As we left the Oriental Club, Cratchit’s face was a study in consternation. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, “I must congratulate you on your excellent deductions. However, I cannot say I am entirely satisfied with the results; I began this day with too many claimants, and I end it with none. I am not entirely convinced that I have emerged better off than before.”
“The day, Mr. Cratchit,” Holmes replied, gazing at the lowering sun struggling to peer from the clouds, “is not yet over. We have one more stop on our tour of London.”
He maintained secrecy by taking the cab driver aside and stating his destination in low tones. I helped Cratchit into the cab and he kindly gave me his arm in the same capacity; soon we found ourselves rattling along the Thames, the salt tang of the sea filling our nostrils.
Masts filled the sky, a veritable floating forest at the edge of London. We passed Cheapside; I began to have an inkling of our destination: the East India Company docks at the Isle of Dogs, where the huge East India men docked upon their return from the exotic East.
“But, Holmes,” I protested, “the Star of Rajput docked yesterday; there will hardly be anyone left aboard.”
“We are not meeting the Star of Rajput,” Holmes replied. “The ship we seek is the Argosy, which arrived less than an hour ago. Passengers will still be emerging.”
“Of course,” Cratchit exclaimed. “The telegram you received from the India Office. The robbery forced young Mr. Scrooge to board a later ship.”
“Precisely. If we wait just here,” he said, jumping with maddening agility from the cab, “we are bound to spot them.”
“Them?”
“Young Mr. Scrooge and his mother,” Holmes replied, “and their travelling companion, whose acquaintance I am most anxious to make.”
Although the afternoon chill had deepened, and the damp river air made my leg ache, I gazed long and hard at every young man who stepped off the ship. Even the deckhands I examined with a close eye, for since I was certain the Scrooge widow was of low birth, the young man might be anyone at all. But no matter how promising a young man appeared, Holmes waved him away with an enigmatic smile.
At last one more stepped onto the gangplank, accompanied by an Indian woman in a bright green saree. The young man was of slight build and scholarly mein, wearing spectacles stronger than my own, though he was scarcely into his majority.
“Ah, he has brought his ayah,” I said, referring to the Indian woman, undoubtedly the nurse who had raised him. “And the boy who follows—an Indian servant, no doubt.” The young man in question was dressed in white cotton leggings and a bright silk tunic; a turban topped his head.
Holmes stepped toward the bespectacled young man, thrust out a welcoming hand, and, to my complete astonishment, addressed him as “Mr. Kipling, I presume.”
“The same, sir.” The young man thrust a hand in Holmes’s direction and said, “But how do you come to know me?”
“I have had the pleasure of reading your excellent stories in the Lahore Gazette,” Holmes said. “Welcome to England, Mr. Kipling. I am Sherlock Holmes, this gentleman is Dr. John Watson, and the third is Mr. Timothy Cratchit. Pray introduce us to your companions.”
The eyes behind the thick spectacles glittered with intelligence. “I suspect, Mr. Holmes, that you know their names already.”
“Only the surname, I assure you.”
Wild surmise filled my breast. I had thought of a misalliance, but this—
The heir to the Ebenezer Scrooge estate was—
A half-Indian boy.
The woman in the emerald-green saree folded her hands in front of her in an attitude almost of prayer, bowed slightly, and said, “ Namaste.”
I answered her in kind, although I had not heard the greeting in many a year. The boy did the same, but his bright black eyes darted about the docks, as if he intended to learn and understand everything about this new place at once.
“Are there no elephants, Kipling Sahib, to do the heavy work?”
“There are no elephants, Adri. England is a poor country and cannot afford elephants.”
The boy laughed. “You chaff me, Kipling Sahib. England is the greatest country on the earth, and the most scientific. Take a dekko at that if you do not believe me.”
He pointed to the steam engine which operated the machinery hoisting heavy cargo off the ship. “Machines instead of elephants. My father would be most pleased to see this.”
