She stepped back from the doorway and permitted us to enter. Wickham was the very picture of misery; when he tried to approach his fiancée, she stepped back from him, uncertain how to react. She led us into a drawing room even more elegant than the one in Grosvenor Square that we had just left.
When the young people and I were seated, Holmes stood in front of Wickham. "Now, sir. Recently you gave Miss Stoddard a brief passage to copy in her father's handwriting."
"Yes." He glanced fondly at the young woman. "And she did so perfectly."
"Why did you give her that particular passage?"
With an effort, Wickham tore his gaze from Miss Stoddard to look at Holmes. "Why, what was it? It was just something Piaget handed me. I didn't even read it."
"Aha! As I thought. And whose idea was it to discover whether Miss Stoddard could imitate her father's handwriting?"
Wickham frowned. "I believe Piaget first suggested it... but I thought it a splendid game. I had abandoned any hope of deciphering the draft of a letter Mr. Stoddard had left among his papers and announced my intention of asking Amy to read it for me. Piaget wondered if she could reproduce Mr. Stoddard's penmanship. He handed me a piece of paper and said to see if she could copy that. I slipped the paper into a pocket without looking at it."
"And that completes the picture!" Holmes said with a touch of smugness. "Now I pray you both listen very carefully. I have a great deal to tell you." He began with Curtis's murder and proceeded step by step through what we had learned that day. When it became clear that Wickham was the victim of a plot to discredit him in her eyes, Miss Stoddard gave a little cry and rushed to the side of her fiancé "So I am happy to say," Holmes concluded, "that your father's judgement of Mr. Wickham was entirely correct."
I am not certain the two young people even heard him, so deeply were they involved in their reconciliation. Holmes gestured to me, and we left the house quietly.
I could not resist. "Are you quite certain that it is safe to leave her alone with him?"
"Oh, no doubt of it, Watson! Mr. Wickham is an admirable young man, and I have every confidence their union will be a long and happy one." He pretended not to see me smiling at him.
We had one more call to make that night. We informed Inspector Lestrade that a Frenchman named Etienne Piaget had shot and killed Mr. Curtis with a pistol taken from the business premises of Wickham & Piaget, wine merchants, and that he could most likely be apprehended aboard the Mary Small before it sailed the next day.
We were sitting down to our midday meal on the day of the twenty-third when an enormous clamour erupted outside our door; we could hear a frenzied voice calling out Holmes's name. Holmes opened the door to a wild-eyed Wickham and an upset Mrs. Hudson pleading with him to desist. Holmes reassured the housekeeper and drew the young man inside.
"She is gone, Mr. Holmes! Taken from her room during the night! Amy has been abducted!"
"Calm yourself, Wickham. Did the servants summon the police?"
His eyes darted back and forth between us. "They did not even know she was missing until I arrived—they assumed she was still sleeping since she had not left her room! Mr. Holmes, what are we to do?"
Holmes slumped down disconsolately on a chair. "And I was arrogant enough to think this affair was concluded! How did her abductors get into the house?"
"I don't know!"
"Think back. In what condition was her room?"
"In disarray. A chair was overturned, a vase was broken—Amy fought them." He choked back a sob. "Glass! There was window glass on the floor!"
"So they knew which room was hers. At least one of the blackguards was familiar with the house." He rose and began to pace. "I blame myself. I should never have left her there as long as Piaget is at large. But this latest escapade is senseless! What could he hope to gain? A forced marriage is out of the question, since he already has a—" Suddenly he broke off and stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide and his mouth open.
"Holmes?" I said.
"I am a fool!" he shouted. He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. "An utter fool!" He whirled toward Wickham. "Go immediately to the police and ask for Inspector Lestrade. Tell him Amy Stoddard is being held prisoner in the house of John Fulham in Grosvenor Square."
"Fulham!"
"Go now! Not a moment is to be wasted!"
Wickham left at a run. "Fulham abducted her?" I said incredulously.
"Or had her abducted. Watson, bring your pistol. We must make all haste."
Snow had begun to fall. Unfortunately, we had discharged our hired brougham the night before and thus wasted precious minutes finding a hansom cab. Holmes urged the driver to utmost speed.
"But why Fulham?" I asked as the horse did its best through the snowy streets. "Why do you conclude he is Miss Stoddard's abductor?"
"Watson, do you remember the young lady's words in her narration of the chance encounter with Piaget at the Lyceum Theatre? She said: 'I introduced him to Mr. Fulham.' If the two men were meeting for the first time ... then how did Fulham know Piaget has a wife in Bordeaux?"
