Holmes basked in it for a moment, savouring its pleasure, then turned to me.
“Of course I could not have done it without Watson!”
Golkov blushed. “Of course! Dr. Watson, I do apologize for my ingratitude. Had you not been prepared to play the villain, at such risk to yourself—I was terrified those men who rescued me were going to beat you severely. . . .”
I tried to be gracious, feeling my bruises as tactfully as I could.
“Not at all,” I murmured. “Always glad to serve in the cause of justice.” But I was not displeased with the look of intense admiration with which Miss Carburton regarded me, her eyes shining.
“We can never thank you enough!” Golkov repeated, a faint flush of embarrassment on his thin cheeks. “I cannot even offer to reward you financially yet. It took all I had to replace the concert money. . . .”
Miss Carburton blushed with shame for her father, but did not speak.
Golkov’s arm tightened around her.
“. . . but I shall, as soon as I can earn enough,” he promised.
Holmes shrugged and brushed it aside. “I do not wish for money, Mr. Golkov. I have sufficient for my needs. But there is another reward you could give me . . . for one day . . .”
“One day?” Golkov was confused. Then suddenly he perceived . . . and the blood drained from his face, his eyes wide.
Holmes would not say it, he could not bring himself to ask.
Slowly Golkov turned and walked across the room, picked up the violin case and came back, carrying it in his arms like a child . . . the beloved Stradivarius. Without a word he gave it to Holmes and stepped back.
“One day,” Holmes promised. “Christmas Day. I shall return it to you the day after.”
Golkov bowed. “For no other man on earth,” he said softly. “But you, Mr. Holmes, have earned it.”
Lestrade, beaming all over his face, presented the money to the orphanage. I spent a solitary Christmas by the fireside, eating Mrs. Hudson’s most excellent cake, while from the next room drifted the soul-searing music of a man playing the most beautiful instrument on earth and charming out of its strings all that he could not and dared not say in words.
THE FOUR WISE MEN
Peter Lovesey
One December morning in the year 1895, Sherlock Holmes tossed aside The Times and said to me with some abruptness, “Stop dithering, Watson. It’s your duty to go down to Somerset for Christmas, regardless of the plans you made.”
I stared at him in astonishment. I had spoken not a syllable of the matter that was exercising me.
He amazed me even more by adding, “An old soldier’s loyalty to his senior officer is a commitment for life. He needs your support and you are not the man to withhold it.”
“Holmes,” said I, when I found my voice again, “your feats of deduction are well known to me, but to discover that you are also a mind reader is truly a revelation, not to say unnerving.”
He made a dismissive gesture with his long, limp hand. “My dear fellow, I can think of few things I should less enjoy than peering into the minds of my fellow creatures. My advice to you is based on observation alone.” As if to provoke me further, he stopped speaking, thrust his unlit pipe in his mouth and looked out of the window at the traffic passing along Baker Street.
I waited. It became obvious that he proposed to say nothing more unless I pursued the matter.
I was loth to give him the satisfaction, but at length my curiosity prevailed. “I hesitate to trespass on your time. . . .”
“Then don’t.”
Some minutes passed before I steeled myself to begin again. I do believe he, too, was finding the silence intolerable, though he would never have admitted as much.
“I thought I knew your methods, Holmes. In this matter, I confess myself mystified.”
He continued to stare out of the window.
“I would appreciate some explanation.”
He sighed heavily. “There are times, Watson, when I despair of you. You are blind to your own behaviour. When I told you to stop dithering, it was after you had removed that letter from its envelope for the third time and perused it with much frowning. By now you know the contents. You can only be re-reading it to see if you can think of some half-decent way of avoiding Christmas in Somersetshire.”
“How on earth do you know about Somerset?”
“The Taunton postmark.”
“Ha!” I chuckled at my own naivety, and I should not have done so, for Holmes took it as dismissive of his brilliance. Recovering my tact, I continued, “But the other things. Your statement—which I have to declare is accurate—that my presence is required by an old army colleague.”
“I said your senior officer.”
“And you are right, by Jove. Have you been reading my correspondence?”
He emitted a sound of impatience. “How could I? It hasn’t been out of your possession since the moment you tore open the envelope. The explanation will, of course, disappoint you, as these things do.”
“I’m sure it will not.”
With a show of reluctance, he enlightened me. “The festive season is approaching. We’re all aware of that. A time of invitations.”
“You made an inspired guess?”
Now a look of extreme disfavour clouded the great detective’s features. “I do not guess.”
“I said ‘inspired.’”
“It does not lessen the insult. Guessing is the province of charlatans. I make deductions. I was about to point out that when you first perused the letter you turned to look over my shoulder at the front page of The Times, which has nothing to interest you except the date.”
“So I did!”
“Today’s date told you how close we are to Christmas, how many days are left. You’re an active fellow, with much to attend to in the coming days. You had to calculate the time at your disposal.”
“Absolutely true.”
“An invitation to the country for Christmas. Need I say more?”
“Please do.” His statements had the force of logic, as always. “What mystifies me most is how you divined that the invitation comes from one of my regiment—and his senior rank.”
