Holmes for the Holidays

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  The thought passed my mind to say I had not realized he was cheerful, but the desire to ask Mrs. Hudson for breakfast combined with curiosity overcame the impulse. "To what may I attribute this phenomenon in you, Holmes? Have you been sought to investigate a scandal linked to one of the royal families of Europe?"

  "Not at all," he replied, chuckling. "On the one hand, Watson"—he clapped his left palm on the stack of open letters, his right on his sealed envelopes—"I have two intriguing new correspondents for whom civility requires a response." He pointed to the letter separate from the others, a brow rising. "On the other hand is the prospect of a client whose problems may be marginally more challenging than their domestic nature implies. She will call on us within the hour."

  "Just yesterday you complained about a complete dearth of cases," I reminded Holmes. "You cited, if memory serves, 'this endless period of Yuletide sentiment.' "

  "So I did, Watson," he said agreeably. A long, panama-clad leg shot out and he wriggled his pale toes. "But the special post only today brought the letter in question, knocking me up in the process. I daresay you were awakened in similar fashion, although it took you somewhat longer to break the spell of Morpheus."

  "Ah!" I exhaled, nodding. "That is why you did not apologize for rousing me."

  "Because I was merely the instrument of your inconvenience, not the cause," Holmes said. "Once afoot, I elected then to begin responding to my mail." He snatched up a letter to him, wafted it aloft. "Is the name 'Thomas Nast' at all familiar to you, Watson?"

  I ransacked my memory. "Is he not an artist of some kind?"

  "Precisely. Mr. Nast is an American newspaper artist whose cartoons have used satire to attack the New York politicians of what is termed 'Tammany Hall.' For some time we have exchanged letters of mutual regard. I see Nast as having cleverly extended the arm of the law, and he perceives me in the same light."

  "And his present letter?"

  Holmes, remarkably, chortled with glee. "He has accepted my proposed image for sketches he means to create depicting Father Christmas!"

  "Congratulations, old friend!" I said sincerely. "But what image did you suggest?"

  "My brother, Mycroft!" Holmes retorted, exuberantly pounding the floor with his fist and laughing. The mail on the floor bounced. "You yourself described his 'absolute corpulence,' his 'great bulk.' I recalled his wish to be of service to the government—in short, to others. And we are all mere children before my older brother's genius, or his size! Nast says he will add a beard and, in all probability, a smile! Come, what do you think of an old colleague who has reminded you of Ebenezer Scrooge now that he has made such a contribution to your precious Yuletide!"

  I was at a loss to do more than add further congratulations. I added, "May I ask the identity of your second new correspondent?"

  Holmes stretched his arms until he could lock his fingers round his toes. An affable gleam was in his eyes as he rocked lightly to and fro, exercising. "He is an extraordinary fellow who also lives in America, virtually in libraries, where he compiles lists. He haunts the files of old newspapers and other publications for oddities—anomalies of nature, and those of man."

  "Odd chap." I fear I spoke hastily for I had heard Mrs. Hudson bustling around below us and I was eager to inform our landlady we were ready for breakfast. "I suppose he has other qualities you find interesting."

  "Not one," Holmes replied immediately, freeing his toes and peering over at me with some annoyance. "I cited his single appeal to my intellect. In Charles Fort I sense a kindred spirit in some particulars. Fort is sceptical, understands that facts are what they wish to be and lack all flexibility. Well, it happens that I added to his collection of queer data which Fort calls 'damned.1 "

  I had gone to the landing, leaving the door ajar, and succeeded in signalling Mrs. Hudson. Now, closing the door, I returned my attention to my friend. "Good Lord, Holmes, why does the man call facts such a thing?"

  He uncoiled from the floor like some magnificent jungle cat, brushing at his dressing gown before stooping to don his slippers. "Innumerable facts are despised by the close-minded, therefore effectually ostracized; ignored." He strode briskly to a shelf of his commonplace books and pulled out the volume labelled "K" in his own distinct penmanship. He held it out to me. "I sealed my letter to Fort. However, if you should like to see for yourself what obvious yet largely ignored fact I am sending him, do be my guest."