"Good God!" I exclaimed. "You are right!"
"That was no chance meeting," Holmes continued. "It was arranged by the two men, so Piaget could make his gaffe about the steamship ticket. Don't you see, Watson? It's not Piaget who wanted to marry our young heiress—it was Fulham! Piaget is merely his henchman." Holmes's mouth was bitter. "Her father's 'friend.' "
"But Piaget did kill Curtis?"
"Oh, yes. Piaget is a scurrilous fellow who can pass up no opportunity to line his pockets, and Curtis was getting too close to the truth. Fulham must have been furious with his accomplice. To risk the larger reward to gain a lesser? Inexcusable. But Fulham evidently concluded that his plan to separate the two young lovers had less chance of success than he'd anticipated, so he abandoned it in favour of another plan. Compel Amy Stoddard to forge a new will in her father's handwriting, naming Fulham administrator of Stoddard's estate. It would be a license to steal."
We were both silent a moment, thinking our separate thoughts. I said, "After Amy Stoddard does what Fulham wants, what happens to her then?"
Holmes's face was grim. "Yes, what happens to her then? Fulham can hardly leave her alive to bear witness against him. I only hope we are not too late."
At last we reached Grosvenor Square. We dismissed the hansom cab and approached Fulham's house cautiously. "A ladder was needed to reach Miss Stoddard's room," Holmes said. "Let us see if we can find it." We made our way to the rear, looking through the half-open drapes into the ground floor of the building; no one was in sight.
The ladder was there. Fulham's house had an attic, but the ladder reached only to the first story. Holmes chose a window at random and we put the ladder in place. It was unnerving, climbing that slippery ladder with the wind and the snow blowing in our faces, but we reached the top without mishap. Holmes turned his face away and used his elbow to break the glass.
Inside, we found ourselves in what appeared to be a guest bedchamber. We paused a moment, long enough to ascertain that the sound of breaking glass had not been heard elsewhere in the house. Then we began a systematic search of the rooms on that floor. Once a servant appeared carrying bed linens, but we stepped quickly into one of the rooms and avoided detection.
Holmes silently pointed upward. We located the backstairs leading to the attic. We tested each step before putting our weight on it. At the top was a door that Holmes opened cautiously; it led to an attic room like any other attic room, full of trunks and boxes and semi-discarded items. At the far end was another door. I drew my pistol.
Just as we reached the second door, we heard a scream. "Never!" cried Amy Stoddard's muffled voice from the other side of the door. "I'll never do it!"
Holmes threw open the door. "Unhand her, you blackguards!" he cried.
Amy Stoddard lay huddled on the floor, with John Fulham and a black-haired man with a full mustache bending over her. Upon our entry, the latter i
mmediately pulled a pistol from his pocket— but with a bound, Holmes was upon him before he could fire.
I pointed my own pistol at John Fulham. "If you value your life, Fulham," I said, "you will not move." He stood motionless, shock and disbelief written on his handsome face.
I risked a glance toward the two struggling men. At last Holmes succeeded in disarming his opponent.
"Chien d'un chien!" his adversary spat.
"And to you as well, Monsieur Piaget," Holmes replied, panting slightly from his exertions. Pointing Piaget's own pistol at him, Holmes knelt by the recumbent girl. "Miss Stoddard! Are you able to stand?"
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "Never have I been so happy to see someone!" With Holmes's assistance, she struggled to her feet. "He" she declared, pointing an accusing finger at John Fulham, "was trying to force me to write a new will in my father's hand!"
"But you resisted," Holmes said, "giving us the time to learn of your abduction and to take action. You have much courage, Miss Stoddard. You, Piaget! Go stand by your... master."
The Frenchman muttered under his breath but took his place at Fulham's side.
"And you, John Fulham, what do you have to say for yourself?"
Fulham had had time to think of a defence. "It was what Stoddard wanted," he said with a tremor in his voice. "He told me so. But he died before he could write the new will."
"Oh, that's to be your excuse, is it?" Holmes said with a sneer. He stepped up close to the other man. "Fulham, you are a truly despicable example of humanity. To betray a friendship of nearly thirty years' standing because your greed knows no bounds? Unthinkable! And to do so in such a loathsome way, by persecuting the innocent! It is our duty to protect our young, not exploit them. John Fulham, you are little more than a brute. I cannot begin to express my contempt for you!"
