The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  At this point Atkins interposed a question. “What made you suspect it was a ruse, Mr. Holmes?”

  My friend smiled. “It was wonderfully ironic, Mr. Atkins. My suspicion was aroused by the very impossibility of ascribing Mr. Carmody’s vanishment to the occult. There had to be a rational explanation for his disappearance, and I had my first clue when I discovered that you, Jasper, were upon the scene soon after, bringing Amelia back to the Grange and assuring her that her father would soon return. My suspicions were further stirred when I discovered the telegram you received from Mr. Atkins, whom you had contacted with the tale of Oswald’s abduction by spirits and his miraculous return through the portal ultimum, instructing the reporter to come this morning.” Holmes gave a grim smile. “What in fact happened was that Oswald left his study on the evening of the nineteenth and spent the intervening days lodged in his brother’s cottage while the world read the Times’s account of his mysterious disappearance, only this morning retiring to the outbuilding in order to be close to the so-called portal.”

  “And the fact that the French windows were bolted from the inside?” I asked.

  “Simplicity itself,” said Holmes, turning to the brothers. “When you pulled the French window shut after you, Oswald, the force with which you did so dislodged the bolt, which was aligned vertically at the foot of the door. It slid into place, effectively securing the door from within.”

  Holmes smiled around the gathering, and continued. “At dawn today, I hurried into the woodland and located the mighty oak. I had a little time to wait, but in due course witnessed Jasper himself arranging small piles of sulphur, charcoal, and saltpetre in the recesses of the tree trunk, linked to a fuse wire leading out of sight behind the tree. Once I had seen Jasper return to his cottage, it was a simple matter for me to dampen the mixture and thus effectively render it useless. I reasoned that Mr. Carmody must be in hiding not too far away, and on searching the few outbuildings in the wood, I soon located his dwelling place, signalled by his snores from within. I then secured the door with a rope to ensure that he would be going nowhere. You know the rest, my friends.”

  Atkins shook his head and, closing his notebook, said, “It will make a goodly column or two for my paper, Mr. Holmes—”

  At this, Oswald Carmody looked up suddenly and exclaimed, “You can’t! I would be ruined! The reputation, the work of a decade…” He spluttered to a halt at the idea of his defamation in the eyes of the public.

  “I think,” said Holmes, “that perhaps the story might be best kept from the wider world—if, that is, Mr. Carmody, you will make two promises.”

  Carmody looked up at Holmes with an enraged expression. “And they are?”

  “One, that you will return to the Grange and explain to Amelia and George that, in the early hours of the morning of the twentieth, you let yourself out of your study by the French windows, using a spare key you had cut a while ago, with the bolt slipping into place as I earlier described. Thereafter, musing upon your work, you wandered through the woodland, where you fell and struck your head. Insensate, you managed to drag yourself to a shelter and there lay, passing in and out of consciousness, until this morning.”

  “Very well,” Carmody muttered, “and your second proviso?”

  Holmes gave a grim smile. “That you write not one word, for public consumption, pertaining to the Curse of Carmody Grange—on pain of my good friend Mr. Atkins here making public the story of your duplicity.”

  Almost weeping with frustrated rage, Oswald Carmody had no option but consent to my friend’s terms.

  There is little more to relate of the matter. We returned to the Grange, leaving Jasper Carmody sulking in his cottage and Chester Atkins to make his way back to London, suitably recompensed by Holmes for his time and effort. It was with a swelling heart that I beheld the expression of disbelief, closely followed by joy, on the face of Amelia Carmody as her father stumbled into her embrace.

  “Why, Mr. Holmes,” she said, pulling away from her father and staring tearfully at my friend, “however might I thank you?”

  Holmes, who my readers well know was little given to exhibitions of overt emotion, was clearly moved by the sight of the reunion. “The evidence of your happiness at the successful outcome of the affair is sufficient gratitude in itself, Miss Carmody.”