  I opened the book, my gaze falling upon such entries as "Kaolin clay and its potential for concealing and preserving fingerprints," "Knights of the Golden Circle—link to the hooded Neal family victims?" and "Kisner and Koontz, outside the Valley of the Howl." I glanced at the detective. "For what am I looking, Holmes?"

  "The town of Kottenforst, Germany," he called, seemingly about to resume his correspondence while seated at the desk. "It is a short distance from Bonn."

  Leafing through the pages, I felt an honour had been bestowed upon me. Holmes often asked me to read telegrams and newspaper items aloud but rarely invited me to peer into his great, erratically organized commonplace books. Under the heading of Kottenforst I learned of an unrusted metal column called the Iron Man rising fewer than five feet from the ground and running some ninety feet deep—for no purpose anyone living has discovered! Amazingly, records of its existence have been found in writings from the late fourteenth century. "Plunging it through limestone and rock," Holmes's scrawl continued, "would have been virtually impossible five hundred years ago. Who put it there, and how? Why does 'the Iron Man' exist at all?"

  There the entry ended and I turned to my friend with a mixture of inexplicable apprehension and irritation. "This is damned nonsense!" I exclaimed.

  Holmes did not look up but simply patted his sealed letter to Charles Fort, not quite concealing his satisfied smile. I experienced a measure of relief when, a few minutes later, our reliable landlady tapped on the door with breakfast.

  I ate silently while Holmes, at the desk, scribbled letters at a pace I knew from years of association would render his writing almost illegible to recipients unversed in his hand. He paused now and again to gulp hot tea or take bites from the slices of toast provided by Mrs. Hudson until they appeared to have been nibbled upon by tentative rodents. Finished at length with letters and meal, Holmes darted upstairs to dress for our expected caller.

  I had just followed suit and rejoined Holmes in the sitting room when, with a great moan, he tumbled back on the sofa, forearm slung across his face.

  "What is it, Holmes?" I cried, rushing to his side. "Are you in much pain?"

  "Only the agony of one who can mark the difference between the profound and the superficial," he groaned. The message delivered by special post dangled from his fingertips, and that arm was out flung in despair. "Only the torment of a man who has been to the brink with Moriarty, outsmarted the second most dangerous man in London, and has destroyed his career by striving for perfection and reaching it. I cannot lie to myself about this matter or its simplicity."

  He appeared to be seeking to hand me the letter and so I took and read it.

  My dear Mr. Holmes:

  I am well aware that you are accustomed to using your vast knowledge for personages far more important than my poor brother and me. However, I love Sydney with all my heart, and his mysterious disappearance means I have no one left to whom I may turn for guidance.

  Briefly stated, the facts are that my brother's disposition changed greatly in a short period of time though he assured me he has done nothing wrong. Sydney was one who always loved me, and looked forward yearly to joining with other carolers at Christmastime. During the period of his change, he began avoiding me without animosity between us, and his vanishing convinces me he is in danger of some variety. I beg you to find and help him.

  I haven't contacted the authorities because, despite my brother's spotless reputation as an aspiring author, some illness may have caused him to behave rashly. It may be of interest to read that Sydney, who took roo
ms in Montague Place since this all started, cannot smile or laugh.

  A consulting detective such as you. Mr. Holmes, might be able to deduce my brother's whereabouts in a very short period and return expeditiously to matters of state.

  The letter's writer mentioned the hour at which she would visit Baker Street, and signed herself Eleanor Chesterfield. I noted her address was on Mildenhall Road.

  Sighing, Holmes was struggling into a resigned seated position. "What do you make of this, Watson?"

  I studied the message closely. "They are doubtlessly impecunious since Montague Place has declined. The fact that the brother is attempting to become a writer makes it rather likely he has acquired debts which he has hidden from sister." I studied the letter line by line, even held it up to the light. "Poverty and debt often conspire to remove the smile from a man's face and turn him solitary."

  Holmes said, tonelessly, "Is that all?"