“Oh, that,” he said, knocking his pipe against the window ledge and producing a cloud of ash. “It’s training, Watson.”
“Training in the deductive method?”
“Not my training. Yours. In the army. The drilling every soldier undergoes. What did you do when you met a superior officer?”
“Saluted. But I didn’t salute just now.”
“No, no, but when you saw who the letter was from, your free hand snapped to your side with the fingers lightly clenched, the thumb pointing down the seam below your trouser pocket in the military fashion. Highly indicative.”
“Good Lord,” I said. “Am I so transparent?”
“Quite the reverse.”
“Opaque?”
He looked away and I believe there was a gleam of amusement in his eye. “You have made your decision, I see. You will go to Taunton. Loyalty demands it, even though duty no longer applies.”
I took the letter from its envelope once more. Holmes had delivered his advice, and I saw the sense of it, but I felt that a more considered opinion might be forthcoming. The invitation was, indeed, from my old Commanding Officer in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Colonel Sloane, M. C., a hero of the Afghan campaign. I offered to read it aloud.
My Dear Watson, (it began)
Some years have passed since we were last in contact, but your admirable strengths impress me still. I always regarded you as utterly dependable.
“True,” Holmes generously interposed.
I never expected to ask for your support after we retired from Her Majesty’s Service, but a strange contingency has arisen here in the village of Bullpen, near Taunton, where I reside.
“Would you repeat that?” Holmes requested.
“Bullpen, near Taunton. May I continue?”
He nodd
ed. I had all his attention now.
I can forgive you if you have never heard of the Bullpen Nativity Service, but it has some celebrity in these parts. Each year on the Sunday preceding Christmas it is the custom for the villagers to take part in a masque and procession to the church, where our Nativity Service takes place. We take turns to play the parts of the characters in the age-old story, and this year I have the honour to be Balthazar, one of the Three Kings.
“Wise Men,” Holmes interjected again.
“It says ‘Kings.’”
“Kings are not mentioned in any of the Gospel accounts.”
“Really?”
“The figure of three is not specified either, for that matter,” said he, displaying a hitherto unrevealed acquaintance with the New Testament.
I resumed reading:
It is a role of some responsibility, for by tradition Balthazar carries the Star. I should explain that the Star is a representation in silver and precious stones of the Star in the East, of Biblical renown. It is about the size of a dinner plate and is carried high, mounted on a seven-foot pole, so that the impression is given that we Kings—and, indeed, the shepherds—are being guided towards Bethlehem. The star is of mediaeval workmanship, beautifully constructed of Welsh silver and set with seven rubies. It is kept in the strong room of the United Bank in Taunton. Without exaggeration it is one of the most valuable mediaeval treasures in England, rivalling even the Crown Jewels in workmanship and beauty. Last summer, it was put on exhibition at the British Museum, and insured for twenty thousand pounds. My task—my honour—is to collect the star from the bank, travel with it in a closed carriage to my home, the manor house, where the principal actors assemble to put on their robes and the procession through the street to the church begins. I carry the Star aloft on the stave, keeping it in my possession until the moment during the service when it is placed over the crib. The responsibility then passes for a brief time to Joseph, who returns it to me after the service.
“Ha!” said Holmes with animation. “He wishes you to be his Joseph.”
I nodded.
“And you will go.” As if the matter no longer held any interest, he reached for his scrapbook and opened it. “Have you seen my paste bottle?”
“Behind you on the mantelpiece.”
“And scissors?”
“Where you left them, in the top pocket of your dressing gown.”
“So I did. There’s an item of passing interest on page three about the theft in Paris of a necklace that belonged to Marie Antoinette. It has features that lead me to suspect my old adversary Georges Du Broc is active again.”
“Du Broc?” I repeated. “You’ve never spoken of Du Broc before.”
“The Jackdaw. A chirpy little fellow half your size. The most brazen thief in Europe.”
“He is unknown to me.”
“Be thankful, then. He’d have the shirt off your back without your noticing. Have I not mentioned the case of the Tsarina’s ankle chain?”
“Not to me,” said I. “I should have remembered a case like that, I’m certain.”
“How discreet I have become,” mused Holmes.
He exasperated me by saying no more of Du Broc, the Tsarina, or the ankle chain. But he was good enough to announce, “I shall attend the Bullpen Nativity Service.”
We took the train together from Paddington on the Saturday before Christmas. A dusting of snow in London became quite an Arctic scene as we steamed towards the West Country. I still hoped to return to London by Christmas Eve, but my confidence ebbed when I saw the snowflakes getting larger by the minute. At Bristol, we changed to the Exeter and Plymouth line.
“I doubt if they’ll cancel it,” said Holmes, reading my thoughts with ease (he was capable of it, I swear). “A tradition that has lasted five hundred years isn’t going to be ended by a few inches of snow.”
“Perhaps they’ll dispense with the street procession and go straight to the church.”
“My dear fellow, Joseph and Mary travelled scores of miles over mountains and across deserts from Nazareth to Bethlehem through the most inclement conditions and you complain at the prospect of a ten-minute walk in the snow.”
