He would say no more until the hansom had passed through Trafalgar Square and arrived in front of the unmarked door of Diogenes Club,[294] a short distance from the far more salubrious Carlton. If I had expected the club to relax its rules at this festive time, I was sorely mistaken. A locale less conducive to the practice of Christmas cheer has not been seen since before the ghosts visited the home of Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens’ fine tale.[295] Not a decoration was in sight, and the oppressive silence reigned triumphant.
The sight of my friend was sufficient to effect our immediate entrance, though not without a mute scrutiny of my particular acceptability by the forbidding doorman. Holmes led the way down the double-paned window-lined hall, allowing a glimpse of the luxurious hall filled with the individual nooks of its misanthropic members, of whom a great number were in residence, despite the proximity of the date to one of such great cheer. Another dozen strides found us in the diminutive and uncomfortably-furnished Stranger’s Room, its very name and character purposefully designed to induce in its temporary occupants a strong desire to remain within for the most limited duration of time. Only a bow-widow, looking out upon the passersby in the street, lightened the oppressive atmosphere.
A handful of minutes ticked by before Mycroft himself appeared. He was unchanged from our last meeting, still stoutly built and massive, with a suggestion of corpulence due to inertia in the figure. However, these details were obscured by the sheer presence of his remarkable face, which shared many of my friend’s features, albeit in an elder form.[296] His dominant brow presided over steel-gray, deep-set eyes, whose look alternated between the piercing alertness and the far-away introspection required to balance the vast and intricate workings of the policies of an Empire.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft began, his fleshy hand outstretched. “I hope the few months have served you well?”[297] He turned to Holmes. “I expected to see you around here sooner, Sherlock. I thought you might have found the name of the dead man suggestive.”
“So Gregson solved it?” asked my friend. “We have been on the move for the last few hours and in no position to receive a telegram from him.”
“Of course, though his official report, a copy of which made its way past my humble desk, makes little reference to your role in the affair.”
Holmes waved away the implications. “I do not mind when the official force appropriates a preponderance of credit for my part in the solution. It keeps them content and likely to continue to bring their most unusual cases to my doorstep, the very uniqueness of which I crave.”
“Art for art’s sake?” asked Mycroft.
“Exactly.”
Mycroft shook his head. “You always did inherit the stronger degree of our grandmother’s particular vein of talent,[298] Sherlock. While I received the least, and must confine myself to the dreary minutia of the governmental machinery.”
Holmes laughed. “You may convince Watson with your act, brother, but I know that they will pry your cold corpse from your desk before you abandon the effort.”
“Yes, well, a pleasant image, to be sure. Was there a point to your visit, then, Sherlock?”
“Of course. I need you to open a door for me, so to speak.”
“And what, pray tell, is behind that door?”
Holmes carefully looked around the room. “Are you certain that the walls have no ears?”
Mycroft shrugged. “Of course not. All walls are so endowed this close to Whitehall.”
“I thought as much,” nodded Holmes. “Then I will write it down for you.” He ripped a sheet from his small notebook and quickly scribbled what looked like three words upon the paper. Once complete, he slid it over to Mycroft.
If Mycroft was surprised by the contents, he hid it well. “So be it, Sherlock, though I do not see why exactly you need to make this detour?”
“I have my methods, Mycroft, as you have yours. I prefer to ensure that the case is complete before I commit to a final course of action.”
Mycroft shrugged. “As you like,” he said. “I will send off a telegram that will serve to unlock said door upon your arrival.”
“Thank you, Mycroft. Then you were involved, what was it, twelve years ago?”
A smile spread across his face for the first time. “Of course, Sherlock. As you are fond of pointing out, I am involved with everything of matter that transpires in our great Empire. Good evening, Dr. Watson.”
We made our way back into the street, my mind seemingly further from the solution with every rapid twist in the case. The light snow had passed and the sun reemerged. Hailing a passing cab, Holmes surprised me again by instructing the man to take us to the Tower of London.
