The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock

by Craig Janacek

  Holmes laughed heartily. “Do not mock the poor Inspector, Watson.[229] He cannot be faulted for employing a bit of imagination and recollecting poor Shelley’s wife[230] when Lord St. Simon’s went missing. And his efforts did provide the essential clue, even if he failed to recognize it.”

  After leaving the bridge, we veered off the main drive onto one of the snow-covered, tree-lined footpaths that led vaguely in the northeastern direction of our rooms. When we approached the Marble Arch, Holmes suddenly spoke. “I agree, Watson, that it is difficult to reconcile the more forward-thinking aspects of Cromwell with his hypocritical and repressive nature.”

  “Holmes!” I exclaimed. “How could you possibly know that I was thinking about the Protectorate?”

  He smiled. “I really should not need to explain, Watson. You have had ample opportunity to familiarize yourself with my methods. But if you insist, I will oblige. First, your attention was drawn to that of the strident voices coming from the corner of the park where relatively unrestricted free speech is permitted.[231] Since there is no one of particular note gesticulating today, the frown upon your face instead suggested that you were reminded that the tradition dates back to the time when this area was within a stone-cast of the old Tyburn tree of evil memory, where Mr. Wild met his due fate.[232] From the sudden turn of your head to the south-east, in which direction lies Westminster Abbey, and the rueful shake of your head, it was clear that your thoughts then turned to the most famous occupant of that tree, the headless corpse of Cromwell.[233] And then a smile dawned upon your face when your eyes came to rest upon a group of child carolers. This reminded you of the fact that Cromwell banned the celebration of Christmas entirely as a pagan festival. Hence your conclusion that the motives of Cromwell were relatively inscrutable.”[234]

  I shook my head in wondrous appreciation for Holmes’ continued ability to follow the precise directions of my thoughts. Not for the last time, I was grateful that his powers were directed towards the solitary pursuit of halting the activities of London’s criminals, for if he had chosen to pursue a life of misdeeds, it was certain that no one could have stood in his way.

  Soon enough we found ourselves making the turn from Oxford Street onto Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was out upon some holiday errand, but Billy[235] opened the door so that we could mount the seventeen stairs leading up to our suite of rooms.

  As soon as we entered, Holmes turned to me. “I was just thinking, Watson, that the London criminal is a boring chap.[236] Instead we have been honored with a visit by Inspector Gregson, which can only mean that something unique, and beyond the imagination of Scotland Yard, has occurred.”

  I looked about the sitting room, but failed to see how Holmes could ascertain such a fact. Everything appeared just as we had left it, with my possessions in their usual state of order, and Holmes’ rather less so. His desk was littered with papers yet to be filed in his index, his singlestick occupied his armchair, the loose tobacco and cigars were in their customary places, and the unanswered correspondence remained transfixed to the mantelpiece. “I give up, Holmes, how could you possibly know that the inspector has been here?”

  “It is rather straightforward, Watson. As we approached the threshold, I noted a set of footprints,[237] which not there when we departed this morning. They were left by someone who failed to knock all of the dirty snow from their boots before ascending to our room, hence someone either quite careless or in a great hurry. The boot’s outline is that of the kind issued to police detectives of Scotland Yard, and the size of the print suggests one of the larger men on the force. In combination with the new ash in our tray, which even from over here I can tell belongs to a type of cigar known to be favored by Inspector Gregson,[238] leaves us with only one possible conclusion.”

  I stared first at the doorstep, followed by the ashtray, and was yet again amazed at my friend’s ability to notice the smallest details of any room in which he entered. “But why didn’t Billy tell us that Gregson had been here?”

  Holmes shook his head despondently. “The boy’s brain is addled, Watson, like that of most denizens of London as the holiday grows ever closer. He is dreaming of figgy pudding and presents. Ring for him, and you shall see for yourself.”

