Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  The Irishman appeared less than pleased by this intelligence, but he instructed the driver to take us to the Old Bailey with all possible speed.

  The first witness for the prosecution was our old friend Lestrade. He took the oath with an air of pompous determination, as if to say he was a plain man who would speak plain truth no matter what questions fancy Irish lawyers might think up to ask him.

  Sir Bartholomew Anders, an impressive figure in his silk gown and immaculate white wig, elicited from Lestrade the particulars of his career in the Metropolitan Police Force. He then asked Lestrade to elaborate upon his part in the events of December 22 last.

  "I was called," Lestrade said, warming to his subject under the prosecutor's friendly interrogation, "to the house of Sir Wilfred Carstairs by the butler, who said his master had been locked in his library since the night before. I proceeded to assist the butler in opening the door, which had been locked from the inside."

  There was a stirring in the crowd at these words; next to me, a man leaned over and murmured something, then pointed a bony finger at the prisoner in the dock. Charmian Carstairs stood still as a statue, dressed in her plain prison gown, regarding the events in the courtroom with a detached air, as if watching the trial as a mere spectator.

  "When we succeeded in opening the door," Lestrade continued, "I saw the body of Sir Wilfred lying on the floor beside his desk. He appeared to have died in a horrible convulsion," the inspector intoned, "and so I arranged for a doctor to be sent for. The doctor said it looked like poison, so I instructed the servants to give an account of the events of the night before, with particular emphasis upon what was eaten and drunk in that house."

  Beside me on the hard pew of the first row of spectators, Holmes leaned forward intently. He seemed to make a mental inventory of the testimony, and nodded with satisfaction when Lestrade stated, "In the opinion of the chief toxicologist, the poison was administered in a cup which sat on a small table next to Sir Wilfred's desk."

  The cup itself sat on a corner of the table used by the prosecuting attorney. It was a large silver cup of medieval design, almost a chalice, of a type rarely seen in our modern age. But Charmian Carstairs had spoken of an old-fashioned Christmas with ceremonial toasts; perhaps this cup was a family heirloom used to drink the health of the season.

  Lestrade was permitted, over O'Bannion's vigorous objection, to testify that the means of death was a little-known plant poison whose Latin name was Datura sacra.

  "And was there a time when the seeds of the datura were found in the house where Sir Wilfred died?" the prosecuting counsel inquired. He directed his gaze at the prisoner as he spoke, as if silently accusing her with his eyes.

  "I obtained a warrant and searched the whole house from top to bottom," Lestrade replied. "In the bedroom occupied by the accused I found a box containing datura seeds along with a note and a picture," he went on.

  Holmes pulled a small notebook from his pocket and sat poised to take notes; there had been speculation regarding the contents of the mysterious box in the newspapers, but none of the accounts had contained a definitive list of the items therein.

  Crown Counsel handed Lestrade a piece of paper; he identified it as the note he'd found in the box in Charmian Carstairs's room. It was marked and entered into evidence; Lestrade was asked to read its contents into the record.

  The tension in the courtroom was palpable. Lestrade held the piece of paper in his hand and in ringing tones read the words thereon: "When the angel's trumpet sounds, then shall you cross the abyss."

  There was no sound in the crowded courtroom; all who heard the words were struck by their ominous intent. Sir Wilfred Car-stairs had ingested those poisonous seeds and he had indeed "crossed the abyss" from life to death.

  "And the picture?" Sir Bartholomew persisted. "Can you describe for the jury the picture you also found in the box that contained the seeds and the note?"

  "It was of the Last Trump," Lestrade said. He shifted in the witness box; he had been standing for the past half hour.

  Beside me, Holmes drew in a sharp breath. "I must see that picture," he muttered. "And the note as well."

  "It showed the Archangel Michael," Lestrade explained, "blowing a golden trumpet and summoning the souls of the dead to judgement. Under the picture was the single word: Judgement."

  Once again all eyes in the courtroom turned to Charmian Car-stairs. Once again, she stood immobile as a marble effigy, her beautiful, exotic face expressionless.

