Vaughan nodded grimly. “I see that you understand what I have done and why it was necessary.”
“But Dr. Lowe had no role in the death of Miss Pearl,” I protested. “He may have drunk the poisoned wassail.”
“That is not true, Dr. Watson,” said Lowe, suddenly. “I too share a measure of blame for poor Miriam.”
“She was your relative?” asked Holmes.
“My cousin,” said he, hoarsely. “But when she left the faith and converted to the Church of England we cast her out. Thus, we were not there for her in her moment of greatest need. It is a terrible shame that I have borne for twenty years.”
“Vaughan blamed your entire family as an accessory, and you were its representative,” said Holmes. “Your crime was that of omission, rather than commission, so he spared you the fatal blow of the poison by arranging for the timely delivery of the note that called you from the house. But if Vaughan died, the blame for the poisoning would likely fall upon you. Even if you were set free from lack of motive, you would receive at least some mental punishment for Miriam’s death.”
Lowe rose unsteadily to his feet. “I can assure you Mr. Vaughan that the two days I have spent in the Bow Street cells are nothing compared to the lifetime of guilt that I have felt at her death. There is no excuse for my initial actions, or those of my family. I like to believe that if she had turned to us in her hour of despair that we would have welcomed her back with open arms. But she never gave us the chance, so I will never know the truth. And that haunts me to this day.”
Vaughan also rose to his feet and held out his hand to the doctor. “Then I am sorry for what I have done to you, sir. I am most glad that Mr. Holmes was here to clear your name.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, addressing Dr. Lowe. “At this time of year, it should be clear that the most important things in life are your family and your friends. No mere words from almost two millennium ago should stand in the way of that. Go be with your wife.”
When the door closed behind the doctor, Holmes turned back to our host. “And what will you do now, Mr. Vaughan?”
He appeared to contemplate this question for a minute. When he looked up, his eyes were dull. “I honestly did not think that I would make it through that dose of arsenic. That is why I settled some money on Mrs. Sumner in advance. My thoughts have been consumed with darkness for so many years, I do not see a way forward now that Molyneux and Arden have gotten their just rewards.”
Holmes laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Nothing can bring Miriam back, Mr. Vaughan. But you have been given a new lease upon life. And I understand that you are still a wealthy man. Perhaps, now that Marylebone Chapel has been cleared of its foul influences, you could continue Miriam’s work?”
A light of understanding appeared in Vaughan’s eyes. “The Crippled Children’s Fund?”
“Indeed. Today is Christmas Eve, Mr. Vaughan. I think such a day is an appropriate time to bring some joy into the world, do you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, yes!” he said, smiling broadly. He reached out and pumped Holmes’ hand enthusiastically. “You are a genius!”
I may have imagined it, but I thought I detected a small flush of color rise to Holmes’ pale cheeks upon hearing these words of praise. He may have affected the external armor of a purely rational machine, I but knew that was only part of the truth.
Mutually, we silently decided to walk back to Baker Street. The lantern-lit streets were filled with throngs of merry-makers. Last-minute gifts were being purchased, holiday geese were being distributed by burly poultry-men, and the smell of roasted chestnuts filled the air.
After we had been walking for about ten minutes, I turned to my friend. “Did we commute a felony today, Holmes?”
“Perhaps we did, Watson. By and large, the laws of England are magnificently fair, but even they cannot cover all extenuating circumstances. If I had told Lestrade the full account, Vaughan would be lucky to spend the rest of his life rotting in gaol. Recall, however, Watson, that we were hired by Mrs. Lowe to free her husband, which we did. I do not recollect Lestrade ever asking me to solve his case for him. I presented one possible solution, and to any discerning detective it had far too many defects to be plausible. I can hardly be blamed if Lestrade blindly accepted it. Furthermore, I think the new Mr. Vaughan can do more good out in the world,” he concluded magnanimously.
“So you expected him to recover from his illness?”
