Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  "Lestrade, you look thinner. Did you perchance catch that illness that's been travelling around London?"

  It was a precious scene. Lestrade gave me an appealing look, begging me to say something, or at least give him a clue. The balance of the force did their best to contain their amusement.

  "Well," I said, "as a matter of fact I did treat Lestrade, Holmes. He had a rather nasty strain, but we caught it in time. I didn't think it was still that evident."

  Holmes reached for his pipe, lit it, and sighed.

  "I apologise, Watson, it's none of my business, but deductive reasoning never takes a holiday, and Lestrade does look pale. He usually prefers to stand, and I'd wager he has lost at least ten pounds. So what? Tomorrow will change that!"

  There were good-natured chuckles all around.

  "Yes, Lestrade," I said, "be sure to consume your share of the goose! You can take that as my personal prescription."

  "Some pudding and brandy will also bring back your colour, Lestrade," added Holmes. "I have often wondered why Watson isn't a better detective! The art of medicine doesn't appear to be that different from the science of deduction. As a medical doctor, he has few equals, but in the subtle differences of detective science, he remains a better conductor of light than a source of illumination!"

  This time there was an explosion of laughter.

  "I say! What the devil was so funny about that} Have I missed something?"

  I gave the men a precautionary look and winked at Shadwell.

  "No, nothing at all, Holmes! I—ah, just made a face behind your back! No offence, my dear fellow—merry Christmas!"

  "Oh, really? Well—merry Christmas to you too, Watson!"

  "Aye! A bonnie good season to us all!" added MacDonald.

  Sussex: Christmas, 1923. A Letter Arrives.

  Dear Doctor Watson:

  In response to your kind letter and request I am pleased to give you my permission to chronicle our brief adventure together. Your moment of brilliance became my moment of salvation, and I have never forgotten that wonderful long ago Christmas when my new life began. I plan to retire next year, write a little, and read some of your stories. If I could fit into one of them it would be an honour. May God bless your holidays, and all those yet to come! I am,

  Your most humble servant, Professor Vincent P. Shadwell, Queen Elizabeth College

  The Adventure of the Christmas Tree

  William L. DeAndrea

  Over the years of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he strove constantly to present himself as the perfect reasoner, divorced from all human failings and concerns. And it is true that his perception and deductive abilities were unparalleled in at least the recorded history of our race; it is also true that Holmes was not devoid of those becoming and manly sentiments which distinguish the true English gentleman.

  In perusing my notes, I see that I have already recorded a number of cases that illustrate my point, among them "The Adventure of the Yellow Face" and "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton." There are others, recorded and unrecorded, that point in the same direction. Holmes scoffs, but I believe his ability to feel, albeit tightly controlled, enhances his genius as an investigator.

  We were in our rooms at 22 IB Baker Street on the third day of winter of 1889, I reading the Lancet, and Holmes standing in the bow window scratching out tunes on the violin as he looked out at London. The weather had obliged the calendar by delivering at the advent of winter the first important snowstorm of the year.

  The downy whiteness had muffled the usual bustle of the metropolis. I found it quite soothing, and it augured for a peaceful Christmas to come.

  "I believe we are to have a visitor, Watson," Holmes said. "Two of them, to be precise."

  "A case, Holmes?" I inquired.

  I looked up to see him smile. "Bill collectors do not travel in the company of young ladies, and the charitably minded, collecting for a worthy cause, would stop at other doors than ours. I think we might safely say that these are potential clients come to see us."

  I put away the Lancet and tidied up the area in which I had been reading. Soon Mrs. Hudson knocked to tell us that the visitors were Joseph Camber, and his daughter, Nancy.

  Camber was nervous and embarrassed. He kept his hat, an old-fashioned high beaver, in his hands as he sat, and constantly turned it by the brim. He wasn't a tall man, but he was a muscular one, particularly in the arms and shoulders. His hair was brown, shot with gray. He was dressed for church, or for business, but he seemed uncomfortable in city clothes, as evidenced by the times he ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

  The daughter was much more self-possessed. She was also brown haired, and she had a softer version of her father's strong features, rendering her handsome, rather than pretty. Still, she had an air of health and confidence about her that was most fetching.