“I say, Holmes,” said I with a small hint of censure in my voice, “it would not be amiss if you would care to share some of the chains of your logic with me.”
Holmes smiled. “Forgive me, Watson, but you are aware that at times I take some small pleasure in instilling a flair of the dramatic into our cases. If you will endeavor to consign yourself to patience for but a few hours more, I think it highly probable that there will be a dénouement to this case that will be all the more piquant when presented en masse. Call it my modest gift to you, to satisfy your penchant for the mysterious.”
I frowned, but ultimately nodded, silently acquiescing to his judgment.
Holmes suddenly leaned out the window. “Stop at that telegraph office, cabby!” As the man pulled over, Holmes provided a partial explanation. “I must send a note to Threadneedle Street,[299] and ask if a certain gentleman can meet us there.”
The twenty-minute drive along the Embankment quickly passed and we soon arrived at the eight hundred year-old Tower slumbering in the shadow of the barely one year-old Bridge.[300] When we arrived, it was approaching the twilight of a lovely winter evening, and the stones of the White Tower gleamed golden and glorious in the slanting rays of the setting sun. Upon our entrance to the inner ward, we were met by two men. The first was a dapper and smartly dressed little man of about sixty years, who introduced himself as Andrew Farrar.[301] This gentleman appeared to already know my friend, but his role at the Tower was unclear to my eyes. The second middle-aged man wore the flat-topped black hat and the gold and black-highlighted amber-colored, white-ruffed uniform of a Yeoman Warder.[302]
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, proffering his hand, “I am Major William Cornwell, current Keeper of the House. Your brother has requested that we allow you a private visit.”
“It is very good of you on such short notice,” replied Holmes. “I assure you that we will not occupy too much of your valuable time.”
“If you will come this way, I can show you the regalia.” Major Cornwell led us to the south of the White Tower into what I belatedly recognized was the Jewel House.[303] Passing a set of guards, the four of us ascended some stairs to the upper floor, which was crowded with glass-lined cases.
“Here we guard the royal crowns, orbs, scepters, swords, and rings, without which the coronation ceremony cannot take place,” continued the Keeper, his arm sweeping the room. “Fortunately for us, it has been many years since any were put to such use.[304] This piece here is the famed Beryl Coronet,” said he, leading over to one case. Upon soft, flesh-colored velvet, lay the magnificent specimen of jewelry which he had named. “You can see the thirty-nine enormous beryls, and its gold chasing is the finest in existence.”
“Yes, that looks familiar,” retorted Holmes dryly.[305] “And this I believe is St. Edward’s Crown,” said he, motioning towards a golden diadem with two crossed arches and four fleurs-de-lis, all heavily encrusted with a multitude of precious stones. “Was it not briefly misplaced during the reign of the second Charles?”
“Ah yes,” replied the Keeper, “your history is excellent, Mr. Holmes. And here is the real pride of our collection, the Coron Arthur.” He indicated the plainest item in the case, a silver crown in the form of a double-ring, set with numerous small but lustrous diamonds, sapp
hires, and rubies, all glowing in the light like sparks in a fire.[306]
Holmes stiffened and a slightly vain smile rose to his lips. “As yes, Watson, you may recall my early case which you have commemorated under the somewhat fanciful title of ‘The Musgrave Ritual.’ As I mentioned at the conclusion, after some legal maneuverings and a considerable outlay of funds, Reginald was originally allowed to keep the crown that we unearthed down at Hurlstone, after it had been marvelously restored by Mr. Farrar here,” said he, inclining his head to the dapper little man, whose role at the Jewel House finally became slightly less opaque. “While we knew from the minute of its recovery that it must have been one of the ancient crowns of the Kings of England, history is relatively replete with these. Many of our former kings desired that a new crown be made especially for their own ascension to the throne. For example, one such was the Tudor State Crown, which was later sold by Oliver Cromwell in order to raise funds for the depleted coffers of his dictatorship, and thereby was lost to the pages of time. Back to the matter at hand, however, further research by Professor Adams of the British Museum eventually revealed that the crown we pulled from the lake was nothing less than the coronet of Llywelyn, King of Gwynedd, seized by Longshanks during the Conquest of Wales.[307] As you may be aware, Watson, that particular crown is reputed have originally belonged to King Arthur himself. Therefore, Reginald was gently persuaded to sell such a treasure back to the Crown.”