“It was a desperate gamble, Watson, but he was a dying man. He saw a way to rid himself of all those that he felt wronged by, and thus if he did not survive, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken his perhaps justifiable revenge.”
“A terrible business, Holmes.”
“Indeed, Watson. But to some extent a happy ending for all deserving of such.”
“So when you said that you eliminated the impossible, you meant that you eliminated the possibility that his recovery was due to a miracle?”
Holmes pursed his lips. “Watson, let me tell you a story. It concerns one of the greatest thinkers of the modern era and one of the greatest despots. You once accused me of having little knowledge of astronomy, which at the time was true. But when I began to investigate the Napoleon of crime, I realized that I needed to rectify this deficiency in order to understand the mind of a man who could write about such pure mathematics as The Dynamics of an Asteroid. So I began with Newton, and then moved to Laplace. When reading about the Frenchman, I encountered an amusing anecdote about his meeting with Bonaparte himself. Laplace formally presented the Emperor with a copy of his masterwork, Mécanique Céleste, but Napoleon had already been informed regarding its contents. Bonaparte was fond of asking embarrassing questions, so he received it with the remark, ‘Monsieur Laplace, they tell me you have written this large book on the system of the universe, and have never even mentioned its Creator.’ Laplace drew himself up and answered bluntly, ‘Je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là.’”
“I had no need of that hypothesis,” I translated, after which. I walked on in silence for some time.
Given the acuity of his senses, Holmes was certainly able to detect that I was troubled by this answer. “Watson, do you know the true meaning of the Christmas season?”
“A midwinter festival, I suppose?” I replied irascibly.
“Yes, for certs, that is how it began,” he agreed in an amiable tone. “But it has taken on a larger meaning. People make a grave mistake when they think that they simply need to ‘believe’ for all to turn out right. It is not about believing. Belief without action accomplishes naught. The true meaning of Christmas can be found in our actions. Doing good deeds for your fellow man. And it is, of course, a time for forgiveness. A time for peace on earth and good will towards men, women, and children.”
I thought about this in silence, my equanimity slowly returning, until we reached Baker Street. We paused before Number 221 and I turned to Holmes with an outstretched hand.
“Happy Christmas, Holmes,” said I, smiling.
He took it warmly. “Happy Christmas, Watson.”
§
About the Author
In the year 1998 CRAIG JANACEK took his degree of Doctor of Medicine of Vanderbilt University, and proceeded to Stanford to go through the training prescribed for pediatricians in practice. Having completed his studies there, he was duly attached to the University of California, San Francisco as Associate Professor. The author of over seventy medical monographs upon a variety of obscure lesions, his travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of his fictional works. To date, these have been published solely in electronic format, including two non-Holmes novels (The Oxford Deception & The Anger of Achilles Peterson), the trio of holiday adventures collected as The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes, and a Watsonian novel entitled The Isle of Devils. His current project is the short trilogy The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes. His first in-press work will be included i
n the forthcoming MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories (Fall 2015). Craig Janacek is a nom-de-plume.
For augmented content, connect with him online at: http://craigjanacek.wordpress.com.
§
THE ADVENTURE OF
THE MANUFACTURED MIRACLE:
Annotated
I would perhaps be guilty of a gross exaggeration if I termed my friend Sherlock Holmes a sentimental man. And yet, even he was occasionally prone to fits of profound compassion, and I believe that if I plotted these incidents upon a calendar, they increased in direct relationship to their proximity to the date of 25 December. It was as if Holmes had an internal version of the little carved calendars from Munich that people use to count down the days to Christmas. I doubt that Holmes, the perfect reasoning machine, who sometimes approached something akin to vanity over his carefully-prepared mind, was even aware of this tendency. To be certain, I refrained from pointing this out, in fear that the imparting of such information might induce him to consciously attempt to alter his behavior, which would be to the detriment of all that he encountered during the holidays. I have already detailed one such adventure, in which a battered hat led to the discovery of the most miraculous Christmas goose ever feasted upon in London.[1] Ultimately, no one had been harmed in that tale, but not all of Holmes’ end-of-the-year adventures had such happy endings for all involved.