  "It's mere surmise, Holmes, but I would not hesitate to say the message is a most disciplined effort on the part of an aging maiden woman rendered virtually helpless by Sydney's absence." I shrugged. "If he is ill, it may be that the poor old soul has wandered off due to his mental infirmity. Do you follow my conclusions?"

  "Only with peril, Watson." Holmes stood at the mantel examining his tobacco dottles from the previous day. As a rule he used them for his day's first pipe, but answering letters had preoccupied him this morning. "Both sister and brother lived on Mildenhall Road with its well-to-do residences until he moved, to be on his own. That deed, coupled with the decision to pursue a new career, suggests the thinking of a younger man. Not one afflicted with senility." He had his pipe going and his head was wreathed by pungent smoke. "At least your hearing has not suffered."

  I was annoyed as I poured myself a final cup of tea and found it cold. "I suppose you deduce a great deal more from Miss Chesterfield's letter?"

  "Quality means more than quantity in the art of deduction." Holmes crossed to the bow window, drew back the curtains, and peered out at Baker Street. "My client is a young, intelligent woman of considerable persuasion, accustomed to being her sibling's prevailing influence. Her reference to my skill at the outset and close of her missive demonstrates the former, her lack of understanding of his ambition the latter. The two resided together until the demise of their parents, who willed the property to them. I also know that Sydney has either led a double life throughout his adult years or is, indeed, strangely ill and in the depths of misery."

  "It could be both," I said helpfully.

  Holmes was lost in his track of thought. "It is embarrassment that prevented the lady from seeking official assistance. She preferred to contact no one about her brother's apparent disappearance until overcome both by sisterly love and the same sentimental attachment to this season which infects so many people each year."

  "How can you deduce the latter. Holmes?" I asked.

  "My dear fellow," he murmured, "what other conclusion is possible when Miss Chesterfield presents no reason for waiting to consult me, then does so suddenly by special post—early on a day when groups of carolers are beginning to move into the streets? It is clear she felt Sydney would return to his digs in time for the annual festivities, but her preference for privacy gave way to love and genuine concern." He released the curtain and went rapidly to his chair. "The same reasoning leads to the deduction that both of them lived in Mildenhall until their parents died, when, at last, he chose to pursue his literary career. An older man would have struck out on his own sooner." Holmes sat down, drummed his fingertips on the arms. "A carriage has arrived, Watson. We should hear the lady's footsteps on the stairs—now."

  The unmistakable noise of woman's heels reached our ears simultaneously. My friend fell back in his chair, smiling and smoking. I was unaware he was listening closely enough to count the seventeen steps to our rooms until, before there was a rap, Holmes called, "Please, Miss Chesterfield—come in!"

  The woman who entered did so before I was able to open the door for her. She stared at Holmes and then at me. "You have described Mr. Holmes exceptionally well," she said in genteel accents. As she allowed me to take her black winter coat, I saw that she was petite and fine featured, with blonde hair swept up from the neck. "I would have known you anywhere, Mr. Holmes."

  "And I you, madam," my friend said, rising but briefly before falling back into his chair. He raised a single, golden hair doubtlessly plucked from the lady's letter. "Observe, Doctor, that Miss Chesterfield is some eight and twenty years of age. I take it your brother Sydney is not yet in his dotage?"

  Her laugh, I confess, was that of a properly reared lady. "He is three years my junior. I become twenty-eight in June. Pray tell me what else you know about me, Mr. Holmes, and from what you accomplish your deductions?"

  Holmes drew heavily on his pipe. "As to the latter, my sole sources of data are the letter you dispatched, and your person. As to the former, I informed Dr. Watson that your parents perished before your brother departed the home, that you imagined his problems not sufficient to keep him from a homecoming, and that you concluded his inability to smile or laugh lies near the root of his situation." Holmes's eyes narrowed. "I also have reason to think you fear for his sanity and what he may do, to others or to himself."

  I was studying her refined features and saw her turn uncommonly pale. "Holmes, that is exceedingly direct and personal, even if you are correct."