  "Good afternoon," said my friend. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. Pray, how may we help you?"

  Camber looked at his hat. "I feel a ruddy fool," said he. His accents marked him as a Highland Scot.

  His daughter had the same soft burr. She laid a hand on Camber's arm and said, "Now, Father, we've come here. The decision has been taken."

  "Ach. I know, but it sounds so daft."

  "Perhaps I can help you get started," offered Sherlock Holmes. "You are the forester on the estate of the Duke of Balleshire in Scotland. You are left handed, and a widower, and you have come to consult me on a matter which will leave your mind no peace until you have got to the bottom of it."

  The eyes of our younger visitor went wide with surprise; the elder visitor began to sputter. The only intelligible sounds he uttered were, "But how ... ?"

  Holmes gave the merest suggestion of a bow. "A trifling matter, really. The callosities on your hands are those of the man who wields the saw and the axe. Since your left hand is more heavily callused on the webbing of the thumb, that is the hand in which you hold the saw. As for being a widower, an outdoorsman will frequently seek the support of a woman in dealing with problems with which he is not familiar. Since your daughter is here with you instead of a wife, I assume that the lady in question is not available. Her having passed from the world was simply the most likely explanation. Am I perchance in error?1'

  "No, my Aggie's been gone these seven years. By gaw, I would have liked to have her advice now. She was never o'er thrifty with the givin' of it when she was alive, ye ken."

  "Father!"

  Holmes's amusement could be seen only in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Camber," said he, "but you shall have to make do with only my advice."

  "How did you know about the Duke?" the daughter demanded. "And about how this has been preying on his mind?"

  "Your father is wearing a stickpin in his cravat bearing the Duke's crest. Unless His Grace has developed a hitherto secret passion for woodsmanship, I knew your father must be in the Duke's employ, and that the pin is some sort of gift."

  Camber nodded proudly. "Aye, man and boy forty years in the service of the duke and the old duke before him. The pin was given me from His Grace's own two hands Christmas last." His face turned grim. "Christmas in Scotland ye ken, is not the spectacle of it the Sassenach's make. We're more apt to save our celebrations for Hogmanay, when a man can see in the new year and get behind a wee nip or two. But His Grace's mother was from across the border, and he likes to keep the holiday in the ways she preferred. As a good servant, I've always done my best to help him, but this year it's landed me up to my ruddy ears in a mystery.

  And as you say, it preys on my mind till I'm sleepless over it."

  Holmes's nostrils had flared at the sound of the word mystery. The ineffable scent of that particular phenomenon was the breath of life to him.

  "Indeed," said he, "I deduced as much when a member of such as canny race as the Scots would travel to London to consult me in the matter. I adjust my fees according to my interest in a case, Mr. Camber, but I do charge them."


  Camber closed his eyes as though enduring great pain. "Ah, know it," he said with a sigh. "But I have no choice. The regular police, both in Scotland and here, laughed in my face. By gaw, we'll see who's laughing at the end."

  "Now, please, tell me the details of your mystery. I know from the Times that the duke is keeping Christmas this year at his house in London. Does it have to do with him?"

  Camber turned to his daughter. "You tell it, Nancy."

  "Very well, father." She turned to us. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. We believe it does have to do with the duke. You see, His Grace spends alternate Christmases in London, and when in London, he follows the practice so many have adopted in emulation of the late prince consort. He erects in the hall of the building a Christmas tree. He supervises the hanging of the decorations and presents, and lights the candles himself."

  "Yes. An invitation to the destruction of the house by fire, but I suppose it has its charm. How do you know of this?"

  "I have the honour of being the personal maid to Lady Caroline, His Grace's eldest daughter."

  "I see. Pray go on."

  "In those years when His Grace celebrates in London, it is his pleasure to cause a tree from his own estate to be shipped up to town for decoration. A week or so before Christmas, my father selects the most robust and symmetrically formed tree of the proper size from among the large stand of Scotch pines on the grounds of the estate. He then makes preparations for the preservation of the tree in transit—something I do not understand, I'm afraid."

