“And the infant Jesus?”
“A china doll.”
“Does anyone else take part?” Holmes asked, at pains to get the entire cast list.
“The angels. Girls who wanted the part of Mary and had to be overlooked for various reasons. There are only two this year. The Dawson sisters. Winsome little things. Just a mite too winsome, I reckon.”
We spoke no more of the Dawson sisters. By the end of the evening we had a useful understanding of the entire arrangements. At five the next evening, the players in the procession would assemble at the manor house.
“I shall follow the procession,” Holmes declared before we retired.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care to dress up as a shepherd?” I asked. “You enjoy going in disguise.”
“Dressing up is not disguise,” said he witheringly.
So it was that by five the following afternoon I found myself standing berobed in a “manger” in Bullpen Church, ankle-deep in straw that scratched my feet distractingly through the sandals. Had I been in the procession, I should have been allowed to wear my own shoes, but as a non-moving player I earned no concession. At my side in virginal blue, seated on a bale, was young Alison, in the role of Mary. She kept her eyes downcast and said little. The Dawson sisters, playing the angels, were more sociable. Cicely, the older of the two, golden-haired and extremely pretty, invited me more than once to adjust the angle of her wings, which involved unbuttoning her bodice a little way at the back and retying the satin straps over her shoulders. But when her parents joined the congregation and sat in the front pew, she needed no more adjustments.
The animals around us were constructed by a local carpenter, flat wooden figures of full size that the angels were at some risk of knocking over with their wings. In fact, a donkey fell against me when the organist startled us by launching suddenly into “The First Noel.”
The service was beginning, but my thoughts were outside, on the snow-covered street. The procession must already have left the manor house with Colonel Sloane at its head, proudly carrying the Bullpen Star, its rubies glittering in the light of scores of flaming torches. I hoped the Colonel was not being too literal about the “march” and setting a pace out of keeping with the occasion. As a spectacle, it should have been stately and devout, like an Epiphany procession I once saw in one of the Latin countries.
We reached the last verse of the carol and the rector made his way up the aisle to receive the procession at the west door. The gas was turned so low that we could barely see the words in the hymn books, and the dimness contributed to the charmed atmosphere, the air of anticipation.
A draught of cold December air gusted through the church when the door was opened. The organist started a diminuendo rendering of “Once in Royal David’s City,” with just the trebles in the choir singing, and I do not mind admitting I was moved almost to tears. Hastily I reminded myself that I was on duty for the colonel and ought to be at full alert.
The procession entered the church. With deep satisfaction I saw the Star above the heads, gleaming proudly in the unbroken tradition of five centuries or more. The lights were turned up gradually and the silver fairly shone as it was borne up the aisle.
My role in the service was about to begin. Along the aisle I saw Balthazar gripping the staff with the Star aloft, dressed in a robe of glittering fabric with an ermine collar that would not have looked out of place at a coronation. He sported a crown, of course, fashioned in the eastern style; and a black beard that gave him a splendid Oriental appearance, so his limp did not take anything away from the effect.
Beside him, the two policemen dressed as shepherds were moving with the heavy tread of officers on duty, but this was noticeable only to me, with the advantage of knowing who they were. I spotted my drinking companions of the night before, as sumptuously arrayed as the colonel, playing Gaspar and Melchior with great conviction.
The carol drew to a close and the “Amen” was sung. The rector spoke his few words about the star standing over the stable. Balthazar stepped forward like a colour-sergeant about to hand over the regimental standard. His lush black beard quite covered three-quarters of his face, but our eyes met briefly and I believe I conveyed confidence. I put out my hands to receive the precious Star and it was handed across. Resolutely I gripped the staff with both hands.
The Three Kings—or Wise Men, as Holmes would have it—by turns presented Mary with their offerings of gold, frankincense and myrhh. Having stepped back, they knelt, allowing the shepherds to come forward. When everyone was kneeling I had a clear view of the congregation and I was pleased to observe that Holmes had found a seat at the end of one of the pews. It would do him no harm to have a good view of me at the centre of proceedings, loyally carrying out my duty, just as the colonel had instructed. For once in his life, I reflected, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was obliged to play second fiddle.
There followed more verses from St. Matthew and then the Rector, an elderly man with a fine crop of white hair and a rather monotonous voice, said, “Let us pray.” I had better explain that I am not in the habit of praying standing up and with my eyes open. On this occasion (may I be forgiven), I made an exception. Primed for any occurrence, I looked steadily ahead, whilst every other head was bowed. I was resolved not to relax my vigilance for a second, even though it was difficult to conceive of anything untoward happening whilst we were at our devotions.
I was mistaken.
There was an interruption, and the offender, of all people, was Holmes!
I spotted a movement along the aisle and to my mortification saw him crawling rapidly and with uncanny stealth, Indian-fashion, over the flagstones and the monumental brasses in my direction, or at least towards the kneeling shepherds and Wise Men in front of the crib. When he was near enough to touch their robes, he dipped even closer to the floor like a ferret.
That it was Holmes, I had not the slightest doubt, or I would have raised the alarm there and then. I knew the man. I knew what he was wearing, the Inverness cape and the brown suit and the goloshes. No one but my Baker Street companion could move with such remarkable agility.