  "Yet he is correct, Doctor," Eleanor Chesterfield said, mustering a courageous smile I thought admirable. "The matter is both personal and delicate."

  "Then I certainly commend your judgment in scorning the official police. And," Holmes added, "rest assured that what is spoken here will remain confidential." He pressed his fingertips together. "Comprehension, however, is my ally. Did your brother leave his family home because you disapproved of his ambitions or for any other point of contention between you?"

  "Absolutely not, except I desired Sydney to consult a physician. Apart from that, I knew that the inheritance left equally to us finally gave him the opportunity to pursue his talents."

  "Yet is it not curious for him to take rooms in a less comfortable residence?" Holmes relit his pipe. "Wouldn't Mildenhall have had a room suitable as a study?"

  One of her pale hands fluttered. "I have no explanation for his choice apart from his impairment." She sat forward. "Sydney was never a jovial or sociable child and our father expressed his dissatisfaction clearly that my brother's aptitudes leaned more to the creative than to finance. Sydney was animated only with me, or in song. But even before he left home his moods had darkened. He denied anything was wrong even though he scowled and rarely spoke. Then, dwelling alone, his attitude seemed swiftly to deteriorate." Her voice faded and she appeared unable to continue.

  "Please, proceed," Holmes said levelly.

  "He refused most of my invitations," Miss Chesterfield resumed. "Several weeks ago, when he relented and came for dinner, I was obliged to make most of the conversation. Yet when he was otherwise amused by something I said to make him smile, his face remained expressionless, and ..." She broke off speaking.

  "You really must tell us everything," I said from my chair beside her, patting her hand.

  She gazed desperately at Holmes. "Sydney was able only to make strange, grunting noises in lieu of laughter." She made the effort not to sob. "They sounded quite—porcine. He was aware of it, too, I'm sure. He averted his face, then leapt to his feet and bolted for the door. I have not seen or heard from him since then."

  "Some questions of extreme importance," said Holmes. Erect in his chair, his authority could not have been denied. "On that evening, did your brother say or do anything whatsoever that was unmistakably irrational? In short, despite your concern that his condition might cause him to behave 'rashly,' is there a logical reason apart from the expressionlessness, inappropriate vocal sounds, or his leaving your house, to believe he was suffering a mental breakdown?"

  "Why, no." A glimmer of hope rest
ored some colour to the lady's cheeks. "Furthermore, I know of no one he hates or fears, and I begged him to admit it if he had made some unwise investment, but he denied it." She paused. "The only peculiar statement he uttered was made while climbing into a carriage for the trip back to his rooms. 'Don't you know, sister,' he said, 'I'm the one person you cannot take at face value?' Then," Miss Chesterfield finished, shuddering, "he grimaced hideously as he was borne away."

  My friend accepted a photograph of Sydney from a few years in the past, then mystified me with two last questions. He asked whether the brother sang tenor or baritone, and the name of the church that the family attended, which proved to be Saint Agnes in Cricklewood.

  "Please locate him," Miss Chesterfield said while I held the door open for her. "Assure him I shall stand beside him whatever the nature of his problem."

  "Find him, I shall, madam," Holmes promised from in front of his chair. "Perhaps just as 'expeditiously' as your letter so persuasively implored me to do. You may expect to hear from me."

  When I no longer heard her heels striking the stairs, I turned to Holmes with some exasperation. "I cannot recall when you have sworn to solve a case, Holmes. Or for that matter, responded less warmly to a client's difficulties."

  "But I did not promise Miss Chesterfield a happy Christmas, old fellow, merely to locate Sydney. He is plagued by an enigmatic malady, indeed." He was slipping into a topcoat. "As for the rest, I failed neither to observe that the lady is comely nor that you did, as well. Her attractiveness means little to me and does not make the case a fraction more challenging to me."

  "May I inquire where you are going, Holmes?"

  The door opened and he paused. "Why, I am going to church, Watson. I believe such attendance was a prominent element of the Christmas season before the giving of gifts and the consumption of certain fowl became de rigueur"