by Bill Crider
Indeed it was the kind of evening on which one might easily get lost. The fog gathered around us so closely that I could hardly see Holmes’s face, though he was but two feet from me at the most. The cold seeped in below the hem of my coat and crept up the sleeves.
“It hardly seems like Christmas,” I remarked.
“Ah, but it will,” Holmes said, “when Mrs. Hudson prepares for us a magnificent Christmas goose.”
“Do you suppose there will be pudding as well?” I asked.
“I hope so,” said Holmes. “But come along, Watson. We cannot dawdle.”
He led me on at a goodly pace, but I was able to keep up and not lose sight of him. When we reached our destination, I was flushed and out of breath, but Holmes seemed to be breathing quite naturally.
“Here we are,” said he, looking at the sign that appeared through the fog above the door. “Scrooge and Marley.”
It was not a prepossessing building. The portion of the walls that I could see was streaked with soot, and the clammy stones were slick with little runners of ice. We went inside, and the atmosphere did not greatly improve. The walls were dark, the lights were dim, and the stove did not glow brightly, although I could detect that the chill in the air was not quite as profound as that outside the doors. Six men on stools bent over their account books at cramped desks.
“Our client seems to have inherited something of the frugal nature possessed by his great uncle,” observed Holmes as he began to unwrap his scarf.
As he said this, Scrooge himself appeared from an inner office. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I was afraid that you had forgotten our appointment.”
“I do not forget appointments,” said Holmes, removing his gloves.
“I am sure that you do not,” said Scrooge. “At any rate, you have arrived just in time for tea. Will you take it in my office with me?”
Holmes nodded. “In a moment. Which of these men is Randall Tomkins?”
Scrooge indicated a portly man at one of the desks. His back was to us, but I had a feeling that he was listening to our every word.
“Watson and I would like to have a brief private conversation with Mr. Tomkins,” said Holmes. “May we use your office before we take tea?”
“But the tea is steeping now,” protested Scrooge.
“This will not take long. If you would be so good as to ask Tomkins to step in, Dr. Watson and I will go to your office now.” Without waiting for a reply from Scrooge, Holmes walked away. I, not knowing what else to do, followed him, and within seconds we were joined by Tomkins, whose portly physique was complemented by the red and pitted nose of the habitual toper. He was twisting his hands together as if he were washing them, and his eyes did not linger long in one place.
“Do you know me?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“I … do not.”
Holmes stared at him, his gray eyes hard.
“That is to say, perhaps I do. It isn’t easy to say for sure, you know. It has been a while since our last meeting.”
Holmes turned to me. “Tomkins and I have crossed paths in the past. He has reason to wonder about my being here, no doubt, considering his former career. I assume that you have changed, Tomkins?”
“Oh, yes, sir. No more of the old light-fingered Randall Tomkins, sir.” He held up his right hand and his gnarled fingers. The thick knuckles indicated that he was afflicted with severe arthritis. “Just hard work and the occasional drink, but that’s all there is.”
“I am afraid that the drink is more than occasional,” remarked Holmes.
Tomkins looked abashed. “In that you are right, but I am doing as best I can, sir. I do have an honest job, and Mr. Scrooge has been kind not to dismiss me when I backslid. I hope you’re not about to get me into some difficulty with him, sir. This job is my salvation.”
“I do not think that I am going to cause you any difficulties,” said Holmes. “You may return to your desk, Tomkins.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tomkins said, backing out of the office.
“Is Tomkins involved in this, Holmes?” I asked. “Does he have something to do with the ghosts?”
“That is quite doubtful,” said Holmes, though he had no time to tell me why, for Scrooge came into the office.
“Do you know Tomkins?” he asked. “He seemed to indicate that you were an old friend.”
“I know him,” said Holmes.
“That is a point in his favor, I’m sure,” said Scrooge. “Are you and Dr. Watson ready now to take tea?”
Holmes rubbed his hands together. There was a definite chill in the air.