  Later that day, on our return to Baker Street, we warmed ourselves by the fire and my friend observed, “A salutatory little affair, Watson; and one which, I take it, will at some point find itself recounted in the annals of my exploits?”

  “The episode does contain elements that the public might find salacious,” I allowed, “once Mr. Oswald Carmody has shuffled off his mortal coil, that is: a comely young woman in distress, a family curse, a hint of the occult, and not a little chicanery.”

  “Let it be an object lesson,” said Holmes, “in the triumph of rationality over the woolly-mindedness of superstition. And now, if you please, would you be so kind as to pour me another glass of brandy?”

  Sherlock Holmes and a Case of Humbug

  By Paul A. Freeman

  One frigid December twenty-fifth, once the plum pudding of our Christmas dinner had been consumed, my friend Sherlock Holmes discarded his party hat with a flourish and said: “My dear Watson, enough of this coercive frivolity. In yesterday’s Gazette there appeared a most curious article. It concerned a miserly old moneylender residing at 12A, Gilforth Yard, who on Christmas Day last year became suddenly munificent and sociable.”

  “ ’Tis the season…” I said with a shrug, paraphrasing the popular Christmas carol.

  “That may be so,” my friend continued, unaffected by my evident indifference. “However, the transformation coincided with the seventh anniversary of his business partner’s death. Do you not find any of this suggestive?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I replied, at which Holmes’s eyes gleamed mischievously.

  “Oh, no!” I protested. “Not on Christmas Day.”

  “Get your coat and muffler, Watson,” said Holmes, gleefully rubbing his hands. “And if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps bring your service revolver with you. I have done some preliminary legwork on this matter, so we should be back in time for the Yuletide concert at Westminster.”

  Shortly afterwards, Holmes had secured a hansom cab and we were on our way through the falling snow toward the City. And what wondrous sights we beheld along our route. It was as if Christmas had transformed the rude urban populace, sprinkling upon them the essence of kindness. Gangs of good-natured youths ran amok throwing snowballs at passers-by, laughing heartily when their victims retaliated in pretended outrage. On every street corner stood carollers, their voices ringing out in the crisp, cold air, collection boxes before them as they raised alms for those less fortunate than themselves. Outside every bakery, lines of common London folk waited patiently to place their geese in the shop’s ovens and to cook up a sumptuous, once in a year, Christmas dinner. Meanwhile, the more pious of the Town’s denizens, dressed in their finest, made their way to church, as if drawn by the pealing bells. Everyone, it seemed, had a “Merry Christmas!” on their lips and a smile on their ruddy face. The ruthless rough-and-tumble and the selfish cut-and-thrust of daily life in the great metropolis had indeed been suspended on this anniversary of our saviour’s birth.

  My companion, however, was his habitual, thoughtful self. “You know, Watson,” he said, “it has been statistically proven that the festive season, what with its financial stresses and the emotional strain of being compelled to turn the other cheek, is the most propitious time of the year for murder to occur.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And a merry Christmas to you, too, Holmes.”

  My friend chuckled at my deadpan reply, reached into the pocket of his coat, and withdrew the newspaper article from the previous day’s Gazette which he had mentioned back at Baker Street. “Do me the favour of reading this aloud,” he sai
d, “and let me have your thoughts.”

  The said article, from the Gazette of 24 December, 18--, read as follows:

  Heartwarming Tale of Skinflint Turned Philanthropist

  A year ago today, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, a counting-house proprietor in the City of London, turned over a new leaf. Claiming that, after visitations from four ghosts (the first phantom being that of a business partner who had died exactly seven years earlier), the notorious miser, famous for his short temper and disagreeable manner, became a philanthropist overnight.

  On this, the first anniversary of Mr. Scrooge’s reformation, I interviewed him in his modest apartments at 12A Gilforth Yard.

  “The spectre of my old partner, Jacob Marley, advised me on the joys of altruism,” Mr. Scrooge explained to this reporter. “Being but a shade, he was impotent in his efforts to physically assist the poor and needy. And so, weighed down by the chains of selfishness and avarice he had forged during his lifetime, he told me I should change my ways or else suffer a similar fate.

