“Yes.”
“So he learned of the opportunity and insinuated himself into your employment.” Holmes flapped his long hand as if that answered all questions.
“You’re an amazing detective, Mr Holmes.”
“If you insist.”
“But one thing still puzzles me,” the Colonel went on.
“What is that?”
“You said when you arrived that you had come in search of a bird.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Did you find it?”
“Certainly. You may not be aware, Colonel, that there is a member of the sandpiper family known as a ruff.”
“Oh.”
Not one of us had thought of that.
We returned to London by an early train next morning. The landscape was still seasonably white, without any overnight snowfall. The prospect of Christmas at home cheered my spirits no end after the shocks of the night before.
Holmes, too, was in festive mood, and appeared to have acquired a present in his short stay in Somersetshire, for there was a large, interesting parcel on the luggage-rack above his head.
With Holmes in a buoyant mood, I taxed him on a matter that had not been explained to my satisfaction.
“Now that we’re alone, old friend, will you admit that it was pure chance that the thief’s name happened to be that of a variety of sandpiper?”
He laughed. “Total coincidence, Watson.”
“Then your remark to the Colonel—the one about seeking a bird—was the merest eyewash.”
He gave me a long, disdainful look. “Is anything I ever say eyewash? Of course I was seeking a bird in the country. And I found one.” He pointed upwards to the parcel on the luggage rack. “Thanks to Farmer Hall, who you will remember as Melchior, the Wise Man, we shall have a twenty-pound goose for Christmas luncheon.”
I shook my head in admiration. “Truly, Holmes, there was a fourth Wise Man this year, and he is sitting opposite me.”
ELEEMOSYNARY, MY DEAR
WATSON
Barbara Paul
For once it was I rather than Holmes who was complaining about the season. I don’t know what there is about the word “holiday” that makes the average Englishman think all the common-sense rules of eating and drinking have been temporarily suspended. I’d just returned from treating another case of overindulgence and was not in the best of moods.
Holmes was amused. “Come now, Watson, surely you know these periods of Bacchanalian excess serve a purpose. They’re what enable men to continue in their tedious, uneventful lives for the rest of the year. The occasional vacation from normalcy can be a benefit.”
“It’s all very well for you to philosophize,” I grumbled. “You’re not the one who has to go out in the cold and the snow to treat nothing more serious than a severe case of dyspepsia.”
“The cold and the snow? Why, the snow stopped falling hours ago, and I daresay you were wrapped up warmly enough in your hackney cab. Come, Watson, this disgruntlement is not like you. You mustn’t sit there and brood. Let us go take tea in Portman Street. You need to be out and about.”
“I’ve been out and about. I just got back.”
“From visiting a sickbed. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve. A time for rejoicing!”
“I don’t want to rejoice.”
“Of course you do. A brisk walk to Portman Street will do you worlds of good. Besides, I have a craving for nut cake with raspberry sauce. Come, Watson, let us be off!”
So because Holmes wanted the taste of raspberries in his mouth, I put back on the outdoor apparel I’d just taken off. We informed Mrs. Hudson we’d not be home for tea and began our walk.
We had gone no farther than Berkeley Square before I realized Holmes was right; I was feeling better already. The air was crisp and invigorating, the sun was sparkling on the snow, a small group of boys was singing carols, the smiling faces of the people we passed reflected the good will of the season, and I began to think of raspberries. I felt a spring come back into my step.
Holmes noticed. “Well, well. I see my prescription is working.”
At least he had the courtesy not to say Physician, heal thyself. We were about to turn into Portman Street when I happened to glance at the carolers. “I say, Holmes, look at this!”
The carolers were all Chinese. Seven boys of twelve or thirteen celebrating a religion that surely was not their own. The incongruous sight of those young Asians warbling “The Holly and the Ivy” had drawn a small crowd. “Their ancestors must be turning in their graves,” I remarked. “I wonder if their parents know what they’re doing.”