As our party made its way along the slippery dock toward the public houses, Kipling explained that Adri’s grandfather was the Maharajah of Rampur, and his mother, Panna, was the Rajandini, or princess, of that small principality. He added that the name Panna meant “emerald” in Hindi and I burst into laughter.
“I must say, Holmes,” I said as I followed the graceful Indian princess, “I believe the jewel the maharajah gave Mr. Fred Scrooge was even more precious than advertised. No wonder the thieves never managed to find the emerald they coveted.”
Holmes led our party to a respectable-looking public house—no mean feat in that quarter of London—called the Mermaid Inn. We asked for a private room, and Holmes gave orders for an Indian tea, which consisted of strong darjeeling accompanied by Indian delicacies such as I hadn’t sampled since my Army days. Wrapped turnovers called samosas and vegetable fritters known as pakoras, to be dipped into tamarind sauce and eaten with chutney.
I could hardly take my eyes off the Widow Scrooge. She was a mature woman, with dusky skin and gigantic doe eyes, long black hair and a straight Aryan nose. She glittered in the gaslight; gold earrings winked and danced, her arms were bedezined with gold bangles, she wore a gold ring in her nose, and the bright green silk of her dress was shot through with gold thread. She smelled of exotic spices and her laugh was like the tinkling of tiny bells. I was put in mind of a sailors’ song about the dark-eyed Indian maiden who waited on the coast of Malabar.
She wore far more colour and jewelry than the boldest of Englishwomen, and the effect ought to have been gaudy, but against cinnamon-colored skin, the bright green and gold appeared not only perfectly natural but the height of beauty.
“Kipling Sahib has been most gracious to me and my son,” she said, in English so perfect it took my breath away. There was but the slightest sing-song lilt to her speech, but otherwise, she might have been bred in Mayfair.
She noticed my surprise and smiled. “My father is a very great admirer of all things English. He was most pleased when I married an English husband, for he wanted more than anything to have a grandson who understood the English ways of science.”
The boy looked at me shyly and spoke for the first time since we had left the dock. “Are you truly a hakim? An English hakim, not our poor Indian excuse for a doctor?”
I knew the term, and I knew that in India it meant anything from a certified medical man to a fakir dispensing herbs to the gullible. But the boy said the word with such respect and longing that I understood at once.
“You want to be a doctor.”
“With all my heart, Hakim Watson,” he replied. “This is why I come at last to the country of my father. It is my wish to study at the Royal College of Surgeons and to return to my own country as a man of science.”
“It is, of course,” his mother said with a half-apologetic smile, “a great offense against caste. It is not for such as he to dirty his hands with the diseases of others. No other Rajah in all India would countenance such a thing. But my father has read the works of Mr. Darwin and thinks very highly of science, so he consents.”
“This explains the alteration of the name, Holmes,” I said with excitement, for I felt unduly pleased with myself for making the deduction. “The genuine birth certificate listed the boy’s name as Adri Ebenezer Scrooge, and that rascal who stole it changed the name to Andrew so that an Englishman could play the part.”
“Excellent, Watson. Excellent indeed.”
Kipling removed a cigar from his pocket and inquired of the rajandini if she would permit us
to smoke. “On one condition,” she replied with a smile, and having been to India, I knew what that would be. Cratchit looked on with astonishment as the lady herself bit the end off a cigar and allowed Kipling to light it for her.
If an Englishwoman had dared to do such a thing, we should all have been forcibly ejected from the pub, but the waiter who brought our tea only smiled, having seen Eastern women from Ceylon to Kuala Lumpur smoke fat cheroots.
“Our proof of identity is gone,” the rajandini said with simple dignity. “I do not know how it will stand with the court of Chancery. I care little for the money of my late husband, but I would like my son to know his father’s country and to attend school here according to his wishes.”
“If only there had been an emerald,” I said, then hastened to amend my remark. “Not that you are not as beautiful and precious as an emerald, but if there had truly been such a jewel, your possessing it would constitute some proof of your identity.”