  The outdoorsman shook his head in a gesture of dismissal.

  "Earth and ice in alternating layers, with burlap between and canvas outside. It's really elementary."

  I cleared my throat. "The workings of the expert mind," said I, "while perhaps seeming elementary to the experts themselves, do not always appear so to those who lack that expertise."

  I had been wanting to say that for years.

  "Thank you, Doctor," said Nancy Camber, "that expresses a thought I've never been able to articulate. In any event, my father made the usual trip out to the woods, marked the tree for cutting, then went to the railway station to make arrangements for a crate to ship the tree in."

  "Upright and braced," said Joseph Camber decisively. "So that the branches might not be marred."

  "But the next day, when he went with the horse and sledge to cut it and bring it away—"

  "It wasn't there!" interjected Camber. "The ruddy thing was gone. I mean, I've heard of poachin', but I've never heard of anyone daft enough to poach a tree."

  "Is there any reason someone might want to do that, in any case?"

  Camber shook his head. "I've been bruisin' my brain on just that question, Mr. Holmes. Pine is no good for firewood; too much resin, gums up the flue. Ye can make decent, rough-hewn furniture from it, but not from a tree small enough to keep in a house."

  "You say you marked the tree. In what manner did you do this?"

  "I just put a wee nick in the bark at eye level. It's easy to spot if you know what to look for, but it doesn't mar its decorative properties, ye ken."

  "What did you do when you discovered the tree missing?"

  "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Holmes, I spent quite a while goin' back and forth between scratchin' my head and cursin'. When I left off doin' that, I did the only thing I could do. I found the next-best tree, and cut that and sent it to be shipped."

  Holmes rubbed his chin. "Hmmm," said he. "Mr. Camber, your case presents certain elements of interest, and I think—"

  "Oh!" said Nancy Camber. "Please, Mr. Holmes, forgive me for interrupting you, but we haven't got to the mysterious part yet."

  "Oh," said Holmes in his turn. He began to fill his pipe. "I shall smoke if you've no objection. Pray continue."

  "You see, sir, I prevailed upon my father to travel to London to keep Christmas with me. He is great friends with MacBurney, the duke's valet, and His Grace is rather fond of Father himself, so there was no problem about Father's staying with MacBurney in his room, and sharing our servants' Christmas fare."

  "Then I took a notion," Camber said. For years, I'd been cutting the trees, but I'd never seen one in place. I reckoned this'd be my one chance to do it, so Nancy and MacBurney ganged up on the butler, a Sassenach named Havering, and he let me into the hall where the tree was."

  "The hall is closed off before Christmas Eve," Nancy explained. "And no fire is lit there until then, to aid in keeping the tree fresh. Father went in and—"

  "It was the missing tree! The very one that had been stolen in Scotland!"

  "How can you be sure of that, Mr. Camber?" I inquired. "Your mark might have been copied after all."

  "Dr. Watson," said he. "A medical man?"

  I nodded assent.

  "Do you deliver bairns, then?"

  "Frequently," said I.

  "Do you ever deliver more than one bairn in a day?"

  "Of course."

  "And if, at the end of that day, someone showed you one of the bairns, could you tell which one it was?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, Dr. Watson, trees are my bairns. I plant 'em when that's needed, and cut them down when that's needed. I watch 'em and take care of 'em, and spend my life around 'em. I made a study of that tree before I picked it. I'll take my oath that that is the same tree."

  Holmes drew deeply of the aromatic shag in his pipe. "We'll take that established, then, Mr. Camber. Do you have any idea of what happened to the tree you cut and shipped?"

  "Not a glimmer."

  "Miss Camber?"

  She looked surprised. "I? No, I have no idea at all. I am simply worried that someone is playing some sort of nasty joke on my father, seeking to spoil the fine relationship he and His Grace's family have always enjoyed.1'

  Camber thumbed the top of his beaver hat. "Ah think this is summat much worse than a joke. It's mighty expensive for a joke, even for people of quality. Ah think it's some kind of evil plot, aimed at His Grace. He's quite an important figger in diplomatic circles, ye ken."