Aghast, I held onto the Star, craning to see what he was doing. He appeared to strike a match.
“And now let us pray for the health and happiness at Christmas of Her Majesty the Queen,” intoned the Rector.
Holmes blew out the match, turned, and was back in his pew before the “Amen.” There was the merest wisp of smoke indicating where he had been. Some of his fellow worshippers must have been aware of some movement close to them, and there were a few glances his way, but by then he was joining lustily in “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Let Nothing You Dismay.”
The Grace was spoken and the service ended. The organ soared in a Christmas anthem and people began to file out. Naturally, I remained staunchly at my post. In all the movement I lost sight of the Three Wise Men, and I must say I felt a trifle neglected. The colonel had promised to relieve me of the treasured Star at the first opportunity.
One of the angels (the winsome Cicely, in fact) asked me if I was going to the vestry to change out of my costume. I shook my head.
She said without much maidenly coyness that she was tired of being an angel and hoped I would help her remove her wings.
Nor without regret, I said I must guard the Star until the colonel came. To Cicely, this was unreasonable. She responded with a toss of her pretty curls.
I remained at my post. Almost everyone had filed out, leaving two church wardens collecting hymn books, and me, still in my costume. My feet itched from the straw and my legs ached from standing up for so long. I am bound to record, self-pitying as it must appear, that I felt neglected. Presently Cicely Dawson and her sister came from the vestry dressed in their own clothes and strutted past and out of the church without even wishing me goodnight.
I could understand the colonel forgetting about me, but how could he have neglected to remember the Star he had been at such pains to protect?
Th
en a voice echoed through the church. “Come, Watson, time is short!”
It was Holmes. He, at least, had remembered me. He was standing in the doorway.
“I can’t leave,” I called back. “I’m guarding the Star.”
“That thing on the pole?” he said, striding up the aisle towards me. “Paste and nickel-plate. That isn’t the Bullpen Star! The Star is well on its way to Taunton by now. If we hurry we may yet save it.”
“No,” I insisted. “This is the Star and those are my orders.”
To my horror he reacted by grabbing the staff above my handhold and shaking it violently. The Star, loosened from the shaft, fell, hit the flagstones and shattered into three pieces.
“Does solid silver break like that?” he demanded, eyes blazing.
I stared at the fragments in amazement. He was manifestly right. The plaster of Paris was laid bare. I had spent the evening guarding a fake replica of the medieval treasure.
“Where’s the Colonel?” I asked hoarsely. “We must inform him at once.”
“No time, Watson, no time. Do you have that gun he gave you?”
“Under my robe.”
“Capital. I’ve borrowed Farmer Hall’s dogcart. We must be in Taunton before the next train leaves for Bristol.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Nonsense.”
Without a notion as to the reason, I presently found myself seated beside Holmes exposed to the elements on a light cart behind a black gelding that fairly raced through the night. Fortunately the snow had stopped in the last hour. A full moon and a clear sky made the going possible. I was chilled to the marrow in my biblical apparel, yet eager for information.
“Who exactly are we pursuing, Holmes?”
“The thief,” he said, through bared teeth.
An appalling thought struck me. “Not Colonel Sloane?”
“No. Sloane isn’t our man.”
“But what happened to him? He promised to see me after the service.”
“He’s at home, at the manor house. Could be dead, but I think not.” He cracked the whip, urging the horse on.
“Good Lord!”
“Trussed up, more likely. He never left home.”
“How can that be so? I saw him in the church. He handed me the Star.”
“No, Watson. That wasn’t your colonel. That was the thief.”
“Are you sure?” I asked in disbelief. “He was limping like the colonel.”
“Naturally he was. The robbery was planned to the last detail. Almost the last, anyway,” Holmes added on a note of self-congratulation that I picked up even with the wind rushing in my ears.
I hazarded a guess. “Was he limping on the wrong side?”
“Ha! Nothing so obvious,” said he.
“Wearing a built-up shoe? I saw you creeping up the aisle behind him and lighting a match.”
“No, Watson. His shoes were a perfect pair. That was the detail I went to some trouble to ascertain. Whilst Balthazar knelt in prayer, I examined his heels. The heel of a lame man always shows wear on the edge of the shoe that takes most weight. This pair of heels was evenly worn. So the wearer was not lame. Whoa!”
We were going too fast, and the wheels skidded towards a hedge. Holmes pulled on the reins in time to avert a disaster.
“Deucedly clever,” I said. “But you must have had your suspicions already.”
“I knew if the Star was to be stolen, it would be well-planned. The weak point in the Colonel’s arrangements was when he had brought the Star from the bank to his house. He needed to change into his costume. He wouldn’t want the bodyguards in his bedroom watching him dress.”
“Lord, no.”
“But he wanted the Star in his possession at all times, so he took it in with him.”
“And that was when the thief struck?”
“Yes. He was hidden in the room, waiting. I hope he didn’t injure the colonel seriously. My guess is that he tied and gagged him.”
“If that was what happened, why didn’t this scoundrel—whoever he may be—escape with the Star across the fields at once?”