  “In an endeavour to bring about such a change, three more spirits visited me—the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come. They showed me the error of my ways and taught me that kindness to my fellow man was my only salvation.”

  Mr. Robert Cratchit, the accounts clerk at Scrooge and Marley and a resident of Camden Town, was all praise for his employer. “Gawd bless him,” he said. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed that such a heartless, grasping, blood-sucking vampire of a man could have altered so considerably if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. The gent has a soft spot for my youngest, my Tiny Tim. If it weren’t for Mr. Scrooge’s munificence, my boy wouldn’t be able to walk about, what with the polio what’s afflicted him since birth.”

  Without warning, Holmes burst into laughter, slapping his thigh as if he had heard the funniest of jokes.

  “My dear Holmes,” I said, “what an unseemly reaction. This Scrooge fellow has reformed from his wicked ways, and his benevolence is to be commended. Yet here you are, laughing about a disabled child and a grateful father.”

  With some effort, Holmes collected himself, and his guffaws subsided. “Quite so. I’m sorry. But you see, all might not be as it at first appears, my good Doctor. As I told you earlier, I have already done a little digging around, so I am in possession of several salient facts you are not yet privy to. Pray, continue with this most entertaining article.”

  With a sigh of annoyance, I resumed my reading:

  When asked about his plans for Christmas Day, Mr. Scrooge said: “Just as happened last year, I’ll send the prize turkey from the nearby poulterer’s to my clerk and his family, and then drop in for Christmas dinner and charades with my til’ recently estranged nephew, Fred.”

  Still wearing a supercilious smirk on his face, Holmes raised his hand, indicating I should stop relating the uplifting story of Ebenezer Scrooge’s return to the fold of humanity.

  “We’re here,” he said—without elucidating as to where “here” might be—and rapped on the roof of the cab with his cane.

  We had stopped in the vicinity of London’s Royal Exchange, the building’s columned portico and ornate pediment a monument to Victorian architecture. And yet this was not our destination. Instead, Holmes led us through a warren of dilapidated tenements and assorted hovels, to a district of seedy moneylending establishments. The single bright spot in this grimy corner of London was the newly painted signage of Scrooge and Marley, the former penny-pincher’s counting-house.

  “What nerve this Scrooge has,” Holmes remarked obscurely. “He’s even kept his dead partner’s name on the signboard. I warrant a week ago the façade of this moneylending premises was as grubby as the other such establishments in this street,” he added, sniffing at the aroma of fresh paint in the freezing air. “He seems to be preparing to expand his business portfolio. Tell me, what do you deduce from what you see here, Watson?”

  Above the heavy oak entrance door to Scrooge and Marley, a horseshoe had been nailed onto the lintel. “How ironic,” I observed, “that a symbol of good fortune smiles down on those poor souls entering his office in hopes of borrowing a sum to cover their ill luck.”

  “But lucky for Scrooge, hey! What else?”

  I peered through the lead-lined diamonds of glass in the bay window, into the gloomy depths of the counting-house. “Apart from the essential furniture and accoutrements of a city office, the establishment is quite bare.”

  “Exactly. Mr. Scrooge’s liberality does not apparently stretch to the refurbishment of his business premises, and yet its veneer has been recently upgraded. Most elucidating. Anything else, Watson? What about the far wall of the good gentleman’s offices?”

  I leaned up close to the window, until my nose almost touched the glass, and shaded my eyes. “It doesn’t look as if the wall’s been painted in decades. And yet there’s a lighter patch at eye level—the outline of something that once adorned the wall. A picture, perhaps.”

  “Or a mirror,” said Holmes.

  The contours of the outline, though symmetrical, were not rectangular, and indeed did resemble the shape of an ornate mirror. I conceded as much, and Holmes proceeded to hammer home my ignorance.