I was lounging in my velvet armchair, still wearing my brown dressing-gown despite the lateness of the hour. Mrs. Hudson had decided to not await Holmes’ appearance, and had provided me with a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausages, and thin pancakes sprinkled with cinnamon and spices. My half-drained coffee mug lay in the center of a pile of the morning papers, and I gazed about the room contentedly. For certs, I sorely missed the comforts of my departed wife,[2] however, I reflected that for all its tragedies, my life had also its fill of blessings. It was but two days before Christmas, and Holmes had retired late grousing about how the snow and good-cheer had produced a deplorable lack of action amongst the criminals of London. Despite his complaints, it felt good to be back at Baker Street after a many-year hiatus. I gazed at the crystalline frost on the windows, which gave me pause to consider stoking the flagging fire. Before I could rise, however, a familiar voice rang from the direction of Holmes’ bedroom.
“Indeed, Watson, I hope your desire for peace on earth is fulfilled.”
I turned to him in astonishment. “I say, Holmes, at times I wonder if you are Father Christmas himself. How do you know what I’ve been thinking?”
He chuckled merrily, as he strode into the room. He was fully dressed for the day in his typical suit, with no foppery to indicate the approaching holiday. “Come now, Watson, we have known each other for almost fourteen years. You know my methods, pray put them to use.”
I attempted to recall what I had been doing when Holmes had interrupted my post-prandial reverie, but failed to ascertain how Holmes was able to read the train of my thoughts. I finally admitted this failure.
Holmes merely smiled complacently. “Then I will tell you. When you looked up from your papers, your eyes travelled first to the fireplace and from there to the coal-scuttle. As soon as I opened the door, I became aware that the temperature of the room is about three degrees lower than what you find optimal, so you were clearly contemplating adding some additional coals to the fire. The sight of my cigars mixed in with the coals caused you to subtly shake your head in virtuous dismay at Bohemian habits, which of course led your gaze to the Persian slipper in which I have taken to storing my pipe tobacco. From there, your eyes darted back to the coal-scuttle, and a mischievous grin appeared upon your face. You were obviously thinking of adding a lump of coal to the slipper in two nights’ time in hopes that I would equate such a discovery with a visit from Father Christmas down our chimney, whose ‘gift’ would signal a need for me to become more tidy in my habits. You then glanced over at the little patriotic decoration that, with the help of a hundred Boxer cartridges, I once adorned our wall. A small shuffling of your feet then induced you to look down, where your gaze lingered upon our bearskin hearthrug. A slight crinkle appeared in your brow, as if wondering wherever I had acquired such an item. Very briefly, your eyes darted back to the V.R. and you speculated whether I had coursed the poor creature myself. From there you glanced back at the fire and shook your head very slightly, before your eyes rose up to linger upon the boughs of holly with which Mrs. Hudson has seen fit to deck out our mantle. Clearly, the combination of a bear-hunt, the regret that in the rush of the holidays we failed to purchase a sturdier log for our fireplace, and the evergreens upon the mantle suggested to you the old Germanic holiday of Yule. Although originally a feast for Odin, many of the elements of its traditions were subsequently intermingled and absorbed into our current holiday after they were introduced to England by our queen’s consort, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. This realization brought your gaze back to its final resting place upon the V.R. where you hoped that the common bond that links our gracious queen with her hotheaded grandson, Kaiser Wilhelm II, would be sufficient to enable continued ‘peace on earth’ for both our nations.”[3]
When he finished, I shook off my amazement and applauded with vigorous appreciation at his feat. “Bravo, Holmes!” I cried.