“Too risky. The bodyguards were outside the bedroom waiting. The hue and cry would have been raised within minutes. His plan was more ingenious. Under Balthazar’s robes and behind the black beard, he was well disguised. He’d gone to the trouble of making that cheap, but convincing, replica of the Star. He made the substitution, tucked the real Star under his robes and went out to lead the procession.”
“What nerve!”
“He’s audacious, I grant you.”
“And resourceful. How did he know what the Star looked like, to manufacture the fake replacement? Of course!” I found myself answering my own question. “He saw it for himself in London last summer, and used the illustrations in the press as blueprints. Diabolical.”
“And at the end of the service,” said Holmes, “he walked quietly away, dismissed the bodyguards, slipped off Balthazar’s robes behind the church wall—where I found them a few minutes too late—and helped himself to one of the carriages lined up in the lane.”
“And escaped!”
“Just so.”
Our dogcart slithered over the snow for some minutes more. The lights of Taunton were showing across the fields.
“Holmes.”
“Yes?”
“How shall we recognize the thief?”
His answer was cryptic. “He’ll be waiting at the railway station—if we’re in time.” He whipped up the horse again.
The streets of Taunton, being more used by traffic than the country lanes, glistened black under the street lamps and our wheels clattered over the cobbles as we raced the last minutes through the town and into the station yard, where several carriages were waiting.
“Take out the gun and be ready to use it,” Holmes ordered. He sprang down from the dogcart and strode into the booking hall, his cape billowing. At such times, in pursuit of wrong-doing, he was like a hound, fearless and unstoppable.
I followed as well as I was able, hampered by my New Testament robes. I wondered how well I could use a revolver these days. Of one thing I was certain: my heart had not forgotten how to thump as it always did in battle.
“Has the last train left for Bristol?” Holmes demanded of the ticket collector.
“Due in two minutes, sir,” came the answer.
We hurried onto the “Up” platform, which appeared deserted, save for an elderly couple.
“He’s hiding up,” said Holmes.
“The waiting rooms?” said I.
“We don’t have the time to check. He’ll have to make a dash for the train when it comes in. Take up a position halfway along and to the right. I’ll be up here.”
“Shall I use the gun?”
“Wing him, if you have to.”
The sound of the approaching express carried down the line before the engine came into view. My throat was dry and my legs felt like jelly. I’m sure Holmes, at the other end of the platform, was as steady and primed as a hunting lion. I looked about me, at the waiting rooms and cloakrooms of different classes from which the thief might emerge.
The rasp of the locomotive increased. It would be in sight now, snorting pink steam and sparks into the night sky, but my eyes were on the doors nearest to me, expecting a figure to dart out any minute and dash for the train.
Somebody did emerge from the ladies’ waiting room, but it was a young woman carrying a child. I saw nobody else.
The train steamed in and came to a halt. Several people opened doors and got out, bringing confusion on the platform. I couldn’t possibly use my gun.
“Watson!”
I turned, hearing the shout from Holmes.
“Behind you, man! The end of the platform!”
I swung about, in time to see a tall, male figure in the act of opening a compartment door near the front, away from all the station buildings. He must have left it to the last moment to climb over the paling that extended along the platform. I ga
ve chase. When I got to the compartment and swung open the door, no one was inside. He had gone straight through, opened the door on the other side and jumped onto the line, dashing along the rails. I followed, shouting to him to halt.
The man turned, saw me, a horrified look in his eye, and redoubled his running.
As I tried gamely to catch up, a movement at his side caused him to veer off course. He was powerless to evade the tackle. Holmes felled him with a grab that was as good as anything I ever saw on a football field.
I hastened towards them, gun at the ready, but Holmes, a master of baritsu, the Japanese system of wrestling, already had his man in a stranglehold. And there in the snow, between the railway lines, lay the precious Bullpen Star, thankfully undamaged.
“You see who this scoundrel is?” said Holmes.
In the poor light I had some difficulty recognizing the fellow, particularly as most of his face was pressed into the snow. However, I hazarded a guess. “Is it the Jackdaw, Georges Du Broc, the most brazen thief in Europe?”
“No, Watson, it is not,” said Holmes on a petulant note. “I told you Du Broc is a short man. He couldn’t possibly impersonate Colonel Sloane, who is quite six feet in height. This is Ruff, the Colonel’s own batman.”
“Oh, my hat!” I exclaimed in horror.
“Only a servant,” Holmes charitably pointed out.
The shock I felt was nothing to the colonel’s when he was apprised of the news. He had known Ruff for twenty years and the man had given no hint of dishonesty.
“Yes, but when did he become your civilian employee?” enquired Holmes, over a late glass of claret in the manor house.
The Colonel had by this time recovered from being trussed and gagged, and lying in his bedroom, just as Holmes had deduced.
“About eight months ago. He turned up one afternoon. I was delighted to see him again, the first time in years.”
“By which time you were already chosen for the part of Balthazar in the masque, I presume?”
“That is true,” the Colonel admitted. “The service has to be arranged a long time in advance.”
“And it was in the press?”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 5
