Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  "Mr. Holmes," the visitor began, "you must help me. A young lady's life depends upon it."

  "And you are . . . ," I inquired, drawing myself up and glaring at the man who would command my friend's services without so much as stating his name.

  "Why, Watson," Holmes cried, "I cannot believe your obtuseness. Surely you recognize our visitor from the accounts you have lately read in the Globe-Dispatch. For he is none other than the legal pettifogger who succeeded against all reason in convincing a jury of twelve good men and true to disregard my testimony, the man who held me up to ridicule before that same jury, the man who holds the fate of Charmian Carstairs in his dishonest hands."

  The Irishman bowed as if Holmes's words were the most fulsome compliments. He smiled broadly and finished the introduction.

  "Kevin O'Bannion, at your service, sir," the Irishman said, turning his attention to me. There was but a hint of brogue in his speech; he had taken a first at Oxford and could speak when he chose with an accent worthy of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  "At my service, indeed," Holmes scoffed. He waved the visitor away with a petulant hand. "Pray remove yourself from my doorstep at the earliest opportunity, Mr. O'Bannion. I have neither the time nor the inclination to bandy words with you."

  "I've not come here to bandy words, Mr. Holmes," the barrister cried, his florid face reddening. "My visit here is a matter of life and death to the young woman I have the honour to represent."

  "Life and death, indeed," Holmes replied. He jumped from the sofa with remarkable agility for someone who had appeared so lacking in energy, and stood before the fire, rubbing his hands. "Your client will most assuredly hang if she is convicted of murdering Sir Wilfred."

  "Mr. Holmes, she is innocent," O'Bannion replied. He placed a large hand over his heart and repeated the words in thrilling tones that would have done justice to an organ. "She is innocent, sir, as God is my witness."

  "Well," Holmes replied briskly, "that must make a nice change from your usual clientele."

  The Irishman's ruddy face fell with comic swiftness. "You must help me, Mr. Holmes. Only you can unravel this tangled skein of evidence and help me prove that Miss Carstairs did not poison her grandfather."

  "You seek my help?" Holmes inquired in a tone of injured acerbity. "You seek the help of a man you described to a British jury as 'an interfering, meddling amateur?' "

  O'Bannion had the grace to blush. As he was very fair of skin, the blush was a deep rose that suffused his entire face. Although he dressed like a Regency dandy, his features and build were those of a common hod carrier.

  "Mr. Holmes, I beg of you," he said earnestly, "do not refuse Miss Carstairs the aid she requires because of ill feeling between us."

  Holmes raised a single eyebrow. "Ill feeling? Do you think permitting a criminal to go free rouses in my breast nothing more significant than ill feeling, sir?"

  The Irishman waved away Holmes's words and said, "Come, Mr. Holmes, all I ask is that you and Dr. Watson attend the trial and listen to the evidence. I confess I can make nothing of it that will help my client, and yet I am convinced that she did not poison her grandfather."

  "She is the sole beneficiary of her grandfather's will," Holmes pointed out. "He had but lately altered that will in her favour, disinheriting his other relations. She alone had the motive to poison Sir Wilfred."

  "Mr. Holmes," the barrister proclaimed, "I would stake my not inconsiderable reputation on the fact that that pure, sweet angel did nothing of the kind."

  It did not require the powers of a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the celebrated barrister had fallen victim to the spell of the fairer sex. I found myself looking forward to meeting the object of O'Bannion's admiration.

  Holmes knotted his brow in thought. "I will admit," he said at last, "the case presents some features which are not entirely devoid of interest."

  "But, Holmes," I cried, "the trial begins this very morning. How is it possible to conduct a proper investigation six months after the murder?"

  "There is, I fear, no question of an investigation, Dr. Watson," the Irishman explained with an air of apology. "I daresay I should have sought your assistance sooner, but only now do I realize the overwhelming extent of the evidence against my client. I urge you to come to court and hear the testimony, to suggest lines of questioning I may pursue on cross-examination, and to assist me in conveying to the jurors a true explanation of the baffling events that occurred on the night of December twenty-second last."

