Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  "The production of such an article must give you immense satisfaction," I said courteously, hoping he would move on to the point of his visit, whatever it might be.

  "On the contrary, Dr. Watson," he said miserably. "I wish 1 had never heard of ventriloquism nor written a word about it. I mentioned my affection for Miss Elspeth Hawley, did I not?"

  "Yes," I assured him quickly, hoping to head off more expressions of rapture.

  "I fear one short sentence in my article of several pages incurred my beloved's wrath. 1 had pointed out, quite accurately, that fraudulent spiritualists often use ventriloquism as a method of producing disembodied voices, one of the types of bogus spirit manifestations that are their stock in trade. One of Elspeth's keenest interests is spiritualism, and she frequently attends séances with devoted enthusiasm, a foible I had always found amusing and, though certainly foolish, essentially harmless. My suggestion that the objects of her devotion could possibly be fraudulent filled her with anger. I did my best to explain that I had not said all spiritualists were of necessity charlatans. I sought to solicit her admission that at least some of the army of individuals hosting séances in this gullible day are out to dupe the naive and innocent, that in fact their activities should be deplored by no one more than the genuine spirit mediums on whom their activities bring discredit. But she would not be assuaged, and I feared our disagreement on this matter imperilled our pending marital happiness."

  "What do you think of that, Watson?" Holmes asked me. "You know something of spiritualism, I believe."

  "Poppycock," I muttered. "My literary agent has an interest in it. I can't imagine why."

  "I had no belief in it, either," Marplethorpe hastened to reiterate. "But in trying to make my argument to Elspeth, I had to at least counterfeit an open-mindedness on the subject."

  Our visitor had shifted from spiced cider to whisky, but the advent of the Christmas pudding seemed no nearer when he said, "That, I believe, brings us to Christmas last."

  I bit back an ironic rejoinder.

  "Elspeth and I were again on terms of concord and happiness when we gathered for Christmas at the country house of our friend, Charles Vickery. The gathering is an annual tradition. Charles is much the wealthiest of our circle, and indeed it was the literary weekly he publishes that gave my career part of its newly achieved stability. There are several regular guests at these functions, mostly those who like Elspeth and myself no longer had living parents or other close family near at hand when the holiday season comes. While the guest list has varied from year to year, Colin Ragsdale, another of my closest friends, has been a constant. Colin ekes out a living as an estate agent. He. Charles, and I were inseparable at university. We all had literary aspirations, and I remember remarking to Charles last year that the success he and I had achieved surely would soon be matched by Colin, whom I think we all believed, whether we said so or not, to be the most talented of the three of us.

  "Charles Vickery is a man of generosity and kindness whatever the season, but he knows the art of keeping Christmas like no person of my acquaintance, and his home is annually a veritable lightning rod for the yuletide spirit. The towering tree, hung with shining baubles and candles and cloved oranges, the sprigs of heavily berried holly, the brightly wrapped gifts, the romantic lure of the mistletoe, the garlands on the mantelpiece, the Yule log, the roasting chestnuts, the wassail bowl, and the food, oh, the glorious food, the succulent brown goose with its sage-and-onion stuffing, watercress garnish, brown gravy and gooseberry sauce, roasted potatoes arrayed around it; the glazed parsnips, the nuts, the dates, the mince pies—"

  "And the Christmas pudding," I offered.

  "Yes, yes, that as well, most memorably. I found the coin in my portion last year, and though I am not of a superstitious inclination, I was happy to take it as a harbinger of continued luck for the year to come. How gay we were those Christmas weekends with Charles, and how free of every care we were—or seemed." His face fell with such tangible sadness, I began to feel a tug of sympathy. However extravagantly stated, his desolation was very real.

  "My friends had all read my ventriloquism piece, of course. It was only a small part of my prolific output for the year, but it was certainly the one that most captured their fancy. I had faintly hoped no allusion would be made to it during the Christmas weekend, since it remained somewhat of a sore subject between Elspeth and myself. But of course, with high-spirited friends, full of boisterous humour, I was resigned that the spectre of 'belly speaking'—not by that indelicate term in mixed company, of course— had inevitably to raise itself, probably as an elaborate practical joke of some sort.