  The picture was marked and entered as well, then passed among the jurors. One or two of them handled the small rectangle and passed it along, but most looked up from the pasteboard to the young woman in the dock, shaking their heads as if in no doubt as to her guilt.

  Charmian Carstairs claimed to have no knowledge of the items in the box she had carried from California, but to the jurors, as to everyone else in the courtroom, the contents of the box signified a day of reckoning for past wrongs. And the young woman on trial was the daughter of a man disinherited by his father, a man who might well have imbued his child with the desire for revenge and instructed her in the means to take her grandfather's life.

  At a signal from Holmes, O'Bannion rose and requested a recess. It was granted; within moments we sat in a small panelled conference room with the barrister, who paced the floor with ill-concealed impatience.

  "I must see the picture in question," Holmes began. O'Bannion nodded and dispatched an assistant to fetch it. "And I have questions I should like answered."

  "Have you an idea, Mr. Holmes?" the Irishman asked with an almost pathetic eagerness. "Have you discerned a pattern in this seemingly incomprehensible testimony?"

  "I have a glimmer," Holmes replied. "I feel it is imperative to know the exact contents of Sir Wilfred's study. Were there objects besides the fatal cup on the small table next to the desk? And what lay upon the desk itself? Was there a book, and if there was, what did it contain?"

  O'Bannion drew in a long breath and regarded Holmes as one might a dangerous animal. "Mr. Holmes," he began, "the putting of questions to a witness on cross-examination is considered an art in my profession. One does not ask questions in order to obtain information, particularly information which may be detrimental to one's client."

  "Mr. O'Bannion, I assure you," Holmes replied, his tone grave, "the answers to these questions could be vital to the discovery of the truth."

  "The truth?" O'Bannion's voice rose in disbelief and his words took on the rhythms of his native land. "Is it the truth you're after wanting, Mr. Holmes?" He pulled a white handkerchief from the sleeve of his gown and mopped his brow. "It was a dark day indeed when I sought help at your door, Mr. Holmes," he muttered. "The truth, is it? God help me and my poor young lady now."

  The assistant returned with the picture of the Last Judgment. Holmes studied it; I looked over his shoulder. It was an ordinary picture, with bright colours and crude lettering.

  "I hadn't realized the late Sir Wilfred was a Roman Catholic," I remarked, hoping to hear a word or two of praise from Holmes for my deduction. The picture was not one a worshiper of the Church of England would have carried in his Book of Common Prayer.

  Holmes grunted. "This card is no relic of the Church," he replied, his tone grim.

  "Do you recognize it, then?" I asked.

  "Is it important?" O'Bannion demanded.

  "It is of the utmost importance," my friend replied. "Indeed, its significance cannot be overstated."

  The butler, Reginald Bateson, was the next to testify. He attested to the fact that there had been a small, intimate gathering at Sir Wilfred's house on the evening of December 21. In celebration of the Christmas season, a toast had been drunk, with Sir Wilfred raising the medieval cup to his lips. The house had been decked with holly and ivy; it was truly the old-fashioned English Christmas Charmian Carstairs had been promised.

  On cross-examination, O'Bannion asked the butler about the curious items on the table next to Sir Wilfred's
desk.

  "A queer lot, they were, that's certain," the butler replied. "There was a sword that usually hung over the mantelpiece, along with a stick and the drinking cup and a gold coin."

  "Let us," O'Bannion suggested, "take these items one by one, shall we. Please tell the jury about the sword, Mr. Bateson."

  Crown Counsel objected, but His Lordship permitted the question. The butler puffed himself up like a turkey cock and proceeded to satisfy the court's curiosity.

  "It was a family heirloom," he explained. "A sword from the time of Cromwell, it was. Hung over the mantelpiece from the time I first came into service, it did. And the day after Sir Wilfred died, there it was on the table with the other items."

  "And the stick?" O'Bannion continued.

  "A walking stick," the butler stated. "A plain staff, such as a man might take on a tramp through the woods. Brought from the country, I daresay, though I'd never seen it before that morning."

  "Can you describe the cup, Mr. Bateson?"