  "Do you mean to suggest," I inquired, my breast swelling with indignation on my friend's behalf, "that Holmes investigate this crime six months after it has occurred, with no opportunity to visit the scene of the crime or to interrogate witnesses directly?"

  O'Bannion had the grace to look abashed. "I agree the case is a difficult one," he began, "but under the circumstances—"

  "Difficult?" I repeated. "It is more than merely difficult, man. It is impossible!"

  Holmes turned his attention from the fire; for the first time since the unsatisfactory conclusion to the curious affair of the Cypriot banker and the seven pug dogs, the light of battle gleamed in his dark eyes.

  "Impossible, Watson?" he echoed. "Surely nothing is impossible where human intelligence is applied."

  Less than an hour later Holmes and I sat in a drafty room in Holloway Prison. Seated across from us at the plain wooden table was a spirited young woman with glossy black hair and speaking gray eyes. She wore a shapeless gray smock and was without adornment of any kind, yet her face was as exotically lovely as a tropical flower growing against all odds in an English garden.

  "Miss Carstairs," Holmes began, "I have agreed to place my small talents at the disposal of your attorney." He nodded at O'Bannion, who stood in a corner, arms folded, having agreed with bad grace to remain in the background while Holmes questioned his client. "But before I undertake to examine the evidence against you, I wish to hear your story from your own lips."

  The young woman nodded. "It is a story well known to the newspaper-reading public by this time, I believe," she said, "but I will recount it as briefly as I can."

  Her voice was low and well modulated, marred only by her American accent, which tended to flatten the vowels and elide some of the consonants. "I was born in California," she began, "but my father came from England. He was the son of the late Sir Wilfred Carstairs, but he and my grandfather quarrelled, so he immigrated to America when he was a young man. He travelled extensively and held a great number of jobs in the West. Sowing his wild oats, Mother always used to say."

  "Your mother was an American?" Holmes inquired.

  Miss Carstairs nodded. "Her people were French," she explained. "Her name was Madeleine Duclos, and her father owned a vineyard in the Sonoma Valley. When my father married her, he went to work for Grandpere in the winery. Papa was very fond of growing things, and became great friends with Mr. Burbank in Santa Rosa."

  The expression on Holmes's face was one of disappointment. "Then your father had nothing to do with gold mining?" he inquired. We had but lately made the acquaintance of a lady from San Francisco named Hatty Doran, and Holmes had been quite taken with her accounts of claim jumping in the American West.

  "Really, Mr. Holmes," Miss Carstairs replied with evident amusement, "you have formed the most outlandish ideas about my homeland. I live in a fertile valley studded with lovely little towns and crisscrossed by farms and vineyards. There may be gold in the mountains," she went on, "but for us the gold is on the vines. California will someday produce the best wines in the world."

  Holmes said nothing to this extraordinary boast, but a quirk of his mouth indicated serious doubts about the young lady's knowledge of vintage wines.

  The dark Mediterranean eyes took on a faraway cast. "I miss my home," she said with a simplicity that touched me deeply. "I miss the scent of redwood trees at night. I miss the sunshine gleaming off the grapevines. I miss the blue skies and the cool mornings and the misty fog between t
he hills. I don't know how you can bear to live in this damp, gloomy place—but then, of course, you have never seen California."

  As the only place on earth that might be considered damper and gloomier than England was Kevin O'Bannion's native land, I doubted the Irishman's evident infatuation with his client would bear fruit unless the man was willing to consider expatriation.

  "Your father never renewed contact with his family, Miss Carstairs?" Holmes asked, bringing the conversation back to the terrible events of December 22.

  The young woman shook her head. "No," she replied sadly. "It was the dearest wish of his life that he would someday be reconciled with his father. Indeed, he talked of it often, particularly during the Christmas season. He told me all about the grand Christmas feast his family prepared every year. All the servants and tenants would be invited into the dining hall, where glasses of wine would be poured and a toast drunk."