  "Christmas morning, we all exchanged our small gifts, one to another, an annual tradition attended by much laughter and affection. But when the gift exchange appeared to have run its course, I was informed that another gift was to come my way, one that was a token of esteem from all of my gathered friends. Charles led us into the drawing room, where an easel was set up with a white sheet covering the picture it held. I looked from face to face and saw only eager and good-humoured expectation.

  "With a flourish, Charles unveiled one of the strangest paintings I had ever seen. I must describe it to you in careful detail, Mr. Holmes, because the appearance of it, the very spirit of it, are central to my sad tale. It seemed at first glance cheerful and bright, a happy addition to a wall of art, but the more you looked at it, the more sombre and troubling it came to appear.

  "It depicted a man and a dog. The man was formally dressed, seated in a chair of rich scarlet fabric, the dog, a short-haired white terrier, lying on his knee. But closer inspection showed a blankness of expression on the man's face, a false brightness to his features, rather like a cartoon or a puppet. And when you looked closely, you could see that his jaw appeared to have a wooden hinge, like that on the ventriloquist's doll I had seen sitting on that music-hall performer's knee. The dog by contrast had a knowing intelligence to its features and far more character and personality in its face than its putative master. I mention the other details of the painting because they are important: a bright green handkerchief in the man's—or should I say man-sized doll's—pocket; a glittering jewelled collar around the dog's neck.

  " 'Well, what do you think, Oliver?' Charles demanded, his twenty-five-December jollity not reduced a whit by the sight of the picture.

  " 'It's . .. it's a remarkable piece of work,' I stammered, and I was by no means lying. However perverse its subject matter, it bespoke sound fundamental draftsmanship and a daringly original talent. That did not mean I relished the notion of hanging it on my wall and having to look at it every day, however. 'And who, may I ask, is the artist?' I inquired, looking without success for some signature on the canvas.

  " 'An amateur,' Charles said, 'another of whose canvases you won't find if you comb every gallery in London.'

  " 'A weekend painter,' agreed Colin Ragsdale.

  " 'Is it someone here?' I ventured.

  " 'You'll have to guess, Oliver,' said Elspeth playfully.

  " 'And if I guess correctly, you will tell me?'

  " 'No,' they all chorused as a single voice. 'It's from all of us, you see,' Colin explained, 'in celebration of your deserved success. The artist chooses to remain anonymous.'

  "When the weekend was over, of course, I had no choice but to transport the thing back to my newly acquired rooms in Kensington. But I still didn't want that wise dog and man-doll looking at me day and night. Elspeth, however, insisted, stating that a refusal to hang it would be an insult to my friends. Perhaps, I ventured, I could keep it in a back room and take it out for hanging whenever one of them called. 'No,' she said, 'it must hang there all the time, to give you inspiration. You will grow to love it, Oliver.'

  " 'And when we marry,' I inquired, 'are you prepared to live with it as well?'

  " 'Certainly,' she said.

  " 'And when will that wonderful event finally occur?' I inquired. Though definitely engaged, we had not yet set an o
fficial wedding date.

  " 'It must be next Christmas,' she said, 'with our friends around us.'

  " 'Must we wait so long?'

  " 'Only a year. We can be patient. I am determined to be a Christmas bride.'

  "Despite the long period of time, I was delighted to have a definite date finally set. I put aside my distaste and hung the painting in the sitting room of my flat, over the fireplace."

  "You say Miss Hawley had no family?"

  "No, she was an only child and her parents had died when she was ten years old and she was raised by a guardian. I and our circle of friends were her family, insofar as she had one."

  "Pray continue your story."