  In Billy’s defense, when he responded to our call, he immediately recalled his overdue task. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, I’ve plum forgot! There was a policeman here, looking for you. He came in quite excited, and though I told him you were out, he waited in your sitting room for some time. Finally, he left and…”

  “Very good, Billy,” interrupted Holmes. “Run round to the Green Man[239] and fetch him.”

  Billy frowned, but knew better than to question Holmes when given such a specific task. Holmes glanced over at me, but I purposefully refrained from asking how he deduced the current location of the inspector at the local public house. Instead, I sank into my armchair and picked up my copy of Scott’s archer tale,[240] which I had been reading the night before.

  I had turned only a few pages before we heard the tread of the inspector upon our steps and he was back in our rooms. Holmes had settled in his high-backed armchair and was lighting his pipe stuffed with some tobacco from the nearby slipper. With a wave of it, he gestured Gregson to the visitor’s seat.

  “How did you know that I would be at the Green Man, Mr. Holmes?” asked the inspector.

  “It was a rather simple calculation, Gregson. The snow that your boots had left upon our doorstep had completely melted by the time of our return, despite the relative chill of the unheated steps. I estimate that the temperature therein is approximately fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit,[241] and at such temperature snow would take at least two hours to reach the state in which we encountered it. This suggests that you had originally arrived at our rooms no later than ten o’clock this morning. From the amount of ash in our tray, I would think that you worked through about three-quarters of your cigar, which would suggest that you waited for our return for at least an hour. Therefore, the object of your visit was not to simply wish us the compliments of the season, but rather an event of some pressing importance. And yet, you eventually left. Given the current time, which most would consider a natural occasion for luncheon, you must have decided that I was unlikely to return in the space of time required for you to secure a quick source of sustenance. Since you would not have wished to venture far from Baker Street, and as it is widely known that the Green Man serves the best Cornish pasties in this district, I deduced that it would be the most logical locale in which to seek you out.”

  Gregson shook his head in wonderment. “I’m mighty glad I waited, Mr. Holmes. You are just the man for this job.”

  Holmes leaned forward eagerly, his fingers folded together in a steeple before him. “What has happened?”

  “There has been a terrible accident in the Underground.[242] A man fell under a train at the Metropolitan Station.”

  “Fell, or was pushed?” interrupted Holmes.

  Gregson shook his head uncertainly. “That is not certain, and part of the reason why I thought to ask for your advice.”

  “What is the other reason?”

  “Remarkably, the man still possessed a glimmer of life when they pulled him out. He was unconscious, but the sheer act of moving him up onto the platform was sufficient to stimulate a last response. His eyes fluttered open, and though his speech was slurred and indistinct, he managed to utter two words… ‘First Star.’ Then his eyelids closed and he sighed his last breath.”

  “First Star?” I repeated. “Whatever does it mean?” I asked, turning to Holmes.

  Holmes shrugged. “It is impossible to determine without more facts. Who was the man?”

  “That’s just the thing, Mr. Holmes, he had no means of identification.”

  Holmes grunted. “It would be rare for the common British workman to be found without his wallet. Was it stolen from him?”

  “The man was pulled from the tracks by Commissionaire Price.[243] He is a veteran of the Crimea
[244] and as honest a man as you are likely to meet in this city. If the man’s wallet was lifted, it was before he found his way onto those tracks.”

  “Are you suggesting that we have a murderous thief loose in the tunnels below our streets? Someone who picks a man’s pocket seconds before sending them to their doom?” Holmes had the good grace to not look overly excited about this grotesque possibility.

  Gregson licked his lips nervously. “I had feared the possibility, Mr. Holmes. If I can imagine such a scenario, it won’t be long before some newspaper reporter has the same thought. It would start a panic, and the Underground would be abandoned. With the number of folks about because of the holidays, and with us due for another winter storm any day now, I thought we best try to solve this before he strikes again.”

  “Presuming the existence of your maniac, of course,” said Holmes. “He may have simply been a poor beggar of no means, who tripped or was accidentally jostled onto the rails.”