The spicy appetizers were wonderfully warming on the cold afternoon, spreading heat throughout our chilled bodies. We drank ale with our dumplings, and the rajandini opened an embroidered bag filled with walnuts, offering them all around the table.
I supposed it was an Indian custom, but I declined to take one. Cratchit lifted one from the bag, but made no move to open it.
“I do entreat you, gentlemen, to sample my walnuts,” she said again, offering her silk bag to the company once again. I was becoming annoyed at her persistence, but Kipling joined in, a sly smile on his face.
“You must take one, Mr. Holmes. I suspect you will never have had such a walnut as this in all your days on earth.”
Holmes reached in and selected a nut. I did the same, as did Cratchit.
They were ordinary nuts. No special flavor, no spices, no particular distinguishing features.
Then the rajandini picked one from the bag and opened it. She displayed the half-shell as if it were an oyster and there, inside the shell itself, sat the largest, shiniest emerald I have ever seen.
“It is an old trick,” Kipling explained. “There is much thievery in India, and everyone who has precious jewels must take care to hide them at all times. The rascals who stole Adri’s letters had no idea where to look for the emerald.”
“You were lucky they weren’t hungry, or they might have taken the nuts to eat. What would have happened then?”
“I should not have liked to be in their shoes if they stole the emerald, gentlemen,” Kipling replied. “For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”
Our holiday dinner that year was most memorable, for we sat at the Cratchits’ table eating roast goose and plum pudding with none other than the original Tiny Tim and his large, blooming family. The Rajandini of Rampur cooked channa dal and saffron rice with her own hands, and Adri Ebenezer Scrooge quizzed every member of the company about every facet of life in England until Kipling declared him to be the most curious creature alive, as curious as the Elephant’s Child.
And that is how Holmes and I became among the first in England to hear that wise and wonderful tale.
THE CHRISTMAS CONSPIRACY
Edward D. Hoch
It was Mrs. Hudson who’d persuaded me to dress up as Father Christmas and distribute a few toys to the neighborhood children. I felt just a bit foolish toting my sack into her front parlor on that Christmas Eve Sunday of 1899, emitting a jolly “Ho Ho Ho” as I brought forth the gifts.
“Look here, children!” she announced enthusiastically. “It’s Father Christmas!”
My sack was quickly emptied and I was out of there in ten minutes. That was when I decided to drop in on my old friend Sherlock Holmes on the floor above. It had been weeks since I’d seen him and I wondered if I could astound him with my costume.
But he barely glanced up from his paper as I entered, saying simply, “I’m glad you dropped by, Watson. I have a little problem here which might interest you.”
“I assume Mrs. Hudson told you I was coming tonight,” I muttered, deflated by his casual reaction to my entrance.
“Not at all, old friend. But do you think I could have listened to your tread upon the stairs for all these years and failed to recognize it? I see Mrs. Hudson has recruited you in her latest mission to spread a bit of Christmas cheer. I could hear the commotion all the way up here.”
I was busy pulling the false beard from my chin. “They’re a noisy bunch at holiday time,” I agreed. “Now what is this little problem that’s so important as to concern you on Christmas Eve?”
“We have a new century beginning in just eight days,” said Holmes. “It is a time for all manner of skullduggery.”
“Her Majesty’s government is of the opinion the twentieth Century does not officially begin for another year,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “Let them think what they will. In America this has been a decade known as the Gay Nineties. It certainly began in 1890, not 1891, and it will end next Sunday midnight.”
“I quite agree.”
“But now to business. I was visited yesterday by a charming young lady named Elvira Ascott. She has been married just one year and now her husband is off in South Africa fighting the Boers. Her parents are deceased and she has no one to advise her on financial matters. Now an offer has been made on a piece of land she inherited from her family. The offer is good only until the end of the year, at which time it will be withdrawn.”