“Who will serve us?” he asked.
“Cratchit. He makes quite a delicious pot of tea.”
“Ah, yes. The faithful Cratchit. Where does he make the tea?”
“There is a small gas burner in the back of the building near his office. Cratchit is a man who likes privacy, and he prefers to work away from the others here. But let me call him now.”
He went out, and I said to Holmes, “I am not certain that I know where this is leading us. Can you see any evidence here of ghosts and apparitions?”
“None at all,” said he. “But you should remember I did not expect to see any such evidence, considering that ghosts can not and do not exist.”
At that moment, Scrooge returned, followed shortly by a man whom I assumed to be Cratchit. He was small and bent and walked with a shuffling step. To my physician’s eye he appeared to have been at one time a victim of some debilitating disease, which he must have overcome by no less than the most difficult of struggles. His wizened face was wreathed with a beneficent smile, and he said as he set the tea tray on Scrooge’s desk, “God bless you, gentlemen, and the happiness of the season to you.”
“Cratchit,” said Scrooge, “this is Dr. Watson. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Cratchit smiled and gave a slight bow. “I am most glad to meet you, sirs. I have heard something of your exploits, Mr. Holmes, but surely your talents are not needed here at the firm of Scrooge and Marley?”
“No need to worry yourself about that,” said Scrooge. “Please do the honors, Mr. Cratchit, and pour.”
As Cratchit reached for the pot, which was covered in a white crocheted cozy, Holmes said, “I believe that I might know something of your family, Mr. Cratchit. Do they not come from America?”
Cratchit drew back his hand. “Oh, bless us, no, Mr. Holmes. I have worked here with Mr. Scrooge for something more than thirty years, alongside my father for a great deal of that time, and my father worked for Mr. Scrooge’s uncle long before I began here.”
“But you have American relations,” Scrooge said. “I know that your father mentioned them more than once.”
“Bless me, yes,” said Cratchit. “My own great uncle, Samuel Cratchit. He was a rambling sort of a man, and left home before ever I was born.”
“Quite the adventurer, to hear your father tell it,” said Scrooge. He looked at Holmes. “Samuel Cratchit lived among the savage red Indians for years, panned for gold on the Pacific Slope, and later went to the wilds of Alaskan Yukon, where he was supposedly mauled and killed by a grizzly bear.”
“Yes, yes, Uncle Samuel was quite the frontiersman,” said Cratchit. “Shall I pour, Mr. Scrooge?”
“Just a moment,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson, as you may know, has a habit of jotting down my own more sensational exploits for the public prints. Perhaps he might be interested in telling some tale or another about your uncle. You say he lived among the savages, Mr. Scrooge?”
“There is not much to the tale,” said Cratchit. “He was adopted by them for some reason or another, but they were a peaceful tribe, and he grew weary of their simple life. Shall I pour, sir?”
“Please do,” Scrooge said.
There were four teacups on the tray, and Cratchit filled them carefully, not spilling a drop.
“Milk?” he asked when he was done, picking up a delicate china pitcher. He poured as we requested, and then he said, “Sugar?”
When the tea was poured, we extended out hands for our cups, except for Holmes, who, in an unexpectedly clumsy motion reached for one of several biscuits that lay on the tray. In doing so, he brushed his hand ponderously against Scrooge’s cup, causing Scrooge to spill most of his tea on the tray, where it soaked into the biscuits and the cozy. It also splashed onto the arm of Scrooge’s suit, and Holmes brushed at it with his napkin so vigorously that Scrooge dropped his cup to the floor where it shattered into several pieces.
“My word, Mr. Holmes,” said Scrooge. “It is only a spot of tea.”
Indeed it was, and I was taken somewhat aback to see how Holmes was behaving. He was not normally so clumsy in his actions.
“Bless us all,” said Cratchit, fairly hopping about in agitation. “Whatever shall we do for another cup? Mr. Scrooge never misses having his tea.”