  "At first the year seemed to offer a continuation of my recent success. The editorial duties at Vikkery's Weekly took a sizable part of my working time, but I still managed to continue placing articles and reviews in decent number, and my prices were rising as my volume lessened. Through January and February, I gradually achieved a kind of truce with the painting. 1 did not like it; I did not look at it more than I could help; but still it was not casting a pall over my life. In March, however, that began to change.

  "For my birthday, Elspeth surprised me with a little dog. A kind gesture, you might say, and I would agree, but disquietingly the dog proved to be a white terrier identical in markings to the one depicted in the painting. I found it disturbing but realized that to say so would make me appear ungrateful and cause hurt to Elspeth.

  "So, as light-heartedly as I could manage, I said, 'This lad is obviously the model for my Christmas painting. Tell me who the previous owner was and I shall identify the phantom artist.' She answered with similar lightness of tone but provided no information. When I asked her if the dog had a name, she said I should call him Eddie."

  "Could Miss Elspeth Hawley herself have been the artist?" I ventured.

  Marplethorpe shook his head. "I am certain not. We spent much of our time together, and she evinced no artistic proclivities. While my knowledge of her domestic arrangements certainly did not extend beyond the boundaries dictated by decency and propriety, I never associated any accoutrements of the artistic life with her. And if she had been keeping a terrier, I surely must have known.

  "From the day that Eddie entered my household, my life began its unutterable descent. To begin with, I began hearing strange, faint voices in the night. 'Speak for me, master.' 'Sit me on your knee, master.' 'Take me to the music hall, master.' And if I looked for a source, the voice seemed to be coming from the terrier curled up at the foot of my bed!

  "I confess I didn't take it seriously. From earliest childhood, I have had strange dreams. Indeed I have often been thankful for the spur they give my creativity. Thus I well know how easy it is to imagine bizarre, inexplicable things at night that seem to vanish in the light of day. The voices, I told myself, could only have been a dream, the deceptive product of a state somewhere between sleeping and waking. I surely could not blame the dog. Eddie was a good little fellow really and a welcome companion.

  "But other manifestations were more troubling and harder to put aside. To put it bluntly, the painting began to change.

  "First the change was subtle. The face of the man-doll had seemed blank and expressionless when I first saw it. But each time I looked at it now, it seemed to be taking on more character and feature. It began to look more and more like me. That it should resemble me was not so odd a notion; it would fit right in with the humour of my friends and of the mysterious artist, who I believed surely must be one of them. I told myself it was my imagination, that it had always looked like me, that this was part of the joke and I was only gradually coming to realize it. But each time I looked at the picture—and now I somehow felt compelled to look at it each time I entered the sitting room—it seemed the resemblance became more and more striking.

  "The disturbance the painting was causing in me led me to avoid the sitting room. I spent more and more time at the desk in my study, even when I was not actively pursuing my writing and editing chores. This change of habits did not, as you might think, increase my productivity, however. It became more and more difficult to concentrate on my work. For the first time in my career, I began missing deadlines, and my hard-won reputation for reliability and professionalism began to erode. How can one keep his attention fixed on such mundane matters as writing and editing when he fears he is going mad?"

  "Did you speak of this to anyone?" Holmes asked.

  "Not to that point, no. Not when I could still attribute the odd happenings to my imagination. Not until I could no longer deny that either the manifestations were real... or I was descending into madness.

  "One morning in early May, I left my bedroom and walked into the sitting room. On a small table near the doorway, the usual repository for gloves and items of mail, I saw a bright green handkerchief. I was puzzled, for I owned no such handkerchief, and I recalled having no visitor who might have left it. As I looked at it, it occurred to me it resembled the handkerchief the man-doll wore in the painting. Once again, my eyes were drawn unwillingly to the picture over the mantel, intending to compare them. But now there was no green handkerchief in the seated figure's pocket! It was gone!"

  By now I was convinced my first diagnosis had been correct. The man was clearly out of his senses.

  "Did you examine the painting closely, Mr. Marplethorpe?" Holmes inquired.