“That’s hardly your line of work, Holmes,” I pointed out.
“But a gentleman has come forward to help her in the matter, free of charge. His name is Jules Blackthorn and he claims to be a solicitor. However she called unexpectedly at his office a few days ago and found it was only a convenience address where he received mail. He did not even have a desk there. That was when she consulted me.”
“And what have you learned about this man Blackthorn?”
Holmes leaned back and lit his pipe. “Very little, except to confirm her suspicion that he is not a solicitor. She suspects a plot of some sort to steal her property while her husband is away.”
“Is this property especially valuable?” I asked.
“It does not seem so, which adds to the mystery. The land is a flood plain near the mouth of the Thames, often under water when there are storms with onshore winds. The man offering to buy the property is a fellow named Edgar Dobson, the owner of an adjoining estate. As it happens, Dobson holds a Christmas party at his home each year and has invited Mrs. Ascott to attend. Blackthorn has offered to escort her in her husband’s absence, but she doesn’t trust him. She has asked me to accompany her instead.”
“You, Holmes, at a Christmas party?” It was difficult to picture in my mind.
“She fears Dobson may pressure her to conclude the sale while she is at the party. Since she is a client, I feel I must protect her interests. If you are free tomorrow I’d like you to accompany us as well.”
“Surely you jest!”
“Not at all. Mrs. Ascott resides in London. We will be taking an afternoon train to Rochester, where Dobson’s carriage will meet us. His home is in Cliffe, overlooking St. Mary’s Marshes. Could you join us?”
My wife was spending the holiday with an elderly aunt in Reading, and there was no real reason why I could not accompany Holmes. “But I have not been invited,” I pointed out.
“Let me worry about that.”
There was a decided chill in the air on Christmas Day, despite the unaccustomed sunshine, when I met Holmes and Elvira Ascott at Victoria Station shortly after noon. Mrs. Ascott proved to be a handsome young woman in her early thirties, wearing a long gray coat over her dress. Her brown hair was gathered attractively beneath a stylish black hat. One look told me she was a woman of the upper classes.
“Mr. Holmes tells me you are his closest confidant,” she said as the train pulled out of the station for the hour-long journey to Rochester.
“We have shared many adventures together,” I agreed.
“You may be as f
rank and open with Watson as you have been with me,” said Holmes.
“Then you know of my distress. I met my husband, William, last year when we appeared together in an amateur theatrical production. Now he is half a world away fighting for the Empire.” She took a photograph from her purse and showed it to us. A handsome young man, standing tall in an army officer’s uniform, had his right arm around her in a protective gesture while his other arm was stretched out straight, pointing a revolver at some unseen menace. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“Indeed so!” Holmes agreed. “You make a handsome couple. But a Christmas party seems like an awkward setting for the signing of an important contract.”
“Mr. Dobson only wants me to initial it tonight as a show of good faith. The actual signing will take place on Wednesday at his solicitor’s office.”
“And Jules Blackthorn is urging you to do this?”
“He is, and I fear he may appear at the party tonight. Mr. Dobson insists that the land must be deeded to him before the new year or there will be no deal. Of course this gives me no time to contact my husband in South Africa.”
“Is the land held jointly?” I asked.
“No, it is from my family.”
“But your husband would inherit it if you died.”
“Actually, no. As I said, it is land from my family. I have made provisions for it to pass to my sister’s children in America. William has no connection with it at all. It’s only that I value his opinion and would have sought it had time allowed. Instead I was forced to rely upon the good offices of Mr. Jules Blackthorn.”
“Which proved to be no good at all,” Holmes observed.
Our train was passing through the countryside around Bexley, about halfway to our destination. There were patches of snow there, a reminder that winter had set in. “How did you happen to contact Mr. Blackthorn?” I asked.
“He contacted me. He sought me out at the theater early last week, on the very day Edgar Dobson made his offer for my land. It was at a production of the new Nutcracker ballet. Have you seen it?”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 12