  "Yes," Holmes said dryly. "I was aware of that." Holmes jumped to his feet. "Yes!" cried he. "The outré nature of this puzzle is quite refreshing. I shall investigate, Mr. Camber, and report to you at the earliest opportunity. You both remain at the duke's residence in Ounslow Square? Good."

  "Well, now, Mr. Holmes," said Camber. "I don't—that is, I'm not a wealthy man."

  "Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Camber. I shall leave you enough for bread and a ticket back to Scotland. On your way now. Charmed to have met you, Miss Camber."

  When they were gone, Holmes threw himself into his seat and said, "For the first time, this looks as if it might be a tolerable holiday after all. What do you make of them, Watson?"

  "Oh," said I. "They seem quite devoted to each other, and they are obviously sincere."

  "Yes, Watson. You may trust me to notice the obvious for myself. What do you think of their story?"

  "I hardly know what to think. At first blush, such machinations with an emblem of the festive season seem sinister, but has the final result been? The tree Camber wished to be in the duke's house is now in the duke's house, and an inferior tree is missing."

  "Forget the inferior tree," said Holmes. "The inferior tree is now a pile of ashes, or flotsam in the Thames. What we must concentrate our attention on is how the original tree reached its destination on its own, like some vegetable version of a homing pigeon. And why."

  "How are we to do that?" I inquired.

  "Facts are the bricks from which deductions are built, Watson. Come, we go to seek facts."

  We sought them in the Diogenes Club, that remarkable collection of unsociable men, who go there to read or eat or drink or relax in a comfortable chair, but who never, on pain of expulsion, allow one word of conversation to be passed one to the other.

  Talking is allowed only in the Strangers' Room, and it was there we spoke to Holmes's elder brother, Mycroft. The corpulent elder brother was what he sometimes liked to describe as
a "facilitator" for the British government. He had no title, nor even (so far as I knew) an office, but he seemed to know everything about any current crisis.

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes informed his brother about Joseph Camber's mysterious story.

  "Suggestive," said Mycroft Holmes.

  "I found it so," averred his brother. "It is common knowledge that the duke moves, as my client says, in the 'highest diplomatic circles.' Is he engaged in anything of importance at the moment?"

  "He is involved in something of the first importance. He is engaging in unofficial, preliminary talks concerning South West African mineral concessions with the Germans. The German government has brought Herr Stefan Geitzling over from Africa to begin the talks."

  Mycroft Holmes pressed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his lips. "I need not tell you gentlemen that since the uniting of the German States under the Kaiser, relations with that country have been strained, and the strain is felt most strongly in our respective empires. The problem under discussion may be a relatively trivial one, but if such trivialities cannot be worked out amicably, they will fester over time and, one day within our lifetimes, burst out into a horrible war."

  I privately wondered what this had to do with Christmas trees, but I held my peace.

  Holmes said, "I intend to call on His Grace this afternoon. I shall not, of course, allude openly to what you have told me, but I will keep it in mind. I answer for the discretion of Dr. Watson."

  A rare smile disturbed the folds of Mycroft Holmes's face. "My dear Sherlock, I am quite prepared to answer for the doctor's discretion myself. Do, please, communicate with me again if you learn anything the government should know."

  Holmes indicated he would, and we bade Mycroft farewell.

  "Now, to Ounslow Square, I imagine," said I.

  Holmes was already hailing a cab. We clopped along through the whitened streets. The weather seemed to have accelerated the rate at which the usual glumness and irritation of city life are replaced by goodwill as Christmas approaches. In this case, the cabbie seemed to be smiling even before he received his tip.

  According to Holmes's wish, we alighted in the business area of South Kensington before proceeding to the square. Much to my surprise, he bade me wait on the sidewalk whilst he went into an ironmonger's shop, emerging a few moments later with a parcel wrapped in brown paper.