  The girl's face glowed when she talked of her father. "Papa loved California," she said, "but he was always a little bit melancholy at Christmastime. He wished more than anything else for a real English Christmas like the ones he'd known as a child."

  "Your father did not live to fulfil this wish," Holmes said with deliberate bluntness.

  Charmian Carstairs shook her head. "My parents died when their carriage plunged off a narrow road into a canyon near our home," she explained.

  "When your parents died, you wrote to Sir Wilfred," Holmes continued. His elbows rested on the scarred table between us and the young lady; his slender fingers were steepled. "Pray tell me what made you do that."

  "I thought my grandfather should know that his son was dead," the American said. "And I was curious. I wanted to know my father's family in the same way I knew my mother's. I suppose I was searching for a part of myself."

  "Sir Wilfred's reply to your letter included an invitation to visit him in London," Holmes prompted.

  "Yes," the young woman replied. "I was to stay a month, through the Christmas holidays."

  "It would appear you and your grandfather became quite fond of each other," remarked Holmes.

  The pale face lit with pleasure. "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes," she said with enthusiasm. "We took to each other at once. He loved hearing me talk about Mr. Burbank's work and about the interesting plants we have in California. And I enjoyed spending time in the conservatory with him."

  "You brought him several treasures from your native land," Holmes said. "That was most kind of you."

  "I brought dates and dried figs and walnuts—I could not bring fresh fruit, of course. And I brought cuttings and seeds from Mr. Burbank."

  "There were seeds from the plant known as 'angel's trumpet,' were there not?"

  The young woman nodded. "Its botanical name is Datura sacra. It is, strictly speaking, not a native of California. It was introduced from Mexico, and it is very showy. The blossoms are quite large and they hang from the branches like great golden trumpets. Grandfather particularly requested that I bring him seeds so that he could grow his own angel's trumpet in his conservatory."

  I entered the conversation for the first time. "The seeds are quite poisonous," I remarked. "Were you aware of that fact when you brought them from America?"

  "Of course," she replied. "Any competent horticulturist knows the properties of the plants she works with. Angel's trumpet is related to jimsonweed and nightshade. The entire plant is toxic, but the seeds are particularly so."

  Holmes turned to the barrister and explained, "The toxicity of Datura sacra, commonly known as sacred datura, results from the presence of the alkaloids hyoscyamine, atropine, and scopolamine."

  O'Bannion nodded. "The celebrated Dr. Hopgood is expected to testify for the prosecution," he replied glumly. "I do not anticipate that his testimony will be favourable to the defence."

  "He is England's premier toxicologist," I remarked. "I shall be quite interested in what he has to say."

  "The symptoms of datura poisoning are particularly horrible," Holmes remarked, in a manner that might have been considered callous by one who did not know him. "The sufferer feels a dryness of mouth and a great thirst. The skin reddens, the pupils dilate. The patient suffers hallucinations and disturbed vision. The pulse races, the patient grows increasingly delirious and may appear insane. The final stages involve convulsions and then coma and death."

  The young lady's face paled; she swayed slightly, but did not flinch. "Mr. Holmes," O'Bannion cried, abandoning his post in the corner and rushing to his client's side, "kindly remember that you are speaking to a lady."

  The lady in question was made of sterner stuff than her defence counsel believed; she waved away his protests and said in a calm tone, "Indeed, the plant is called Datura sacra because the natives of Mexico use it in their rituals. Taken in minute quantities, it produces visions. Taken in larger quantities, it produces death."

  "It is a horrible way to die," I remarked.

  "It is a death no man should endure," Holmes replied. His eyes remained fixed on Charmian Carstairs's beautiful, exotic face.

  "It is a death I did not cause," the young lady said with calm firmness.

  "And yet you profited from it," Holmes persisted. "You were your grandfather's sole heir, and you were aware of that fact because the late Sir Wilfred announced the change in his will to all at the dinner table the night before he died."