  “I wrote a monograph on the subject of antique mirrors several years ago. The one which adorned this wall was pear-shaded and gilded—an eighteenth-century French Rocaille mirror, if I’m not mistaken.” He took out his pocket watch and frowned at the time. “Come along, Watson, it’s time to see the district where Mr. Scrooge resides and to make the old bird’s acquaintance. Just keep in mind the horseshoe and the missing mirror.”

  With that, Holmes led me at a swift and rather exhausting clip through some of the narrowest streets and one of the most squalid quarters in London, until we arrived at Lime Street, a veritable thoroughfare in its width when compared to the filthy lanes we had just traversed. Except for a loitering street urchin who was stamping his feet and breathing warmth into his hands, the place was deserted. Presumably, the good folk of London were relaxing at home after the gluttonous excesses of Christmas dinner.

  Hearing our footfalls, the lad turned his dirty face to us. “Allo, Doctor! You look pooped,” he said before turning to Holmes. “Where’ve you bin, guv? The church bells ’ave just chimed two o’clock.”

  “Quite so, Wiggins,” said Holmes, addressing the youthful leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. “However, I’m here now. No sign of our mark?”

  “Not yet. Mr. Scrooge must still be at ’is nephew’s.”

  Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “And the letter I gave you this morning for Inspector Lestrade?”

  “Delivered as instructed, though ’ee weren’t too ’appy being disturbed at ’ome on Christmas Day.”

  Whilst I was still catching my breath, I listened to this exchange in complete perplexity.

  Noting my bafflement, Holmes explained. “Since yesterday I’ve had the Irregulars out and about, keeping an eye on Scrooge’s apartments and his counting-house. They’ve also been to Camden Town, sniffing out the abode of Robert Cratchit, Scrooge’s accounts clerk, snooping around, and reporting back anything of interest.”

  “Which we did last night, Doctor,” said Wiggins. “And today, as per Mr. ‘Olmes’s request, I’ve been stationed in this charming spot of the capital, keeping me eyes and ears open.” The young urchin pointed to the entrance of a nearby yard, Gilforth Yard. “Down there’s where Mr. Scrooge lives. Number 12A. Not much to look at from the outside, and from what I’ve ’eard not much to look at on the inside. If ’ee’s a rich geezer, then I’m the king of bloomin’ Prussia.”

  “Well, your majesty,” said Holmes, with unaccustomed good humour. “Here’s a sovereign for yourself and your streetwise cohorts.”

  Skeptical at his good fortune, the little scamp tested the validity of the gold coin with his teeth, and, once r
eassured, said, “See the tavern across the road. Every day, without fail, Mr. Scrooge partakes ’imself of a tankard of grog and a gander at the newspaper.”

  And with that, Wiggins tipped his hat to us and headed off to whatever jollifications he and the other Irregulars had in store for Christmas Day.

  Holmes indicated with his cane the Old Goose Inn, the dingy-looking tavern Wiggins had pointed out to us. “If we wish to acquire more information about this Scrooge character, and perhaps make the erstwhile skinflint’s acquaintance, this is where we should hang our hats for an hour or so.”

  After our pell-mell perambulating, I was quite happy to put my feet up and smoke a pipe or two before the warming hearth of a hostelry. So we crossed Lime Street and Holmes pushed open the door to the private bar. Once inside, he ordered two glasses of bitter from the corpulent, ruddy-faced landlord, a fellow who, fortunately for us, was much predisposed to chitchat.

  The opening sally was Holmes’s, though. “I see you have many of the capital’s daily newspapers available for your patrons to enjoy,” he said, pointing to a newspaper rack beside the roaring fireplace. “I could not but notice that Ebenezer Scrooge, a local resident of this district, was the subject of a heartwarming article in the London Gazette yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the landlord. “ ’Ee lives in that yard just over the road, guv’nor; but don’t believe all you read in them tabloids, nor the broadsheets; ’ee’s just as mean as ’ee’s always been. Leastways, ’ee is with me. And I don’t mean ’ee’s just mean with his money, even if ’ee does sup ’ere most ev’nings on our finest fare.”