Personally, I thought he'd done quite well at expressing his contempt; but before I could say anything, an uproar broke out below-stairs. Leaving me to guard the two villains, Holmes went to the top of the stairs and shouted down to come to the attic.
In a trice Lestrade and Wickham were crowding into the attic room where Amy Stoddard had been held against her will; Lestrade had brought a number of peelers with him, who wasted no time in hauling Fulham and Piaget away. Wickham had an arm wrapped about Miss Stoddard, furious at what had been done to her but simultaneously relieved that she was unharmed.
Lestrade asked, "Did they torture you, miss?"
"I was struck two or three times," she said, "but not tortured. They told me I would receive no food or drink until I complied with John Fulham's wishes."
The inspector shook his head. "You're fortunate Mr. Holmes was able to deduce where you'd been taken."
She looked at Holmes. "I owe him a debt I will never be able to repay." Her face clouded. "My father trusted John Fulham. He considered him an honourable man."
"Well, miss," Lestrade said. "Men of goodwill can be deceived by those who aren't."
"Why, Lestrade," Holmes said with a laugh, "you're a philosopher now?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, I'm just a policeman trying to do his job. Mr. Wickham here told me something of what's been happening, but details are missing. I take it you would not be averse to accompanying me and relating the whole story?"
"The pleasure," Holmes said expansively, "is truly all mine."
Many young ladies would take to their beds following so harrowing an experience; but Miss Amy Stoddard was planning a Christmas Eve dinner, and a Christmas Eve dinner she would have. She invited—nay, urged—Holmes and me to attend; we were happy to accept.
Ours was not a large party, only ten of us. The company was congenial, the food was good, and the wines were excellent— Wickham had seen to that. After we'd dined, we gathered in the vicinity of the open front door to listen to the carolers in the street.
Amy Stoddard placed a hand on Holmes's arm. "You made all this possible, Mr. Holmes. You gave me my life as a Christmas present."
Holmes tut-tutted. "You look happy, Miss Stoddard."
She laughed softly. "How could I not be happy? I'm with the man I am to marry, surrounded by old friends and new friends as well. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson—you are always welcome in this house. I will be grateful to both of you until my dying day." With a smile she glided away to join Wickham.
A servant moved among us with a tray filled with glasses of port.
"Well, Watson," Holmes said, taking a glass, "this is one of the most satisfying conclusions to our adventures within recent memory, would you not agree?"
"Most assuredly. You realize, do you not, that you yourself have acted in loco parentis for Miss Stoddard?"
"I? How so?"
"You gave her the protection her father was unable to provide."
Holmes smiled and lifted his glass. "Happy Christmas, my friend."
A Scandal in Winter
Gillian Linscott
At first Silver Stick and his Square Bear were no more to us than incidental diversions at the Hotel Edelweiss. The Edelweiss at Christmas and the new year was like a sparkling white desert island, or a very luxurious ocean liner sailing through snow instead of sea. There we were, a hundred people or so, cut off from the rest of the world, even from the rest of Switzerland, with only each other for entertainment and company. It was one of the only possible hotels to stay at in 1910 for this new fad of winter sporting. The smaller Berghaus across the way was not one of the possible hotels, so its dozen or so visitors hardly counted. As for the villagers in their wooden chalets with the cows living downstairs, they didn't count at all. Occasionally, on walks, Amanda and I would see them carrying in logs from neatly stacked woodpiles or carrying out forkfuls of warm soiled straw that sent columns of white steam into the blue air. They were part of the valley like the rocks and pine trees but they didn't ski or skate, so they had no place in our world—apart from the sleighs. There were two of those in the village. One, a sober affair drawn by a stolid bay cob with a few token bells on the harness, brought guests and their luggage from the nearest railway station. The other, the one that mattered to Amanda and me, was a streak of black and scarlet, swift as the mountain wind, clamorous with silver bells, drawn by a sleek little honey-coloured Haflinger with a silvery mane and tail that matched the bells. A pleasure sleigh, with no purpose in life beyond amusing the guests at the Edelweiss. We'd see it drawn up in the trampled snow outside, the handsome young owner with his long whip and blonde moustache waiting patiently. Sometimes we'd be allowed to linger and watch as he helped in a lady and gentleman and adjusted the white fur rug over their laps. Then away they'd go, hissing and jingling through the snow, into the track through the pine forest. Amanda and I had been promised that, as a treat on New Year's Day, we would be taken for a ride in it. We looked forward to it more eagerly then Christmas.
