing carols. Squinting down from the window, I saw a goodly number of singers just two buildings away. Marvellous to discover, too, London was enjoying its first snowfall of the season!
Moments later, humming, I was dashing down the steps, pausing only long enough to ask Mrs. Hudson to put on hot chocolate for our music makers. Then I was out the front door, ready to greet them with my beaming audience of one and a baritone I had once believed rich enough for a life on the stage, a fact I had told no one.
Some sixteen singers of equal sexual character were completing a hearty rendition of "Good King Wenceslas" as they approached 221. Spying me through the flurries of this wintry late afternoon, the carolers began a particularly rousing "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen," to which I now and then added my sonorous baritone. Most of the time, however, despite plummeting temperatures, I was happy to listen. The spiralling whiteness reminded me of lightning with its fury spent. Memories of this doorway, this house, also materialized in my mind's eye. Even while married, I had rarely been more than the distance of a telegram from Baker Street, and Holmes's adventures that were the nearest I would come again to the perils and thrills of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and the Second Afghan War.
While the carolers sang a second chorus, Mrs. Hudson arrived with refreshments and a number of mugs. I had been rubbing my hands together for warmth and took a cup myself. It was then I noticed one tenor voice stood out above the others. His clear if rather insistent harmony on the line, "Oh, tidings of comfort and joy" made the fellow easy to locate. When they finished the carol and several of them shared Mrs. Hudson's capacious mugs, I was surprised when the tenor sidled over beside me. He was an elderly person with mutton-chop whiskers, robust enough despite rounded shoulders and a hitch in his gait. I supposed he desired to thank me for arranging a repast.
Instead, he gave me an audacious wink. "I really don't think you should be on the pavement without protection against the cold, Watson," he offered sotto voce. "You may perchance have observed it is snowing?"
I almost cried "Holmes!" but swiftly realized my friend must be in disguise on behalf of Eleanor and Sydney Chesterfield. "You did not leave home in disguise, Holmes," I said softly, impressed once more by his remarkable makeup skill.
"You were snoring too loudly when I returned from Saint Agnes church even to have heard the caroling group of which I have become the latest member had we practiced by the mantelpiece." He took my hot chocolate mug from my hand and drank the rest with his head thrown back, a gesture I had never seen Holmes make before. "This was our practice, by the bye—necessary because / am the replacement for young Mr. Sydney Chesterfield!"
"Your violin playing is masterful," I said, "yet I have no recollection of your singing. How can this possibly serve to locate your client's brother?"
Holmes put the mug back into my hands airily and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "I may have a visitor before I return at the end of the early evening, old fellow, a gentleman with the sense to have wound a scarf round his face to guard against Jack Frost. Please admit him and ignore a surly or caustic disposition." In a louder, unfamiliar voice, he said, "Many thanks for the libation!"
All the carolers including Sherlock Holmes wished me season's greetings and were off to serenade Baker Street!
I spent the next hour or so completing an alert reading of the Freud and Breuer paper, then consumed a lonely evening meal. Of course, my thoughts reviewed the events of the day and I attempted to apply my professional training to the problems of our lovely client's brother and the symptoms we had heard described.
I recalled that it had been just six years ago, in '88, when Waldeyer-Hartz suggested the nervous system was built from separate cells with frail extensions. Disruption of them, I theorized, could account for an inability to smile or laugh. Some Italian had named the cells "neurons," the minute gaps between them—
My ponderings were interrupted by a strong, sharp knock at the door.
A slender man bundled from head to foot—a Scotch bonnet on top, a scarf concealing his face but for striking deep brown eyes, Navy frock coat buttoned at the neck to pinion the lower portion of the scarf, matching trousers, and boots—stood in the doorway. "Is this the residence of that arrogant dilettante/' the chap demanded, "who thinks he can make a single appearance and lord it over the regular carolers?"
His hands were fisted, but this was not morning and John H. Watson may be depended upon in a pinch. "My friend is out, but expected shortly," I said evenly and stood back from the door. "I'm sure he would like to make your acquaintance, and explain. Come in, please."
He paused, then entered, his manner still truculent. "He won't like to see me, sir." Following my gesture, he took a chair. Perched on the edge, he glared up with outraged eyes. "Not even a member of Saint Agnes, but he told Mr. Calhoun, the conductor, he could 'sing rings around your last lead tenor'—right before the other singers! I wouldn't even know of the slander if a friend who was present hadn't come to me."
"May I have your coat and hat," I asked politely, "and your scarf?" Virtually certain the caller was Sydney Chesterfield himself, I was filled with medical curiosity to inspect his face. An idea occurred to me. "Something to drink?"
He gave me a curt shake of the head, relaxed, and leaned back. "My apologies for the rudeness. It's not your fault what a friend does." A heavy sigh. "Nobody can account for people's behaviour, and that is why I am striving to become a writer. To understand their natures better."
