The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  “Unless,” pursued Pons, “you have valuables of a more intangible nature. I suspect you are a collector.”

  Our visitor started violently. “Why do you say so?”

  “I submit that coat you are wearing cannot be newer than 1890, the waistcoat likewise. Your cane is gold-headed; I have not seen such a cane about since 1910. Heavy, too. I suspect it is loaded. And what you have left outside is a period piece—obviously your own, since you drove it yourself. No one who had worn your clothing steadily since it was made could present it still in such good condition.”

  “You are as sharp as they say you are,” said our client grudgingly. “It’s true I’m a collector.”

  “Of books,” said Pons.

  “Books and such,” assented Snawley. “Though how you can tell it I don’t pretend to know.”

  “The smell of ink and paper make a special kind of mustiness, Mr. Snawley. You carry it. And, I take it, you are particularly fond of Dickens.”

  Snawley’s jaw dropped; his mouth hung momentarily agape. “You amaze me,” he said.

  “Dr. Parker charges me with amazing him for the past year and a half, since he took up residence here,” said Pons. “It will do you no harm. It has done him none.”

  “How, Mr. Pons, do you make out Dickens?”

  “Those street songs you know so well are those of Dickens’s day. Since you made a point of saying you should know them, it is certainly not far wide of the mark to suggest that you are a Dickensian.”

  A wintry smile briefly touched our client’s lips, but he suppressed it quickly. “I see I have made no mistake in coming to you. It is really the obligation of the police, but they are forever about getting out of their obligations. It is the way of the new world, I fear. But I had heard of you, and I turned it over in mind several days, and I concluded that it would be less dear to call on you than to ask you to call on me. So I came forthwith.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Pons, his eyes twinkling, “I fancy we shall have to have a look at that fellow who, you say, is making such a nuisance of himself.”

  Our client made a rapid calculation, as was evident by the concentration in his face. “Then you had better come back with me now,” he said, “for if you come at any other time, the price of the conveyance will surely be added to the bill.”

  “That is surely agreeable with me,” said Pons. “If it will do for Parker.”

  Snawley bridled with apprehension. “Does he come, too?”

  “Indeed, he does.”

  “Will he be added to the fee?”

  “No, Mr. Snawley.”

  “Well, then, I will just go below and wait for you to come down,” said our client, coming to his feet and seizing his hat from the mantel, where I had put it next to Pons’s unanswered letters, unfolded and affixed to the mantel by a dagger, a souvenir of one of his adventures.

  Our client had hardly taken himself off before Pons’s laughter burst forth.

  When he relieved himself, he turned to me. “What do you make of that fellow, Parker?”

  “I have never seen the like,” I replied. “Parsimonious, suspicious, and, I suspect, not nearly as poor as he would have us believe.”

  “Capital! Capital! It is all too human for the rich to affect poverty and the poor to affect wealth. We may take it that Mr. Snawley is not poor. If he has a corner house and room enough for someone to walk from one end of the property, around the corner, to the other, we may assume that Mr. Snawley’s ‘bit of land,’ as he puts it, is appreciably more than what the average individual would take for a ‘bit.’ ”

  He was getting into his greatcoat as he spoke, and I got into mine. As I reached for my bowler, he clapped his deerstalker to his head, and we were off down the stairs to where our equipage waited at the curb.

  Snawley ushered me into the cab.

  Behind me, Pons paused briefly to ask, “How long does this fellow stay on his beat?”

  “Two, three hours a night. Rain, fog, or shine. And now, with Christmas almost upon us, he has brought along some bells to ring. It is maddening, sir, maddening,” said our client explosively.

  Pons got in, Snawley closed the door and mounted to the box, and we were off toward Edgware Road, and from there to Lambeth and Brixton and Dulwich, seeing always before us, from every clear vantage point, the dome of the Crystal Palace, and at every hand the color and gayety of the season. Yellow light streamed from the shops into the falling snow, tinsel and glass globes, aglow with red and green and other colors shone bright, decorations framed the shop windows, holly and mistletoe hung in sprays and bunches here and there. Coster’s barrows offered fruit and vegetables, Christmas trees, fish and meat, books, cheap china, carpets. Street sellers stood here and there with trays hung from their necks, shouting their wares—Christmas novelties, balloons, tricks, bonbons, comic-papers, and praising the virtues of Old Moore’s Almanack. At the poultry shops turkeys, geese, and game hung to entice the late shoppers, for it was the day before Christmas Eve, only a trifle more than two years after the ending of the great conflict, and all London celebrated its freedom from the austerities of wartime. The dancing snowflakes reflected the colors of the shops—sometimes red, sometimes yellow or pink or blue or even pale green—and made great halos around the streetlamps.