“This is fascinating, Holmes,” I said with a vein of asperity in my voice, “but I fail to see how this is related to the case at hand?”
“No?” he replied with arched eyebrows, continuing to slowly ambulate around the room, inspecting all of the items in the cases. “Ah, well then, consider it simply a pleasant diversion, Watson. Nothing more.”
I shook my head in bewilderment. “Then we are no closer to the solution?”
Holmes smiled. “I would not say that, Doctor. In fact, Mr. Farrar, I would be grateful if you would accompany us to our next stop.”
“I am your servant, Mr. Holmes.”
“Most kind.” Holmes turned to the Keeper. “Thank you again, Major. Our visit has been extremely elucidating. I hope to return someday soon. Before we leave, would you mind if I sent two quick telegrams from your office?”
Cornwell agreed to this reasonable request, and once complete we were again off in a hansom. I had lost track of how many we had engaged that day, and wondered at the financial outlay Holmes had assumed in order to pursue this peculiar little case without any apparent end in sight.
“Where exactly are we headed, Holmes?” I asked, without serious hope of an answer.
Holmes smiled. “All in good time, Watson. All in good time.” He looked out the aperture of the hansom and suddenly called out, “Stop here for a moment, my good man.” With no word of instruction, Holmes hopped out of the cab and vanished into a small grocer’s shop. A few minutes later he emerged with a bag in hand, and resumed his place in the hansom.
“As you recall, Watson,” said he, settling back in his seat, “while you were selecting a tree with which to adorn the bay window at Baker Street, I availed myself of a look at Mr. Clancy’s books. He is a methodical man, with a system much to be esteemed. Perhaps to avoid any accusations of bait-and-switching, his descriptions at the time of sales are faultless. As he mentioned to us, there were three trees sold this year with a fine burr. As we have already seen, two of those trees have been destroyed. The third tree was delivered here.” This last remark was made as our hansom pulled up in front of a magnificent three-storied crenellated mansion, set back twenty yards from the bustle of the Embankment, and tucked into the side of the Temple grounds.
Mr. Farrar and I followed Holmes out of the cab and watched, mystified, as he paid and dismissed the driver. We stood in the small light emitted from a nearby lamppost and awaited Holmes’ next move. Given the flurry of activities on that day, I was little surprised to soon find another cab arrive, from which Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson both emerged, despite the rarity of seeing those rivals at the Yard working a case together.[308]
“What gives, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade, vigorously waving a telegram in the air. “‘Tis a rum night to pull a man from his hearth and home. This had better not be about that ridiculous Christmas tree case! That can certainly wait until the morn.”
“Ah, Lestrade, excellent. I am happy that you are here. You as well, Gregson. You were both present at one end of this case’s beginning, and the time has come to tie those two unraveled threads together into a coherent final tapestry.”
“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Holmes,” began Gregson. “We already know the identity of the man, thanks to your assistance, I might add…”
Holmes forestalled further protest with a raise of his hand. “You will simply have to take my word for it, Gregson, that not all has yet been made clear. I believe that over the course of the last dozen years, I have earned a small modicum of latitude to conduct an investigation according to my personal whims.”
Gregson glanced at Lestrade, who sighed. “Have it your way, Mr. Holmes. We will humor your little fancies, not for the last time, I am sure.”