“It was nothing, my dear Watson, merely a close observation of your features and drawing a reasonable chain of inferences,” said he, dismissively. But I thought I detected a slight flush of color spring to his pale cheeks, and suspected that this one was one of those dramatic moments where his proud and reserved nature was overcome by his human love for praise and admiration.
But the moment was not to last. “Hark!” said Holmes suddenly. “What is this I hear? An excitable knocking upon the front door! Certainly no caroler calling upon Mrs. Hudson ever beat with such anxiety.” He strode over to the window and glanced down upon the street. “Ah, yes. No public cab for this client. A nice little brougham and a pair of fine horses. Perhaps not fit to draw a king, but there’s money in this case, Watson, that’s for certain.”
A light but rapid step was then heard upon the stairs and in the passage, before our door was thrown open without so much as a knock. This revealed a woman of about fifty, tall, slender, and striking, with a face that still possessed features that suggested she was once a commanding beauty. Her complexion was somewhat dark, with brilliant brown eyes, arched eyebrows, a well-formed aquiline nose, pearl-white teeth, and long sable tresses. She was dressed in a somber yet rich style, her grey dress covered by a full-length fur coat. Her face was flushed with emotion and for a moment I feared that she may faint.
I quickly sprang into action and guided her to a seat. Despite the earliness of the hour, I then fetched a brandy from the sideboard.[4] When I placed it in her hand, she smiled at me faintly.
“Now, now, pray take a moment,” said Holmes solicitously.
She nodded and then took a small sip of the brandy before setting it aside. She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, which appeared to settle her. She studied both of us and appeared to quickly determine our respective identities. Holmes leaned forward in his armchair with obvious anticipation, and once she had recovered, her narration proceeded with admirable clarity.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. You are most kind. My name is Mrs. Rebecca Lowe. My husband is Dr. Benjamin Lowe, who is on the staff at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital[5] and the Hospital for Sick Children on Great Ormond Street.”[6]
“Ah, yes,” I interjected. “I have heard of your husband. He is reputed to be a fine physician.”
She appeared to become a bit choked up at this, but soon rallied. “Thank you for those kind words, Dr. Watson,” said she, nodding at me. “Recently, he has been treating a patient by the name of Mr. Clement Vaughan, a former jeweler, who lives on Vere Street.[7] Of late, Mr. Vaughan has been fading and my husband despaired for his life. Benjamin was called to Vaughan’s house yesterday afternoon, and remained there tending to him
until shortly before dinner. When he returned home, I sensed absolutely nothing amiss. We went about our regular evening activities of dinner and reading, and turned in at our regular time. However, around 5 o’clock this morning we were awakened by a rough pounding upon the door. My husband threw upon his dressing-gown and hurried downstairs to see what the matter was. Although he is often called away to see to ailing clients, for some reason I had a foreboding that this call seemed different. I anxiously awaited his return to our bedroom, for I knew that even in the most urgent circumstances he would need to complete his dress before he could go out to tend to a patient. Typically, he would have any messenger wait for him in the hall, so imagine my shock when I heard the front door open again and then slam close with a grim finality. I sprang from the bed, and hurried to the window just in time to see a pair of uniformed constables forcing my husband into a four-wheeled police wagon. Stunned, I stood there and watched them drive away, until they turned the corner and were lost to sight. Shaking off my stupor, I hurriedly changed into the clothes I now wear and made all haste downstairs. My plan was to inquire about my husband’s whereabouts at the nearest constabulary, but I was spared this search by the presence of a plain-clothed inspector outside my door. He was a little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow scribbling in a battered notepad. He looked up only to cruelly inform me that I was not allowed to converse with Benjamin, as he was being referred to the Assizes on charges of murder! I was so flabbergasted that I hardly knew what to do. The man then chuckled and remarked that not even Sherlock Holmes could save Benjamin from the dock. That is when I recalled the wonderful stories that I have read in Beeton’s Christmas Annual[8] and the Strand Magazine.[9] I knew that my only hope lay with you.”
The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Page 6