  Snawley avoided crowded thoroughfares as much as possible, and drove with considerable skill; but wherever we went, people turned on the street to look at the hansom cab as it went by—whether they were children or strollers, policemen on their rounds or shoppers with fowl or puddings in their baskets—startled at sight of this apparition from the past.

  II

  Our destination proved to be Upper Norwood.

  Ebenezer Snawley’s home was an asymmetric Jacobean pile, dominated by a small tower, and with Elizabethan bay windows that faced the street. It rose in the midst of a small park that occupied the corner of a block and spread over a considerable portion of that block. A dim glow shone through the sidelights at the door; there was no other light inside. The entire neighborhood had an air of decayed gentility, but the falling snow and the gathering darkness sufficiently diminished the glow of the street-lamp so that it was not until we had descended from the cab, which had driven in along one side of the property, bound for a small coach house at the rear corner—directly opposite the street corner—and walked to the door of the house that it became evident how much the house, too, had decayed for want of adequate care, though it was of mid-Victorian origin, and not, therefore, an ancient building—little more than half a century old.

  Leaving his steed to stand in the driveway, where the patient animal stood with its head lowered in resignation born of long experience, our client forged ahead of us to the entrance to his home, and there raised his cane and made such a clatter on the door as might have awakened the neighborhood, had it slept, at the same time raising his voice petulantly to shout, “Pip! Pip! Pip Scratch! Up and about!”

  There was a scurrying beyond the door, the sound of a bar being lifted, a key in the lock, and the door swung open, to reveal there holding aloft a bracket of three candles a man of medium height, clad in tight broadcloth black breeches and black stockings, and a sort of green-black jacket from the sleeves of which lace cuffs depended. He wore buckled shoes on his feet. He was stooped and wore on his thin face an expression of dubiety and resignation that had been there for long enough to have become engraved upon his features. His watery blue eyes looked anxiously out until he recognized his master; then he stepped aside with alacrity and held the candles higher still, so as to light our way into the shadowed hall.

  “No songs yet, Pip? Eh? Speak up.”

  “None, sir.”

  “Well, he will come, he will come,” promised our client, striding past his man. “Lay a fire in the study, and we will sit by it and watch. Come along, gentlemen, come along. We shall have a fire by and by, to warm our bones—and perhaps a wee drop of sherry.”

  Pip Scratch stepped forward with a springy
gait and thrust the light of the candles ahead, making the shadows to dance in the study whither our client led us. He put the bracket of candles up on the wall, and backed away before Snawley’s command.

  “Light up, Pip, light up.” And to us, “Sit down, gentlemen.” And to Pip Scratch’s retreating back, “And a few drops of sherry. Bring—yes, yes, bring the Amontillado. It is as much as I can do for my guest.”

  The servant had now vanished into the darkness outside the study. I was now accustomed to the light, and saw that it was lined with books from floor to ceiling on three walls, excepting only that facing the street along which we had just come, for this wall consisted of the two Elizabethan bay windows we had seen from outside, each of them flanking the fireplace. Most of the shelves of books were encased; their glass doors reflected the flickering candles.

  “He will be back in a moment or two,” our client assured us.

  Hard upon his words came Pip Scratch, carrying a seven-branched candelabrum and a salver on which was a bottle of Amontillado with scarcely enough sherry in it to more than half fill the three glasses beside it. He bore these things to an elegant table and put them down, then scurried to the bracket on the wall for a candle with which to light those in the candelabrum, and, having accomplished this in the dour silence with which his master now regarded him, poured the sherry, which, true to my estimate, came only to half way in each of the three glasses—but this, clearly, was approved by Mr. Snawley, for his expression softened a trifle. This done, Pip Scratch hurried from the room.

  “Drink up, gentlemen,” said our client, with an air rather of regret at seeing his good wine vanish. “Let us drink to our success!”

  “Whatever that may be,” said Pons enigmatically, raising his glass.

  Down went the sherry, a swallow at a time, rolled on the tongue—and a fine sherry it proved to be, for all that there was so little of it, and while we drank, Pip Scratch came in again and laid the fire and scurried out once more, and soon the dark study looked quite cheerful, with flames growing and leaping higher and higher, and showing row after row of books, and a locked case with folders and envelopes and boxes in it, a light bright enough so that many of the titles of the books could be seen—and most of them were by Dickens—various editions, first and late, English and foreign, and associational items.

  “And these are your valuables, I take it, Mr. Snawley,” said Pons.

  “I own the finest collection of Dickens in London,” said our client. After another sip of wine, he added, “In all England.” And after two more sips, “If I may say so, I believe it to be the best in the world.” Then his smile faded abruptly, his face darkened, and he added, “There is another collector who claims to have a better—but it is a lie, sir, a dastardly lie, for he cannot substantiate his claim.”