“Their parents may have sent them,” Holmes said. “Boys that age do not naturally sing in harmony, no matter what their racial ancestry. These singers have been trained to do so.”
“Trained? But for what purpose?”
“Here comes your answer now.”
The carol had ended and a Chinese lad approached us, tin cup in hand. After a quick glance at Holmes, he spoke to me. “A penny for the orphans, guv?”
I fished in my pockets for a coin, but Holmes said, “What orphans would those be, young man?”
“The Lime’ouse Charitable ’ome for Boys,” he answered cheerily. “We alluns live there.” He waved an arm at the other carolers.
“You’re quite a distance from home. Why not sing your carols in Limehouse?”
“Oi, guv. There ain’t no money in Lime’ouse.”
Holmes dropped a coin into his cup. “Impeccably reasoned. Tell me, who is the director of the Limehouse Charitable Home for Boys?”
“Reverend Burns. It useter be Reverend Dawson, but ’e got sick and died.”
I added my own coin to his cup. “A Christian institution, then.”
“Oh, yes, sir. We’re alluns good Christians, we are.” He flashed us a grin and moved off to solicit the other onlookers.
“And there, Watson,” Holmes said, “you have as good an example of Cockney English as you’re ever likely to hear. That young Oriental lad was born within sounds of the Bow Bells, I warrant you. I wonder how many others there are like him.”
I was about to reply when a shout rang out. We turned to see a man of middle age, blood running down the side of his face and his shirt torn, staggering out of a shop door that said Jas. Lombard & Son. Holmes was halfway across the square before I was able to react.
“Three of them!” the man gasped and almost fell.
Holmes put an arm about him to support him. “Three men? They did this to you?”
“They robbed me! They took everything!”
I started to examine his wound but he waved me away. “I’m a physician,” I said. “Let me help you.”
“Lord Edgar,” he gasped. “See to Lord Edgar Blanchard!”
I hastened into the shop. A slight man in his thirties lay on the floor, moaning. I helped him sit up, noticing that the left side of his face and mouth was an angry red; he had been struck hard. “It was the same ones,” he said thickly.
“Don’t try to talk,” I said and found a chair for him. The place was a jeweler’s establishment, with a display case against each of the two side walls and a round table covered with black velvet centered between them. Lord Edgar Blanchard sat at the table and cradled his head in his hands.
Holmes came in, still supporting the man who’d shouted for help—the proprietor, I assumed. And so he was; he said his name was James Lombard and he had been showing Lord Edgar a necklace for Lady Blanchard when three men entered and robbed them. His injury was only a scalp wound and a little pressure in the right places stopped the bleeding; I bound up his head with my pocket handkerchief.
“A police constable will be here shortly,” Holmes said. “I sent one of the onlookers to find one. Tell me, Mr. Lombard, do you keep spirits on the premises?”
He did. Lombard poured himself and Lord Edgar a brandy; Holmes and I declined. Both men gradually began to regain their composure, and the proprietor said, “I thank you, gentlemen, f
or your assistance. May I know your names?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, “and this is Dr. Watson.”
Both men looked up. “Mr. Holmes!” Lombard exclaimed. “Well, sir, it seems I have desperate need of your services. I entreat you for your help. Will you undertake the return of my goods to me? They took everything I own.”
“Yet your display cases are undamaged and their contents intact,” Holmes pointed out.
“Paste, Mr. Holmes. Replicas of the real pieces that I kept locked in my safe.” He opened one of the cases and took out a delicate necklace fashioned of what looked like emeralds to my eye; an excellent reproduction. Lombard spread the necklace on the velvet-topped table. “I was showing the authentic necklace to Lord Edgar when those three men came in.”
“I’ve seen them before,” Lord Edgar said. “Those same three men.”