  "He said something of the kind, but I didn't believe he really meant to do it," she protested. "I thought if I talked to him, he might change his mind. I had no need of his money; my father left me well off and my Grandpere in California promised me a share in the family vineyard as my dowry when I marry. So I had no need of Grandfather Carstairs's money, and I was sorry to see the true heirs cut out of the will."

  "Were you, Miss Carstairs?" Holmes asked with palpable disbelief. "Had Miss Letitia Carstairs and Mr. Cyril Carstairs been so good to you that you felt obliged to intercede on their behalf?"

  "No, on the contrary, they were horrid to me, as you well know," she replied with a show of that spirit one associates with the daughters of the former colonies. "Miss Carstairs referred to me as ka baggage' and Mr. Carstairs called me an 'Amazon from an uncivilized country.' But they had lived with Grandfather for years and had expectations of him, and I didn't think it was right for them to be left with nothing."

  "But before you could discuss the matter with your grandfather, he died by poisoning," Holmes retorted. His tone was so palpably sceptical as to border on the offensive. O'Bannion, who stood next to his client in an attitude of protectiveness, bristled but remained silent.

  "Yes, but I had nothing to do with his death!" the young woman cried. Tears sprang into her eyes; she turned her face away and said, "If you do not believe me, then leave me alone to face my fate in the courtroom. I can endure this questioning no longer."

  "Mr. Holmes, this is enough!" the barrister cried. "I did not invite you here to badger my client but to help her."

  "And what of the box, Miss Carstairs?" Holmes inquired with deadly gentleness. His eyes bored into Charmian Carstairs's face; he ignored totally the indignant Irishman.

  "What then of the box and the things it contained?"

  The lovely oval face paled and the large, dark eyes widened as the young woman gazed earnestly into my friend's face. "As God is my witness, Mr. Holmes," she said in a low, thrilling voice, "I knew nothing of that box, nothing at all."

  "And yet you brought it to your grandfather," Holmes persisted.

  "I brought it," the young lady whispered at last. "I brought it, but I was ignorant of its contents. I did not know what that box contained until the morning my grandfather's body was discovered in the study. And even now, Mr. Holmes," she continued, her eyes pleading for understanding, "even now that I know what items were in the box, I still do not know what they mean."

  "And what of the legend on the box itself?" Holmes persisted. "What of the letters O.G.D., which appeared on the cover? What do they signify?"

  The Irishman
could stand it no longer. He drew himself up and signalled his client to say nothing. "Mr. Holmes," he said in ringing tones that resonated through the bare room, "it is clear from your cross-questioning technique that the bar lost a valuable asset when you chose to exercise your talents elsewhere. You would have made a fine prosecuting counsel. But the fact remains that my client will have to answer such questions as Sir Bartholomew Anders chooses to put to her when she testifies in court. I will not have her subject to cross-examination twice.''

  Once again, O'Bannion's client refused to shield herself behind her defender's skirts. "I had never seen the box before," she explained. "I found it among my father's effects, along with a letter indicating his desire to send the box to his father should they ever reconcile. And so I brought it when I came from America." She drew a ragged breath. "Please, Mr. Holmes," she begged, "find the meaning of the things in the box and I have no doubt you will find the person who killed my grandfather. But as God is my witness, I did not know, Mr. Holmes. And I did not kill my poor grandfather, whom I had grown to love very much."

  "Not the most promising of defences, Mr. O'Bannion," Holmes commented as we stepped into the misty spring air after leaving the prison.

  O'Bannion said nothing, but his expressive face indicated a profound gloom. "Mr. Holmes," he said in a tone heavy with irony, "I thank you for a most instructive morning. I now feel the case against my client is even more daunting than I believed before I enlisted your aid."

  He stepped into the street and raised his hand as a signal to passing cabdrivers. Holmes followed; the three of us piled into a hansom.

  "You need not continue with this case," O'Bannion said, "since it is obvious you have no belief in my client's innocence of the charges against her."

  "My beliefs signify nothing," Holmes replied in a mild tone. "It is the evidence and the evidence alone which should be examined. I have every intention of continuing with this case, and of hearing that evidence from the mouths of the witnesses."