“He must do without it today, however, it appears,” said Holmes.
He was still brushing at Scrooge’s sleeve, and at that moment the napkin slipped from his fingers and to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, and as he raised up, he struck the edge of the tea tray heavily, upsetting another of the cups.
“I say, Holmes.” I had been looking forward to having one of the biscuits, but it now seemed that I was not to have that pleasure. “Are you quite well?”
“I am fine, Watson, I assure you. I am sorry, Mr. Scrooge, that we will have to forego the tea on this visit. Perhaps you can have Mr. Cratchit remove the tray before I do any further damage.”
Cratchit was bent to the floor, picking up the pieces of the broken cup. He straightened and said, “Mr. Scrooge never misses his tea.”
“Today he must,” said Holmes firmly. “Mr. Scrooge?”
“You are right, of course,” said Scrooge. “Remove the things, Mr. Cratchit. I can always have tea tomorrow.”
Cratchit gathered everything onto the tray and took it from the room. With a backward glance and a half-hearted smile, he said, “God bless you all, gentlemen,” and then he was gone.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said Scrooge, “this has not proved to be a particularly auspicious meeting. I am afraid that you have done nothing to dispel the worry that afflicts me.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “I have done everything to dispel it. You need not fear ghosts tonight or ever, Mr. Scrooge. I can say with some certainty that they will not appear to you tonight or ever again.”
Scrooge’s jaw dropped. “What? But how can you say that? You have done nothing here but upset my tea tray and break one of my cups!”
Holmes allowed himself a half-smile. “That is how it may appear to you. It is quite different if seen through other eyes, however. Is that not so, Watson?”
I nodded my assent, although I had seen no more than Scrooge. I, however, was much better acquainted with Holmes than Scrooge, and I knew that if he said that no more ghosts would appear, then the matter was settled.
“Very well,” said Scrooge. “But what if you are wrong?”
“I am not wrong,” said Holmes. “You will sleep peacefully tonight and each night thereafter if your conscience is clear. I suggest you make a start to clear it by allowing a bit more warmth in your building.” He turned to me. “Come along, Watson. Let us have one last word with Mr. Cratchit before we leave. He appeared most upset by my indelicate bumbling.”
We left Scrooge scratching his head in puzzlement and made our way to the back of the building where Cratchit sat hunched over his desk in a cramped little room no larger than a closet. He turned with a jerk when Holmes entered.
I had to stand without the door, there being no room for me inside, but I could hear all that Holmes said.
“I know what you have done, Mr. Cratchit,” said he. “And what your father did before you.” Cratchit started to protest, but Holmes raised a hand to silence him. “There is no need to deny it. I have read something of Ebenezer Scrooge and his way of conducting business, and I have heard of Ebenezer’s ghosts from his nephew. I am sure that what your father did, he did in hopes of working some kind of change in Scrooge, and in that, he was successful. But it was a dangerous course that he pursued, and you should never have chosen it for yourself.”
“How can you know that?” asked Cratchit in amazement.
“Suffice it to say that I do know it. You must desist in your plans.”
“But this Scrooge is embarking on a course that resembles that of his great uncle,” said Cratchit. “Have you not noticed the conditions here, the lack of warmth, the lack of light, the lack of cheer? God bless us, Mr. Holmes, Scrooge is well on a course to becoming his uncle.”
“Be that as it may,” said Holmes, “it is not your place to alter his life in the way you have attempted. You might try telling him the story of his uncle again. Perhaps he will see the similarities and change without your assistance. I have made one suggestion of my own to him, and I believe that he will pay me some heed.”
Holmes took his gloves from the pocket of his coat and began to pull them on his hands. “But I must tell you, Mr. Cratchit, that if any harm comes to Mr. Scrooge, or if any more ‘ghosts’ appear to him, I will set the police on you.”
Cratchit tried to smile, but he failed. “I understand,” said he.