  “We can only hope so, Mr. Holmes. Will you investigate?” asked the inspector.

  Holmes shrugged languidly. “I suppose that I have little else to occupy my mind. Who knows? Perhaps there will be something of interest in this.” He turned to me. “Well, Watson, do you fancy a trip to the mortuary?”

  I could hardly resist such a tempting offer two days before Christmas, and reluctantly rose to shrug back on my overcoat. The three of us descended to the street, and Holmes hailed a passing hansom. “St. Mary’s is but a short stroll, but we want to arrive before the coroner can disturb any potential clues, so we will risk a cab, however slowly they may travel through the snow.”

  “Say, Mr. Holmes, but how do you know where we are going?” asked Gregson.

  “I am certain, Inspector, that you would never leave the body lying in the Underground station, upon which every holiday passerby may gawk,” Holmes scoffed. “And the Paddington Hospital is closest.”[245]

  A short ride deposited us at said hospital. After disembarking, Gregson led us down a narrow lane that ran along the side of the building. We travelled about thirty paces before he paused to open a small side-door through which the three of us passed. This led to a bleak wrought-iron staircase that led down into the bowels of the structure. At the bottom, we travelled along a long whitewashed corridor, until we came to a slate-colored door. What lay behind it was plainly labeled, which in consideration was a place I little desired to visit if I hoped to preserve my holiday mood. However, my duty as Holmes’ unofficial biographer called for me to set such yearnings aside and carry on. Although the door was locked, Gregson proved to be in possession of a copy of the key and he promptly let us in.

  The first thing I noticed about the low-ceilinged room was the familiar, but almost-overwhelming odor of formaldehyde, which at least served its purpose of masking any even more unpleasant scents. Several broad metal tables were positioned at regular intervals in the middle of the room, happily, only one of which was occupied at the moment. A white sheet covered the grim figure from any unauthorized eyes.

  Holmes wasted little time in throwing back the sheet in order to inspect the nameless corpse. This proved to belong to a man of about five and forty years of age, tall in stature, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled. He had a tousle of thick orange-red hair which matched his full beard. His clothes had been removed, and this action exposed numerous crush wounds and lacerations, any of which on its own was sufficient to prove fatal. Holmes whipped a magnifying glass from his coat pocket and proceeded to examine the body intently. I watched closely as he swiftly moved about the man’s anatomy. He opened the eyelids and exposed two green sightless eyes, felt along the man’s ears, and lifted each of the man’s hands for closer inspection. He even sniffed the man’s mouth, though I highly doubted that he could distinguish anything over the smell of the antiseptic in the room. He stepped back and took in the whole body at once.

  “Hmmm, rather tall,” he muttered to himself, before looking up. “Six foot, three inches, I would estimate. Do you concur, Watson?”

  “Perhaps a bit less,” I submitted, hesitantly.

  Holmes shook his head. “I think not. Here, let us settle it.” He reached into his pocket again, this time extracting a tape measure, one end of which he tossed to me. Stretching the tape to the top of the man’s head, he exclaimed. “Ah, six foot, two and a half. Spot on, Watson. Though with boots, of course, he would seem even taller. Speaking of which, where are the man’s clothes?”

  “Over here, Mr. Holmes,” replied Gregson, indicating a drawer in one of the metal cabinets that lined the room. Holmes leaned over and poked through the blood-soaked clothes diffidently, and I could tell from the expression upon his face that he found no clues therein.

  He finally straightened. “The case has not been without interest. You perceived, of course, Gregson, that the man was a former convict?”

  “What?” exclaimed the inspector.

  “Indeed. There are few things that make the life of a detective easier than the presence of a tattoo or other marking of the skin. The practice is still rather uncommon, excepting only those sailors who frequent the lower reaches of Limehouse. However, another group of individuals who is known to do so, especially utilizing the webbing of the fingers, are those chaps who have been involuntarily boarded at the expense of the Crown. In a system that I find quite fascinating, every prison’s internal community has its own unique marking. The three blue circles that I see between the first and second finger of this man’s left hand is specific for those inmates of the great convict prison of Princetown in the Dartmoor forest.[246] I plan to write a monograph upon the subject someday.”