Just then the door burst open and a police constable stepped in followed by an agitated young man with dark circles under his eyes. “Father!” the latter cried. “What has happened? You are injured?” He turned to the man at the table. “And Lord Edgar? You have been hurt too?” The young man then started a wailing and moaning that made me want to cover my ears until his father spoke to him sharply. He was still more boy than man.
“This is my son, Wilfred Lombard,” the jeweler said. “He was delivering a pearl tiepin when this unfortunate incident occurred.” To his son, he said, “My injuries are negligible. I fear Lord Edgar has got the worst of it.”
Lord Edgar shook his head. “Don’t concern yourself, Mr. Lombard. As soon as I feel more steady, I will be on my way.”
“But. . .but what happened?” Wilfred repeated. “You were robbed? Why did they hurt you?”
“They had no reason to,” Lord Edgar said sharply. “Neither your father nor I offered resistance. But they began raining blows upon us as soon as they came in—and they did so without saying a word.”
“But . . . but that’s dreadful! How could this have happened?”
I looked at the boy sharply; there was a tinge of hysteria in his voice. Holmes heard it too. He said to Lombard, “Perhaps a spot of that brandy to steady your son’s nerves?”
The jeweler gave Wilfred a splash of the brandy in a small snifter; the son’s hands were shaking as he took it. “You are not seriously injured?” His father assured him he was not.
The police constable spoke for the first time. “Well, now, sir. Just what did happen here?” Coming from him, the question was practical and free of nerves.
It was Lord Edgar who answered him. He had commissioned an emerald necklace from James Lombard; it was to be his Christmas gift to his wife, Lady Blanchard. The jeweler made up several designs in paste, and Lord Edgar had selected one. He’d requested the necklace not be delivered, to retain the element of surprise. The finished necklace had been promised for today, and Mr. Lombard was showing it to him when the three men came in. They attacked without uttering a word. “I fear I lost consciousness at that point,” Lord Edgar said.
Lombard continued the story. They’d hit him a glancing blow on the head with a metal bar—more a tap, really, just enough to start the blood flowing. And then they forced him into the rear chamber of his establishment. One man had pointed to the safe while the other threatened him with the metal bar.
“Where was the third man?” Holmes asked.
“In the front with Lord Edgar,” the jeweler said. Lombard had protested he didn’t have the key to the safe; one of the men had ripped the jeweler’s shirt and pulled out the chain around his neck holding the key. Lombard had resisted no further and opened the safe. They emptied the contents into a burlap bag they’d brought with them. Then one of the men had driven his fist deep into the jeweler’s midsection; Lombard was on his knees gasping for breath when the thieves left. As soon as he was able, he’d struggled to his feet and gone out to shout for help.
“And they never spoke the entire time they were here?” I asked.
“Not a word, Dr. Watson.”
Holmes was examining the door. “The lock has been forced,” he said. “Do you always keep your door locked when you are showing authentic jewels?”
“Always.”
The constable didn’t look at the door. “What did these three men look like, sir?”
“They were dressed in black,” Lord Edgar said. “Their hats were pulled low and their mufflers concealed most of the face. Only their eyes were visible.”
“And yet, Lord Edgar,” Holmes interposed quickly, “you yourself said you had seen these men before.”
He sighed. “This is the second time I have been present at a robbery. The other was a silversmith’s establishment in Chancery Lane. Lady Blanchard and I were there when three men broke in. That time we were not harmed, although the proprietor was treated roughly.”
“But if only their eyes were visible?”
“They were Oriental eyes, Mr. Holmes. The same eyes both times. The man who struck me recognized me from the previous robbery. They were the same three men.”
Holmes said, “Three men dressed in black, only their eyes showing, breaking into a jeweler’s establishment in late afternoon—surely someone must have observed them. Watson, be so good as to step outside and summon the Chinese lad who solicited us for a charitable donation. It’s possible he or one of his fellows knows who these miscreants are.”
I did as he asked, but the carolers were gone. A workman I spoke to said they’d scarpered when the ruckus broke out.