  "Really, Mr. Holmes! How close an examination was necessary? It did not take any more than a glance to tell that something as striking as a bright green handkerchief was missing from the painting."

  "You misunderstand me, sir. If we eliminate a supernatural explanation, which my training, experience, and personal philosophy require me to do, we must look for a natural one. If what you have told us is accurate, the only conclusion is that someone must have touched up the painting. Was there any sign of fresh or wet oil on the canvas?"

  "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. That possibility did occur to me later, but in this first instance, I was too upset to notice."

  "There were later similar events?"

  Marplethorpe nodded. "A few weeks later, I awoke to find a jewelled collar had appeared around Eddie's neck. As soon as I saw it, I rushed to look at the picture, terrified of what I would find. My fears were realized. The dog in the picture now had no collar." He paused. "And, Mr. Holmes, there was no sign of fresh paint on the canvas."

  "At what point did you tell someone about all these unusual occurrences?"

  "I delayed for weeks, torn with indecision. Finally I invited a party of three to luncheon at my club. My intention was to share with them the singular happenings, take them up to my rooms to show them my evidence, and ask them if they could offer any possible explanation."

  "And who were the three?"

  "The three persons closest to me in the world, of course: Charles Vickery, Colin Ragsdale, and my own beloved, Elspeth."

  "Had none of them been in your rooms since the first of these odd events?"

  "No. Charles had been spending most of his time outside London, and Elspeth had recently expressed an increasing concern about visiting my bachelor quarters unchaperoned, though I hasten to assure you our relations were never other than completely proper. As for Colin, we often met for drinks and talk in Fleet Street pubs but for one reason or another had not visited each other's rooms in that period.

  "It was not a happy gathering we had over lunch. My work for Vickery's Weekly had become erratic, and I knew Charles was concerned. My friends had perceived alterations in my personality for which I had offered no plausible explanation. I had always been regarded as a moody, volatile person, and it had been attributed to my artistic temperament, but lately my mercurial moods had become worse. Elspeth and I had quarrelled over trivialities. Even Colin's insouciant manner was sometimes strained by my erratic behaviour. And of course, as I told them my story, they could only think me as mad as you must think me now."

  "Not at all," Holmes said, speaking for himself alone. />
  "I was glad finally to have told someone else about it, however, and of course, I knew once we got to my rooms and I showed them the painting, they would know I was not losing my senses. Then we could have a reasoned discussion of possible explanations."

  "But when you arrived at the flat," Holmes ventured, "the painting had been restored to its original state."

  Marplethorpe looked amazed at this, but it seemed quite an obvious deduction to me. Surely the poor man's friends would not share his delusion, and when they saw no change in the painting, he would no longer see it either.

  "You are uncanny, Mr. Holmes. That is exactly what occurred. My first indication was when Eddie greeted us at the door. He did not have the collar around his neck, though I had never removed it. We moved into the sitting room and gazed at the painting. The collar was in place on the neck of the knowing dog; the green handkerchief was in the man-doll's pocket; and the face of the doll had returned to the wooden blankness we had seen on Christmas Day, with the resemblance to me erased. There was little I could say. I felt a fool, and yet I knew what I had seen. I determined to show them the handkerchief, but it was gone from my drawer. My friends departed with meaningless words of comfort, advising me to get some rest, not to work so hard.

  "A note from Elspeth arrived a day later. She said she was taking a long ocean voyage with a distant cousin for her own peace of mind. Though she still claimed the greatest of affection for me, she begged to postpone our nuptials. And I thought her note was oddly impersonal in tone, as if she were attempting to distance herself from a situation beyond her understanding.

  "Within a month, I had been discharged as editor of Vickery's Weekly. Charles was kindness itself, but said he had no other choice, that he would see what he could do for me when I regained my robust health. Sanity, he meant but did not say. The commissions for articles and reviews stopped coming, as if some tap had been turned off. I had to give up my Kensington accommodations and take cheaper rooms."