"And your own as well, I trust?" Holmes stepped quickly through the door and strode across the room. Our guest did not leap up, as I had feared, because Holmes was conspicuously peeling off his mutton-chop whiskers and removing both white eyebrows and twenty years of age. Snapping to his erect, full height, he put out a hand to the younger man. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and the gentleman who admitted you is my colleague, Dr. Watson." He lifted the artificial whiskers. "Perhaps you, too, would like to end the charade, Mr. Chesterfield? I doubt your face would alarm two gentlemen whose activities have left them fairly shock-proof!"
Chesterfield froze but he did not remove the concealing scarf. "How do you know me or my problems? Why did you deride my singing in front of the choir and join our caroling group?" His eyes narrowed. "Was my sister, Eleanor, here?"
Holmes, sitting, began a new pipe. "So many questions! Your sister engaged me this morning to find you. She was quite concerned and implied your enjoyment of caroling is so considerable you would not fail to participate unless a 'problem' made it impossible." He shrugged. "It was a simple matter to speak privately with your conductor, discover that a friend of yours was present who should know where you were, and—believing you could be taunted into showing yourself—express a scornful assessment of your vocal skills. I take it Mr. Calhoun was good enough to divulge my address?"
"I fail utterly to see what my well-being or interests have to do with either of you," Sydney said angrily. "But since your intrusion has gone this far, you may as well know that, living alone, I lost the last control I had of my facial muscles." H
e removed the Scotch bonnet, began to unwind the scarf. I had glimpsed the picture of him handed to my friend by Chesterfield's sister and found an amiably moustached face many women would have called handsome. Even knowing he was afflicted, I was unprepared for what I now saw in our guest chair.
He still had his mustache and was as fair as his sister. His features, however, were locked in a grimace that expressed depths of frustrated fury. That was not the worst of it. But for the flashing, wary eyes, Chesterfield's face might have been in the grips of rigor mortis. "You have suffered this condition increasingly," I began, "since you were a small lad. Is that not true?"
"It is," he agreed, surprise in his eyes. "However, my parents chose to think I was slow, sullen, given to dark moods, so I saw no physician and ceased to mention it." His lips moved sufficiently for him to speak clearly. "I disappointed Father so much that, when he died, our home seemed haunted. I could not stay and took inexpensive rooms rather than depend upon Father's money. Guilt over him made my writing progress slow, turned me resentful. I fear Eleanor thought I blamed her, when she was all I ever truly had." Tears shone in his eyes. "I knew no way to explain my need to discover if I could fend for myself, or that a friendship I formed with another caroller was—as you know, Mr. Holmes— with a young lady. And without her interest I should never have been able to survive without Eleanor, my church, or my caroling group."
I was taken aback when Eleanor Chesterfield was abruptly among us, and then I realized Holmes must have fetched her from Mildenhall Road. Without my noticing, he had signalled her to enter and now stood puffing beside the door, smiling watchfully and thinly.
"Sydney, I understand," Eleanor said, clasping her brother's hand."You clearly possess our father's independent streak." She stooped to kiss his forehead. "And I am eager to meet your lady friend when you decide the time is right." She turned prettily to Sherlock Holmes. "You, sir, are everything Dr. Watson has claimed you are! To think it was just this morning I consulted you for your assistance!"
"Well, well," Holmes said with a courteous bow, "I had the 'matters of state' you mentioned in your letter and had to work swiftly. It was instantly clear that your brother was a sensitive fellow with artistic tastes—a variety with which I am somewhat familiar. Such men cling dearly to their realms of talent, and guard them zealously. If Sydney knew a meddlesome stranger was speaking derogatively of his musical talent, he would emerge from the shadows to answer his critic—if he lived, of course."
Young Chesterfield clung to his older sister's hand. "I have been a vain fool, and two women have made that clear," he said. Sydney made a guttural sound in his throat that recalled Eleanor's accurate description of his attempt at laughter. "It is a pity I'm too much a fright to go caroling, yet it seems I still have my sister and a sympathetic friend. Name your fee, Mr. Holmes, and I shall pay it myself with gratitude."
"Ah, but this case is not over!" Holmes answered. "Dr. Watson's question to you about your condition's origins in childhood implies that he concurs." He motioned to brother and sister to sit, his pipe making a layer of smoke upon the ceiling. "When I found no evidence of criminality or madness on your part, Mr. Chesterfield, my logical conclusion was that something is amiss in the functioning of your brain or nervous system. They are man's most complex of organs and systems, and damage to either can topple even the giants among us as if we were intellectual saplings."
"You echo my thinking, Holmes," I said, meaning to mention my recent study.
"And yet, my dear fellow," Holmes continued, "your little records of my cases often suggest my intellect is 'cold'! In truth, intellect is that which makes each of us most human." He returned his gaze to our clients. "Watson is a practicing physician. You need not visit Harley Street in quest of medical assistance when, sir, a preliminary examination may be conducted without further delay." Holmes clapped my arm. "I have often placed my life in his hands, and there is no abler man!"
"How generous of you, old friend," I said. "The fact is, I have become aware only today of a course of treatment described by Dr. Sigmund Freud himself. There are no promises, but I think it is not unreasonable to surmise that, using this treatment, I might be able to return you to your group of carolers in time for next Christmas!"