Holmes took the news in stride, but the constable said he’d just look for witnesses himself before reporting in. When he’d left, young Wilfred spoke up. “Guards. We must hire guards, Father.”
“There is nothing left to guard now,” his father answered testily.
Holmes made his decision. “Very well, Mr. Lombard, I will undertake a search for your stolen goods. If you would be so good as to prepare a list of what was taken—”
“Later, Holmes,” I interrupted. “Mr. Lombard should return home and rest for a few hours.” His color was not good.
“I do feel the need,” the jeweler admitted. “I will send the list to you this evening.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Holmes said. “If you will give me your address, I will come get it. Lord Edgar, did they take Lady Blanchard’s necklace as well?”
“They did. Now I have no gift for Christmas.”
Lombard wrote down his address for Holmes and sent Wilfred out to find a hackney. Holmes and I escorted Lord Edgar to his carriage; and it was fortunate we did so as he came near to collapsing in the street. I insisted we see him home; the man was displaying all the symptoms of concussion.
The Blanchard residence was in King’s Cross—not a large building but a graceful one. The servant who opened the door gasped when she saw two strangers supporting the master of the house and ran to tell her mistress. Lady Blanchard turned white when she saw her injured husband but remained steady and soon we had him settled in bed, where he immediately fell asleep. I gestured toward the hallway; with a worried glance at her husband, Lady Blanchard followed us out.
I introduced myself and Holmes, and said, “Sleep is the best medicine Lord Edgar can have. I believe he struck his head when he fell. You must keep him as quiet as you possibly can.”
“He had a fall? How did this happen?”
Holmes said, “I fear it is even more unpleasant than that, Lady Blanchard.” He told her what had happened at the jeweler’s establishment, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Holmes went on, “Do you recall a similar incident at a silversmith’s in Chancery Lane?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Three men robbed the silversmith while we were there. But we were not harmed.”
“Lord Edgar says they were the same three men today.”
She looked surprised. “But how could he know? Their faces were covered by scarves.”
“He says they had Oriental eyes.”
Her own eyes narrowe
d in thought. “Yes, I do recall his saying so at the time. But I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes—I did not notice.”
I repeated that Lord Edgar must be kept quiet and we left her to nurse her husband back to health. Outside, the daylight had gone and a light rain had begun to fall; the streets would be icy for Christmas Eve. We turned up our collars and started looking for a hackney.
“We have missed our tea, Watson,” Holmes said. “Let us see if Mrs. Hudson can give us an early supper before we call on Lombard.”
“Why not just have him send the list of stolen goods?”
“I wish another word with him. Tonight is the best time for that, after he has recovered from the shocks of the afternoon.”
When we reached Baker Street, we found that Mrs. Hudson could indeed provide us with an early meal, which we consumed at a leisurely pace. It was after nine in the evening when we set out for Lombard’s home in Knightsbridge.
The jeweler himself was looking much better than the last time we saw him. His color had returned and his breathing was regular. He offered us a sherry and handed Holmes the list of stolen jewelry.
Holmes read through the list and slipped it in his pocket. “Your son was most distressed this afternoon. I hope he has recovered from his shock?”
Lombard’s face darkened. “I do not know.”
“He is not at home?”
“He is not.” Lombard offered no explanation.
Holmes persisted. “I would like to speak to your son. Do you know when he will return?”
“I do not. I have not seen Wilfred since I was robbed this afternoon.”
How very strange. I asked, “Nothing unfortunate has occurred, I hope?”
Lombard jumped from his chair and began to pace. He struggled for a moment before deciding to confide in us. “It pains me to admit it, gentlemen, but I am deeply disappointed in my son. He is a wastrel and a weakling. Perhaps you noticed how little brandy I gave him this afternoon? In moments of anxiety—and Wilfred has many such moments—his reaction is always the same. He reaches for the nearest bottle.”
“And I recommended you give him the brandy,” Holmes said quickly. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Lombard.”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 6