I turned aside and faced the window.
We were greeted at Taunton by Colonel Sloane himself, little changed from the gallant officer I had last seen in Kabul, six feet tall, with a fine, erect bearing and a cropped iron-grey moustache. He walked with a marked limp, the result of a stray bullet that had shattered his left kneecap. I had patched him up myself, and he always maintained that I saved the leg from amputation.
I introduced Holmes.
“I have heard of you, of course, Mr Holmes,” said the colonel. “What brings a man of your reputation to our humble village?”
“A bird I seek,” Holmes answered cryptically.
This was news to me. I had never heard my illustrious friend discussing ornithology.
“Most of them migrated months ago,” said Sloane. “You’ll see a few sparrows and chaffinches, no doubt. A robin or two.”
Holmes appeared uninterested. He makes no concession to the social graces.
Colonel Sloane had come for us in a four-wheeler. His former batman, Ruff, a strapping fellow I faintly recalled from Kabul, stepped forward to assist with our luggage. I gathered that the colonel lived as a bachelor in Bullpen Manor House and was looked up to as the squire.
With Ruff at the reins, we were smoothly conveyed through the lanes towards the village. It was like riding on a sleigh, for the hooves and wheels made little sound on the snow.
The colonel wasted no time in explaining my duties. “You will have gathered that I put the highest priority on securing the safety of the Bullpen Star. I have engaged two sergeants of the Taunton police to act as bodyguards. My batman is big enough to handle most emergencies, but I see this as a full-scale military operation, which is why I detailed you to be Joseph. I shall hand the Star to you at the appropriate time in the church.”
“When is that?”
“You will be standing beside the crib with Mary and the Angels. You are not in the procession.”
I could not resist a triumphant glance at Holmes, who gazed back stonily.
“You may stand easy during the service,” the Colonel continued, “but mentally you will be at attention, if you understand me. The procession will march up the aisle with me at the front.”
“March?” said Holmes.
“With me at the front holding the Star,” Sloane reiterated, “and the two policemen, disguised as shepherds, in close attendance. The congregation will be singing a carol, ‘Once in Royal David’s City.’ As the ‘Amen’ is sung, I shall take two paces forward to the crib. The Rector will say the words, ‘It came and stood over where the young child was’—whereupon I shall hand you the staff on which the Star is mounted. You will grasp it firmly with both hands.”
“Military fashion,” murmured Holmes.
My companion’s irony was threatening to discompose the colonel. I gave him a sharp glance of disapproval.
“This is of the utmost importance, Watson,” Colonel Sloane stressed. “Do not let go of that staff until the service is over and I take it from you. No one else must be in possession of the Star at any time. Is that understood?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Do you still have your service revolver?”
The question somewhat surprised me.
“Not with me.”
“No matter. I have guns. I shall see that you are armed.”
“In church?”
“The enemy are no respecters of the Lord’s house.”
“The enemy? Who do you mean precisely?”
“The criminal class, Watson. They will rob us of the Star if we give them the opportunity.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“Are you expecting an ambush, Colonel?”
“Deplorably, there is the possibility,” Sloane answered gravely. “Did I mention that the Star was loaned to th
e British Museum for several months in the summer? Thousands of visitors saw it. The newspapers wrote of it. The Illustrated London News and the Graphic printed line engravings of it. More of the public know of its existence than ever before. Our simple Nativity Service was fully described. Isn’t it a tailor-made opportunity for the wickedly disposed to attempt a grand larceny?”
“You may well be right,” Holmes was fair enough to concur. “You are wise to be alert.”
The guest room of the Feathers Inn had been booked for us. Bullpen was a modest-sized village of about two hundred souls, of whom a fair proportion crowded into the public bar that night. We joined them. In the course of the evening we met Andrew Hall, the farmer who was to play Melchior in the masque, a massively built individual with the reddish, leathery complexion of one who makes his living in all weathers.
“We take it by turns,” Farmer Hall told us, speaking of the casting of the players. “I were a simple shepherd two year back. Now I’m carrying the gold.”
“Real gold?” I enquired.
“Lord, no. Don’t get ideas, just because our Star is valuable. ’Tis only a box of trinkets I carry.”
“Who plays the other Wise Man, Gaspar?” Holmes asked.
“The frankincense man? Our landlord, Jeb Wiggs.”
“You’re all well known in the village—you, Wiggs and the colonel?”
“That’s a fact, sir. Parts are played by villagers, according to tradition.”
I was beginning to feel uneasy about my role as Joseph, but Farmer Hall reassured me by saying, “Them’s the walking parts I’m speaking of, kings and shepherds. It’s they the crowds come to see and it’s they that gets handed mince pies and mulled wine along the route. We don’t mind who plays Joseph and Mary—stuck in the church for upwards of two hours. They’re non-imbibing parts. We got a Joseph from London this year, old army friend of the colonel.”
I was about to make myself known when Holmes spoke up first: “And what of Mary? Who plays Mary?”
“Any young girl of sixteen, provided she has a pious expression and a spotless reputation. This year ’tis young Alison Pugh, the church warden’s youngest.”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 4