Holmes smiled. “Excellent. I fear we may have a very weary vigil before us, as I cannot say with absolute precision when our man may appear. But, unless I have missed my mark, appear he shall before the night is out. I have taken the precaution of filling my flask, which I am happy to share, and obtained a few paper-wrapped sandwiches with which we may fortify our watch. But, not here under the light, I think,” he said, inspecting the surrounding area. “Yes, follow me, gentlemen, this is just the spot. I apologize that we cannot afford a lantern, nor the comfort of a pipe. The light would prove fatal to our cause.”
He led us to a darkest corner, where a small foot-lane led along the side of the Middle Temple. There lay a forgotten bench, tucked hard against the high wall, happily shielded from snow by the oak branches overhanging from the gardens of the other side. Fortunately, the night proved to be relatively mild, but after a span of nearly an hour I found the cold begin to penetrate through my inverness. For myself, my term of service in India and Afghanistan had trained me to stand heat far better than cold,[309] and I wondered how the little Mr. Farrar was managing. Even the thrill that we were lying in a blind, awaiting the arrival of some big game to our metaphorical watercourse, began to wear thin. I was about to speak when I noted Holmes’ frame suddenly tense by my side. Even in the relative darkness, I could see his grey eyes shining with excitement, and I suspected that his nostrils were dilated and his cheeks tinged with more color than absolutely required by the chill in the air. I knew that these battle signals were a sign that our hunt was drawing to a close.
Within a few moments, I finally perceived what had triggered Holmes’ keen senses. A solitary man was quietly making his way down the street. He was judiciously avoiding the circles of light cast by the streetlights, though at one point he veered too close to one and a glimmer reflected off the blade of what could only be an axe. His destination was clear, and as he began to climb over the low wrought-iron fence, Holmes pounced.
“That is far enough, Mr. George Blunt,” said Holmes with authority, though I noted that he was sufficiently cautious to approach only close enough to avoid being within range of the man’s weapon. The inspectors and I trailed Holmes, with Mr. Farrar sensibly bringing up the rear.
The man startled at the sound of Holmes’ voice. Pulling his leg back, he gazed with astonishment at the five of us confronting him. “How did you know my name, mister?” the man asked incredulously, slowly inching away from us.
“No further, please,” warned Holmes. “You cannot hope to outrun us. Watson here is especially fleet of foot. As for your question, it is my business to know things, Mr. Blunt.”
“Well, I don’t know who you are, mister, but can tell a copper when I see one, and you’ve got two flanking you. But you’ve got nothing on me. I was just out for a stroll on this fine night. I a
m enjoying the holiday decorations.”
“What about that axe?” cried Lestrade.
The man shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “I’m on my way home from work, Inspector. I sell Christmas trees. And you cannot procure yourself of a Christmas tree without a little axe.”
Holmes chuckled softly. “You are a far ways from Farnham, Mr. Blunt. It appears you have gotten lost on your way home” he said, dryly. “It may also surprise you to learn that the field of forensic science has advanced considerably in recent years.”
“You don’t say,” interrupted Blunt.
“I do. In fact, as it turns out, when studied under the lens of a high-powered microscope, every axe blade becomes as unique as a snowflake. And everything chopped with a particular axe can be traced back via that inverse pattern left in the residual material by the microscopic imperfections of said blade. I think, given the position where we found your leg, half in the property belonging to a house that is not your own, that Lestrade here has more than sufficient reason to confiscate your axe and submit it to the laboratory in order to determine if it matches the remains of trees found at both Albion Grove and Garden Road.”
The man’s confident façade began to crumble. “What did you say?” he stammered.
“I told you,” Holmes continued, solemnly, “I know all. There is only one thing I do not know for absolute certitude. Has your family surname always been such, or was an ‘n’ perhaps added recently?[310]
Although I had at least partially followed Holmes’s logic so far, I could not comprehend the nature of this novel tack of interrogation. However, this strange question produced a visible fear in our quarry’s eyes.
The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock Page 17