  “You have seen his collection?” asked Pons.

  “Not I. Nor he mine.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, nor wish to. He wrote me three times in as little as ten days. I have one of his letters here.”

  He pulled open a drawer in the table, reached in, and took out a sheet of plain paper with a few lines scrawled upon it. He handed it to Pons, and I leaned over to read it, too.

  Mr. Ebenezer Snawley

  Dear Sir,

  I take my pen in hand for the third time to ask the liberty of viewing your collection of Dickens which, I am told, may be equal to my own. Pray set a date, and I will be happy to accommodate myself to it. I am sir, gratefully yours,

  Micah Auber

  “Dated two months ago, I see,” said Pons.

  “I have not answered him. I doubt I would have done so had he sent a stamp and envelope for that purpose. In his case, stamps are too dear.”

  He drank the last of his sherry, and at that moment Pip Scratch came in again, and stood there wordlessly pointing to the street.

  “Aha!” cried our client “The fellow is back. A pox on him! Pip, remove the light for the nonce. There is too much of it—it reflects on the panes. We shall have as good a look at him as we can.”

  Out went the light, leaving the study lit only by the flames on the hearth, which threw the glow away from the bay windows, toward which our client was now walking, Pons at his heels, and I behind.

  “There he is!” cried Snawley. “The rascal! The scoundrel!”

  We could hear him now, jingling his bells, and singing in a lusty voice which was not, indeed, very musical—quite the opposite. Singing was not what I would have called it; he was, rather, bawling lustily.

  “Walnuts again!” cried our client in disgust. We could see the fellow now—a short man, stout, who, when he came under the streetlamp, revealed himself to be as much of an individualist as Snawley, for he wore buskins and short trousers, and a coat that reached scarcely to his waist, and his head was crowned with an absurd hat on which a considerable amount of snow had already collected. He carried a basket, presumably for his walnuts.

  Past the light he went, bawling about his walnuts, and around the corner.

  “Now, you will see, gentlemen, he goes only to the line of my property, and then back. So it is for my benefit that he is about this buffoonery.”

  “Or his,” said Pons.

  “How do you say that?” asked Snawley, bending toward Pons so that his slightly curved hawk-like nose almost touched my companion.

  “In all seriousness,” said Pons. “It does not come from the sherry.”

  “It cannot be to his benefit,” answered our client, “for I have not bought so much as a walnut. Nor shall I!”

  Pons stood deep in thought, watching the streetsinger, fingering the lobe of his left ear, as was his custom when preoccupied. Now that all of us were silent, the voice came clear despite the muffling snow.

  “He will keep that up for hours,” cried our host, his dark face ruddy in the glow of the fire. “Am I to have no peace? The police will do nothing. Nothing! Do we not pay their salaries? Of course, we do. Am I to tolerate this botheration and sit helplessly by while that fellow out there bawls his wares?”

  “You saw how he was dressed?” inquired Pons.

  “He is not in fashion,” replied Snawley, with a great deal of sniffing.

  I suppressed my laughter, for the man in the street was no more out of the fashion than our client.

  “I have seen enough of him for the time being,” said Pons.

  Snawley immediately turned and called out. “Pip! Pip! Bring the lights!”

  And Pip Scratch, as if he had been waiting in the wings, immediately came hurrying into the room with the candelabrum he had taken out at his employer’s command, set it down once more on the table, and departed.

  “Mr. Snawley,” said Pons as we sat down again near the table, Pons half turned so that he could still look out on occasion through the bay windows toward the street-lamp, “I take it you are constantly adding to your collection?”

  “Very cautiously, sir—ve-ry cautiously. I have so much now I scarcely know where to house it. There is very little—ve-ry little I do not have. Why, I doubt that I add two or three items a year.”

  “What was your last acquisition, Mr. Snawley?”

  Once again our client’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why do you ask that, Mr. Pons?”

  “Because I wish to know.”

  Snawley bent toward Pons and said in a voice that was unusually soft for him, almost as with affection, “It is the most precious of all the items in my collection. It is a manuscript in Dickens’s hand!”

  “May I see it?”

  Our client got up, pulled out of his pocket a keyring, and walked toward the locked cabinet I had previously noticed. He unlocked it and took from it a box that appeared to be of ebony, inlaid with ivory, and brought it back to the table. He unlocked this, in turn, and took from it the manuscript in a folder. He laid it before Pons almost with reverence, and stood back to watch Pons with the particular pride of possession that invariably animates the collector.

  Pons
turned back the cover.

  The manuscript was yellowed, as with age, but the paper was obviously of good quality. Master Humphrey’s Clock was written at the top, and the signature of Charles Dickens meticulously below it, and below that, in the same script, began the text of the manuscript, which consisted of at least a dozen pages.