When I had asked the young lady and Holmes to absent themselves briefly, I got my bag and gave Sydney Chesterfield his long-belated physical examination. Exactly as I expected, his health was sound and his problems lay elsewhere. I asked Miss Chesterfield and my friend to rejoin us, and presented my plan of treatment.
"See me regularly here, Sydney," I said while I tucked my stethoscope into place, "and I won't use hypnosis but the power of suggestion as Freud describes it. My intention is to encourage you to speak freely until we know your innermost memories, can deal with them, and you learn how to laugh or smile appropriately. Because I, too, am an author, I will discuss your writing efforts. The muscles of your face and mouth will, in my judgment, relax, and the rest will follow."
Brother and sister volubly expressed their appreciation. It was only when I had seen them out that I perceived Holmes had already wended his way to the writing desk. A trifle full of myself, I fear, I approached him in uncharacteristic bantering.
"Holmes, the young man was on the verge of paying your fee. You, however, volunteered my services and it appears now we are both out of pocket! A remarkable oversight, my dear fellow, for so astute a fellow as you."
"No oversight, Watson," Holmes said without glancing up from an envelope he was addressing. I noticed the name of his correspondent, Charles Fort. "I intended our deeds to be regarded as gifts. Those of the season, to be precise." His smile was fleeting. "I take it that you have no grave objections?"
I was taken aback and did not respond. A nod of my head indicated the envelope. "You remember mailing a letter to Mr. Fort today, I'm sure?"
"This is an addendum." He was scribbling the new letter as we conversed and he amazed me anew with the ability to come close to doing two different things simultaneously. "Fort will be fascinated by Mr. Chesterfield's peculiar infirmity. I wager he will discover further identical ailments, but never more than fifty to sixty in any given year. It is an observation of mine that nature repeats herself merely as a cautionary advertisement, but rarely places her notices haphazardly until the circumstances are dire."
With that, Holmes arose and glanced about the room. His new information for Fort was in its envelope, sealed and ready. "Did you happen to see where I left the disguise I used today?"
I pointed it out while he was again donning his coat. "Where are you going now, if I may ask?"
"Why, back to Saint Agnes in Cricklewood," Holmes replied, transforming himself once more into a robust but lame old man. "Your Freudian magic cannot be fulfilled immediately, and I am a man of my word. Mr. Calhoun called for a practice tonight, when we shall learn of tomorrow's schedule. I can scarcely let him down."
I peered at him in astonishment. "You are continuing to be a ... a caroller?"
Sherlock Holmes paused at the door without reaching for the knob. "It is my commitment. And I might add, Watson, that Calhoun asked us to keep an eye and an ear open for an especially strong baritone."
I headed across the floor with alacrity, and my friend was holding my hat and coat out to me before I had taken more than a few paces. "I think it may be a happy Christmas, Holmes," I said.
"Or if not that," he said as we descended the stairs at a trot, "perhaps one that is marginally less tedious than the rest." We stepped out upon Baker Street and into swirling snow, and Holmes summoned a passing four-wheeler. "The game may not be afoot, my dear fellow, but at least we are!"
(With appreciation to Tracy Knight, Ph.D., for telling me about the extremely rare Moebius syndrome.)
The Yuletide Affair
John Stoessel
From the Author's Desk
Conan Doyle always cast Dr. Watson as the traditional narrator, but even his series included a few accounts by Holmes. Tho
se few were never as popular as Dr. Watson's, who sketched a profile of his amazing friend as he observed the clues invisible to others. Suppose, however, that Watson solved a mystery on his own? After all, giving a separate life to a biographer is fair play in mystery literature.
Actually, it is also long overdue. While Dr. Watson was not a master detective, he understood the discipline and mastered an equally challenging one of his own. In this alone, to say nothing of his patience and courage beyond the call of duty, I say Dr. Watson deserves his own moment of glory, one which would accent his talents without upstaging Holmes.
Picture Holmes and Watson sitting comfortably by the fire in Sussex. The time is December 1923, and the mail has arrived.
Watson reads a letter, then captures Holmes's attention. He admits with some shyness that he has a story to place in the second tin box. Holmes comprehends the situation immediately.
"An adventure of your own, Watson?"
"Yes, Holmes. I think the time has come to tell you...."
Two Weeks Before Christmas
Sherlock Holmes was not at Baker Street when Inspector MacDonald stopped by. His hasty entry and brief greeting to Mrs. Hudson told me he had urgent business afoot. I also realised his wait could be long. Holmes seldom returned at a predictable time when he was on a case. I said so.
MacDonald waved his hand aside. "We can bring in Holmes later—if you think it's necessary. We need you, Doctor."
"Me?"
"Aye, at Saint Bart's. Lestrade's on his way there. He ... he's pretty bad."
The gaslight shone on Mac's face then, and I could see his ashen colour. I took my bag at once, left a forwarding message for Holmes with Mrs. Hudson, and went with the inspector to the cab waiting outside.
"I doubt we'll need Holmes, Doctor. We have the rascal who knifed Lestrade. We need you because the regular staff is a wee bit overloaded from this influenza season. Lestrade was unconscious when the ambulance came, and I'm a bit worried about that. I thought it best to dash over here."
Holmes for the Holidays Page 18