  “I hadn’t noticed that,” Gregson admitted.

  “Yes, well, I would estimate that he was released from prison less than two weeks ago.”

  I frowned. “How can you tell?”

  “The callous patterns on his hands, Watson,” he said, holding one up for my inspection. “The Crown does not believe that the state of idleness is conducive to the mood of its prisoners, so hard labor is the rule. Such work tends to leave a row of callouses that is difficult to match with any other profession, save a few not known for their propensity towards tattoos. However, the callous will fade quickly when not being continuously formed, and this man’s is still quite thick.”

  “So who is he?” I asked.

  Holmes waved his hand. “The deduction is too facile to be worth the effort. A simple perusal of the list of those who have been released from said prison within the last months, cross-referenced against the man’s general description, should narrow the list of candidates considerably.”

  “And was he pushed?” asked Gregson.

  Holmes shrugged, pulling out his pipe. “It is impossible to say for certain from the wounds upon the body, which would be present regardless of how exactly he found himself on the tracks. And his clothing is far too shredded to be of any use.”

  Gregson sighed heavily. “So we are to have a panic on our hands.”

  Holmes shook his head and puffed on the pipe to get it going. “Not at all. Even if this man was pushed, the odds would suggest that any such attack was likely motivated by his past history, and not the work of a predatory madman.”

  “That sort of supposition won’t stop the papers from printing whatever tale sells the most copies.”

  “You overestimate the incisiveness of the press, Gregson. You must construct the narrative that you wish relayed to the public.[247] Tell them that you have determined the identity of the man and are already searching for the man suspected to be responsible for an act of private revenge.”

  “But that would be a lie, Mr. Holmes!” said Gregson in a slightly scandalized tone.

  “Not at all, Inspector. It is simply a theory presented with a tone of excessive vigor which may ultimately prove to be regrettable. You will be certain to retroactively correct any excusable mistakes made once the mystery is finally elucidated.” With that conclusion, Holmes began to move towards the door.

/>   “Wait, where are you going, Mr. Holmes?” Gregson cried.

  “I have complete faith that you can conclude this case without any further assistance from Watson and I. Seeing how we missed our own luncheon, I think an early supper at Simpson’s[248] is called for. Good day, Gregson,” he managed, before turning and striding out.

  §

  When I awoke early the following morn, I was surprised to find that Holmes had already risen. He was clad in his red dressing gown, which I noted he typically wore during no other time of the year excepting the weeks leading up to Christmas. A still-steaming tray of Mrs. Hudson’s finest breakfast fare lay untouched on the sideboard, while Holmes was already engaged in a series of chemical experiments at his acid-scarred bench.[249] Off to one side, a Bunsen burner was burning a low blue flame under a small retort containing some obscure fluid, and he was stooping over a series of test-tubes and small bottles of various solutions. As was his wont when engrossed in a particularly sensitive investigation, Holmes expressed absolutely no notice of my entrance.

  Typically, I would leave him to his researches and avail myself of some coffee and the morning edition of the Times, but something unusual caught my eye upon his bench, which I stood before. “I say, Holmes, is that a Christmas cracker?”[250]

  For a moment, he made no answer, as he completed some delicate transfer with a pipette. When the clear solution suddenly turned an opaque silvery color, he looked up with a smile. “Ah, yes, Watson, it is. I have been studying the chemicals used to impregnate the strip. It is most ingenious. It uses silver fulminate, which is highly unstable.”

  I frowned in confusion. “But whatever for?”

  As he answered, he reached out and dabbed some plaster on a puncture on his right thumb. “Misdirection, Watson. Misdirection. If I could package this into something that can be thrown, it could prove to be of great utility.[251] It could be used to distract a man’s attention, thereby giving me a crucial few seconds in which to act.”