“I am sure that you do,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson. Let us go to Baker Street and see whether Mrs. Hudson has prepared our evening meal.”
We left Cratchit sitting there, no longer hunched over his desk but staring after us with wondering eyes. He failed to bless us as we left.
Back in our rooms after a typically filling meal prepared by Mrs. Hudson, Holmes reached for his violin. I knew that if he began to play, I would never learn how he had known about Cratchit, and more than that, I would never learn what he had known. So before he set bow to strings, I said, “Tell me, Holmes, what made you suspect Cratchit in the matter of the ghosts?”
Holmes lowered the violin, holding it by his side. “There were no ghosts, Watson. That is the important thing to remember. Ebenezer Scrooge saw no ghosts, and his nephew saw none, either. We must begin at that point. There were no ghosts, so there must have been something else.”
“But both Scrooges saw something,” said I. “Ghosts or not.”
“You should have listened more carefully to the present Mr. Scrooge’s description of his great uncle’s visions,” said Holmes. “He described them vividly, as he did the things he believed himself to have seen. Try to recall what he said. It was all quite suggestive.”
“Suggestive of what?” I asked.
“Of the effects of certain mushrooms of the American southwest,” said Holmes, “effects that are well known to certain red Indian tribes and their medicine men. They are often ingested for the visions they cause and are used in tribal religious ceremonies. One day I may write a small monograph on the subject.”
“So that is why you asked about Cratchit’s American connections.”
“Yes. From the description given by Scrooge, I at once suspected the mushrooms, or something very like them, had been used. The elder Cratchit must have obtained them from his brother, Samuel, and he undoubtedly saved something of the remainder for use in the future if he ever needed it again. Though he did not, his son believed that the time had come to try the mushrooms, no doubt reduced to a powder, on our client.”
“And that is why you asked where Scrooge took his meals?”
“That is true. I did not suspect, as you did, that the dreams were caused by some undigested bit of food. A man’s stomach may or may not control his dreams, but it does not make him believe that he can fly.”
“But what was that about Tomkins?”
“Whoever put the powder into the tea was quick of hand, and Tomkins used to be a sharp one at picking a gentleman’s pocket. He is obviously no use at that trade now, judging from the appearance of his hand, and his fingers would not have been supple enough to drop the powder into the teacup, which is where it had to be placed. Cratchit would never have put it into the pot. He might have
had to drink it himself in that case. I was watching carefully, and I saw him drop a dusty substance into Mr. Scrooge’s cup this afternoon. That is why I so clumsily caused the cup to fall.”
“But the taste of the tea,” I said. “What of that?”
“The tea would not have been much affected, particularly not after the addition of as much milk and sugar as Mr. Scrooge received from the hand of Mr. Cratchit.”
“You never fail to astonish me, Holmes,” said I.
“That is one of your more endearing qualities,” said he, and he raised his violin and began to play “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” the only song of that type I had ever heard him play, and one which he never played again.
EXTRA MATERIAL—FREE STORY
The following story was originally published in Shadows Over Baker Street, and has been reprinted in the Crossroad Press collection Intermusings, all stories that are collaborations between author David Niall Wilson and a variety of others. This story, “Death Did Not Become Him,” is a Sherlockian tale involving characters from the H. P. Lovecraft mythos …
Intermusings is available wherever eBooks are sold.
Death Did Not Become Him
By Patricia Lee Macomber & David Niall Wilson
It has been many years since the events I now record took place, and even now, running through them in my mind, I’m uncertain if I should continue. There is a question of privacy involved, to be certain. There is more. I fancy that when all is said and done, these words will one day find their way into the hands of others. Still, my purpose over the years has never been to further my own reputation, and certainly I’ve been brutally honest when it comes to others.
Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all. In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221B Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.
Upon my arrival, the clock in the church tower chimed eleven. It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about. All but one light was out in Holmes’s flat and I assumed him to be asleep. It did not matter. The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend’s solid intellect.