  "Old-fashioned, it was," replied the butler. "Like something out of the Middle Ages. A heavy metal cup with no handle. Never seen the like myself, but there it was on the table with the other things, plain as day."

  "Please tell us about the coin," O'Bannion urged.

  "Well, now, I'm not altogether certain it was a coin," the man said, shaking his head. Next to me. Holmes leaned forward in the pew, his eyes alight.

  "What do you mean by that?" O'Bannion asked. There was a slight frown between his eyes. "It was either a coin or it wasn't, Mr. Bateson."

  "I mean it wasn't money, not proper English money, any road," the butler retorted. "It was gold, right enough, just like a sovereign, but no picture of our queen on it. Just a queer design, a star, like."

  Holmes leaned forward in his place with a suddenness that had one of the bailiffs rushing toward him. He held up a warning hand, then pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and scribbled a note. He handed the note to the bailiff and pointed toward O'Bannion. The attendant took the note and walked to counsel table.

  O'Bannion had all but finished his questions, but he read the note and raised his eyes to the bench. "If I might ask one more question, Your Lordship?" he asked.

  His Lordship glared, but nodded assent. "Very well, Mr. O'Bannion."

  "How many points did the star have, Mr. Bateson?"

  The butler frowned. "It had five points. Five, but there was something queer about the star. It was crooked-like."

  O'Bannion thanked the witness, but it was clear to me he had no idea what the man had said that was important. Yet next to me, Holmes nodded and smiled as if he'd just heard the name of the true murderer.

  The next witness was the deceased's nephew, a foppish young man who claimed to have taken his uncle's change of will with equanimity.

  "Where there's life, there's hope," Cyril Carstairs said jauntily. "He couldn't very well change his mind and put me back into the will once he was dead, now could he?"

  Holmes stirred in his seat, then stood and made for the door. I followed.

  "We must visit the house where Sir Wilfred died," Holmes insisted. "I cannot confirm my hypotheses without a glimpse of the study where the events took place."

  "But, Holmes," I protested, "we shall miss the testimony."

  "That young man knows less than Miss Carstairs about what happened," Holmes replied with some acerbity. "No, Watson, we shall do our client more good by going to that house than we could by any other means."

  Sir Wilfred's London house was a large, airy Georgian mansion situated near Green Park. In the absence of the butler, the door was opened by a housekeeper, who invited us to enter. Holmes asked to be directed to the library; the housekeeper inclined her head and led us along the hallway in silence.

  The library was crammed with leather-bound volumes, some of which looked to be of great antiquity. Holmes ran his slender fingers along the leather bindings. Then he gave a cry and pulled a volume from the shelves. "Here it is," he cried, brandishing it aloft in triumph. "I knew I should find it. We must take it to O'Bannion at once."

  "What is it, Holmes?" I asked. "What single book could possibly explain these bizarre events?"

  "It is called The Book of Thoth," Holmes replied. "It was written by a man called Aleister Crowley, and it is the bible of an organization known as the Order of the Golden Dawn."

  "O.G.D.," I said, repeating the letters on the cover of the box Charmian Carstairs had brought from America. "Then O.G.D. stands for Order of the Golden Dawn. But what is this order, and how is it connected with the murder of Sir Wilfred?"

  "It has nothing whatever to do with his murder," Holmes answered, "but it has everything to do with his death."

  There was a japanned box on top of the desk, next to an elaborately decorated inkwell with a design on it of a cross with a rose in the centre. Holmes opened the box and drew out a square object wrapped in black silk. He lifted the silk away with a flourish and revealed an oversized pack of cards.

  "I hadn't realized Sir Wilfred was a gambler," I said. "Perhaps he was murdered by someone to whom he owed money."

  "These are not playing cards, Watson," my friend said. He turned over the deck: instead of ordinary suits and numbers, these pasteboards were painted with bizarre designs. The one Holmes showed me was of a man hanging upside down, a golden aureole around his head. It was a grotesque image, but its horror was soon surpassed by the other images Holmes revealed in the deck: a man lying facedown with ten swords sticking out of his back; a woman with a blindfold holding two crossed swords; a tower struck by lightning. The most unnerving card of all portrayed Death on a black horse.