But that was ten days away and until then we had to amuse ourselves. We skated on the rink behind the hotel. We waved goodbye to our father when he went off in the mornings with his skis and his guide. We sat on the hotel terrace drinking hot chocolate with blobs of cream on top while Mother wrote and read letters. When we thought Mother wasn't watching, Amanda and I would compete to see if we could drink all the chocolate so that the blob of cream stayed marooned at the bottom of the cup, to be eaten in luscious and impolite spoonfuls. If she glanced up and caught us, Mother would tell us not to be so childish, which, since Amanda was eleven and I was nearly thirteen, was fair enough, but we had to get what entertainment we could out of the chocolate. The truth was that we were all of us, most of the time, bored out of our wits. Which was why we turned our attention to the affairs of the other guests and Amanda and I had our ears permanently tuned to the small dramas of the adults' conversation.
'I still can't believe she will.'
'Well, that's what the headwaiter said, and he should know. She's reserved the table in the corner overlooking the terrace and said they should be sure to have the Tokay.'
'The same table as last year.'
Our parents looked at each other over the croissants, carefully not noticing the maid as she poured our coffee. ('One doesn't notice the servants, dear, it only makes them awkward.1)
'I'm sure it's not true. Any woman with any feeling....'
'What makes you think she has any?'
Silence, as eye signals went on over our heads. I knew what was being signalled, just as I'd known what was being discussed in an overheard scrap of conversation between our parents at bedtime the night we arrived. '... effect it might have on Jessica.'
My name. I came rapidly out of drowsiness, kept my eyes closed but listened.
'I don't think we need worry about that. Jessica's tougher than you think.' My mother's voice. She needed us to be tough so that she didn't have to waste time worrying about us.
'All the same, she must remember it. It is only a year ago. That sort of experience can mark a child for life.'
'Darling, they don't react like we do. They're much more callous at that age.'
Even with eyes closed I could tell from the quality of my father's silence that he wasn't convinced, but it was no use arguing with Mother's certainties. They switched the light off and closed the door. For a minute or two I lay awake in the dark wondering whether I was marked for life by what I'd seen and how it would show, then I wondered instead whether I'd ever be able to do pirouettes on the ice like the girl from Paris, and fell asleep in a wistful dream of bells and the hiss of skates.
The conversation between our parents that breakfast time over what she would or wouldn't do was interrupted by the little stir of two other guests being shown to their table. Amanda caught my eye.
'Silver Stick and his Square Bear are going skiing.' Both gentlemen—elderly gentlemen as it seemed to us, but they were probably no older than their late fifties—were wearing heavy wool jumpers, tweed breeches, and thick socks, just as Father was. He nodded to them across the tables, wished them good morning and received nods and good-mornings back. Even the heavy sports clothing couldn't take away the oddity and distinction from the tall man. He was, I think, the thinnest person I'd ever seen. He didn't stoop as so many tall older people did but walked upright and lightly. His face with its eagle's beak of a nose was deeply tanned, like some of the older inhabitants of the village, but unlike them it was without wrinkles apart from two deep folds from the nose to the corners of his mouth. His hair was what had struck us most. It clung smoothly to his head in a cap of pure and polished silver, like the knob on an expensive walking stick. His companion, large and square shouldered in any case, looked more so in his skiing clothes. He shambled and tended to trip over chairs. He had a round, amiable face with pale, rather watery eyes, a clipped grey moustache but no more than a fringe of hair left on his gleaming pate. He always smiled at us when we met on the terrace or in corridors and appeared kindly. We'd noticed that he was always doing things for Silver Stick, pouring his coffee, posting his letters. For this reason we'd got it into our heads that Square Bear was Silver Stick's keeper. Amanda said Silver Stick probably went mad at the full moon and Square Bear had to lock him up and sing loudly so that people wouldn't hear his howling. She kept asking people when the next full moon would be, but so far nobody knew. I thought he'd probably come to Switzerland because he was dying of consumption, which explained the thinness, and Square Bear was his doctor. I listened for a coughing fit to confirm this, but so far there'd been not a sign of one. As they settled to their breakfast we watched as much as we could without being rebuked for staring. Square Bear opened the paper that had been lying beside his plate and read things out to Silver Stick, who gave the occasional little nod over his coffee, as if he'd known whatever it was all the time. It was the Times of London and must have been at least two days old because it had to come up from the station in the sleigh.
Holmes for the Holidays Page 6
