Dr Greaves studied me in a measured fashion. “I can see that nothing I say will dissuade you. Very well. Against my express recommendation, go.”
So it was that Holmes and I departed from Fellscar Keep not long after daybreak. The entire Allerthorpe clan, all forty-odd, turned out to wave us off. Thaddeus shook our hands hard enough to hurt. Shadrach saluted us. Erasmus huzzahed. Eve kissed us warmly upon both cheeks and said we had saved her. She promised to write more poems about us.
It was a wearisome, at times excruciating journey. I could barely stand, let alone walk. But I bore it as best I could. The end goal would make it all worthwhile.
Long, arduous hours later, Holmes helped me across the threshold of my house. Mary rushed to greet me, smothering me in an impassioned embrace. It was only when I hissed in pain that she realised I was injured.
“John! Good heavens! You look wrung out. What has happened?”
“A long story. I shall be only too happy to tell it to you, but first I must sit down before I fall down.”
So relieved was I to be back home, and so delighted to be with Mary again, that I did not notice Sherlock Holmes quietly withdrawing, without so much as a goodbye. When at last I thought to look for him, he was gone.
Christmas Day dawned. I awoke to the delicious smell of roasting goose. Mary was hurrying about the house, making final preparations before her family arrived. Although she was an only child and both her parents had passed away, she had an uncle and aunt with whom she was on excellent terms. They, their children and grandchildren, a dozen bodies all told, would be descending upon us at midday. It might not be as large a family gathering as the Allerthorpes’, but with that many Morstans added to it, our Paddington townhouse would seem, for a while, as populous as Fellscar Keep had been.
I was excused anything but the lightest of duties, thanks to my leg. Even the mere act of pulling my trousers on was a minor torture. As I waited for our guests, my thoughts turned to Sherlock Holmes. I pictured him alone in his rooms at Baker Street. He was no aficionado of Christmas, as I well knew. Still, I berated myself for not inviting him to join us, and resolved to do something about it.
Mary found me in the hallway, struggling to lace up my boots.
“And just where do you think you are going, John?”
“To fetch Holmes. Mrs Hudson is away visiting her sister in Farnham. I cannot wire him. The telegraph offices are closed. But it is not right that he should be on his own at Christmas.”
“You shall do no such thing. Your leg is far too sore. You will get no further than the end of the street.”
“But, my dear…” I protested.
My wife was the sweetest-natured woman in the world, but this belied a steely core. When her mind was made up, nothing anyone could say would change it.
The Morstans arrived in due course, and although I felt morose about Holmes, I put on a smile and welcomed them in.
Just as lunch was being served, there came a knock at the door. Mary, making a puzzled noise, went to answer it.
Into the dining room swept none other than Father Christmas himself. He was dressed just as the Father Christmas at Burgh and Harmondswyke had been, in flowing dark green robe and mistletoe crown. His white beard was lustrously thick, his white hair long and wavy. Gold pince-nez spectacles perched upon his nose.
It was the nose, above all else, that gave it away. Only one man I knew had such a distinctive aquiline profile.
From a sack, he distributed presents to the younger generation – a set of tin soldiers here, a china doll there, a box of building blocks, some marbles, a kaleidoscope, all received with thrilled appreciation. There was a ruby brooch for Mary, bottles of vintage wine and boxes of cigars for the older Morstans, and for me, a hickory walking stick with silver knob and ferrule.
Mary knew as well as I did who Father Christmas really was. She had an extra chair brought to the table and cajoled him into sitting and partaking of the meal with us. Truth be told, he did not seem to need much persuading. He remained in character throughout, full of jollity, eating heartily, his voice booming. When pressed by the children, he told long, elaborate tales of the North Pole and his sleigh and his reindeer. As masquerades went, it was one of his finest.
Afterwards, I drew him aside.
“‘Fatuous and tawdry’,” I said. “Isn’t that how you described Christmas to Eve Allerthorpe?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” replied he. His grey eyes twinkled behind the spectacles. “Yuletide is the time we commune with our friends and loved ones. It is the time when we banish demons, lay ghosts to rest, re-establish bonds with those who are dear to us, and reaffirm the good in the world. Whoever told you it was fatuous and tawdry, that man could not have been I. I am Father Christmas, whereas he clearly does not have a festive bone in his body.”
We pulled crackers, putting on the silly paper hats and reading aloud the even sillier mottos. Mary sat at the upright piano and we sang carols. She then proposed a game of charades, during which Father Christmas managed to slip unobtrusively out of the house.
A fortnight passed before my leg was strong enough to walk on. I made my way stiffly round to Baker Street, where I found Holmes at his acid-scarred chemistry bench, engaged in some noxious-smelling experiment.
“Many thanks for the walking stick,” I said. “It is coming in very handy.”
“What walking stick? Oh, I see. That one. It is a rather fine specimen. But why are you thanking me for it?”
“Come off it, Holmes. You know full well why. Christmas Day? My house? A certain unexpected guest? You went to a great deal of trouble. I can only assume you must have got to the shops just before they closed on Christmas Eve, to purchase the costume and the presents for everyone.”
He eyed me blankly. “You will be pleased to hear that Trebend and his wife have been arraigned; he for murder, she as an accessory. Their trial commences in a month. I have been called upon to give testimony.”
“That is good. But—”
“As for Fitzhugh and Kitty Danningbury Boyd, they are now living apart. According to the gossip columns, Danningbury Boyd has been seen squiring a wealthy young widow in York. I think it is safe to say he will fall on his feet. His kind always do.”
“Again, that is good.”
“Eve Allerthorpe has written to me. She does not have her money yet, but the Dawson twins have nonetheless been paid off in full. Her father dug into his own pocket for that. Meanwhile Erasmus Allerthorpe has, so far, been a model son and brother. I believe he has already begun learning the ropes at Fellscar, an attentive pupil to his father’s teachings.”
“Are you going to maintain the pretence that you did not turn up at my house on Christmas Day dressed as Father Christmas?”
“Why on earth would I do such a thing?” said Holmes.
“Because beneath that flinty, cerebral exterior there lurks a warm, even somewhat sentimental heart?”
Holmes merely laughed. “If, as you claim, Father Christmas paid you a visit in person, then if I were you I would regard it as a Christmas miracle.”
I relented. Holmes himself was obviously not going to.
“A Christmas miracle?” I said. I could not help but smile. “Do you know what, old fellow? I think, all things considered, that is just what it was.”
James Lovegrove is the New York Times bestselling author of The Age of Odin. He was shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1998 and for the John W. Campbell Memorial Award in 2004, and also reviews fiction for the Financial Times. He is the author of Firefly: The Magnificent Nine and of Firefly: Big Damn Hero with Nancy Holder and several Sherlock Holmes novels for Titan Books.
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Sherlock Holmes and the Christmas Demon Page 25