  "What do you think you are doing here?" an imperious voice said. I looked up, startled, to see a formidable woman standing in the doorway. She was of an age with the late Sir Wilfred, and the way she bore herself told me she must be the deceased's sister.

  "Miss Carstairs," Holmes began, "I must apologize for presuming to enter your brother's study. I had thought you were attending the trial, or I should have begged your housekeeper to make you aware of my presence."

  "If you had, Mr. Holmes," the old woman replied stiffly, "I should have had her deny you access. My home is not a place where riffraff may come whenever it pleases to satisfy its curiosity."

  "I am here for a far different purpose than that. Miss Carstairs, as you must suspect if you know my name," Holmes replied in a tone that might almost have been called gentle. "I am in search of evidence that will support the defence contention that your grand-niece did not murder your brother."

  The old woman sniffed. "Then you have come on a fool's errand, Mr. Holmes, for no such evidence exists. That girl killed my poor brother and no amount of fiddling by that Irishman is going to help her escape the fate she so richly deserves. She will die on the gallows, Mr. Holmes, and justice will finally be served."

  "You did not approve of your brother's change in his will, did you, Miss Carstairs?"

  "I make no secret of the fact that I considered my brother besotted on the subject of his granddaughter," the woman announced. "She had no manners whatsoever, no pretence to gentility. I sincerely hoped my brother would recover from his infatuation with this uncivilized young woman who was the product of the most ill-advised union two people ever entered into."

  "What about the gathering on the night your brother died, Miss Carstairs?" Holmes inquired, changing the subject with an abruptness that caught me by surprise. "You were the hostess, I believe."

  "It was a gathering in honour of the season," the lady replied dismissively.

  "Yes, but which season were you celebrating, Miss Carstairs?" Holmes persisted.

  "I do not know to what you are referring, Mr. Holmes," the woman replied, but there was a spark, of fear in her eyes.

  "I refer to the season," Holmes said. "I refer to the reason for your gathering. I refer to the night upon which your brother died. It was a celebration, and the house was decorated with the traditional holly an
d ivy, but was it in point of fact a celebration of Christmas?"

  The old woman raised a trembling hand to her throat; she fingered a brooch which fastened her collar. In the centre of the brooch was a rose, and in the centre of the rose, a small cross. The design was similar to the one on her brother's inkstand.

  "You will leave my home at once," she said in a shaking voice, "or I will summon the police."

  "I shall leave, madam," Holmes answered with a bow, "but I shall take with me this book and these cards, for they are vital pieces of evidence that must be laid before the court without delay."

  "There are one or two points to which I should like to draw your attention," Holmes said. We sat in the small panelled conference room, the japanned box and The Book of Thoth resting on the table between us.

  "I should be grateful if you did, Mr. Holmes," the barrister replied, "for a less promising series of accounts I have seldom encountered."

  "Have you ever heard of the Order of the Golden Dawn?" Holmes asked. O'Bannion shook his head; it was clear he was as much at sea as I myself.

  "It is a branch of the Rosicrucian sect," Holmes went on. I parsed out the meaning of this new term, and a chill went through me as I realized Rosicrucian meant "rose cross." I remembered the brooch the elder Miss Carstairs had worn at her throat, and the strange design on Sir Wilfred's inkwell. Both were variations on the theme of cross and rose.

  "The Order of the Golden Dawn, which is an offshoot of the Rosicrucians, bases its belief system upon the Tarot. Those were the cards we found in Sir Wilfred's desk, Watson."

  "And the curious items on the table. Holmes?" I cried. "What can they have to do with this strange business?"

  Holmes set the deck of gaily painted cards on the table and spread them in a fan-shaped array. He reached in and pulled one out, then held it up for us to inspect.

  The card showed a young man wearing a red robe, holding one hand aloft and standing before a table. On the table were four items: a stick, a sword, a chalice, and a coin.

  I shivered; the table in Sir Wilfred's study was an exact duplicate of the table depicted in the strange card.