"Then cease tormenting me and tell me what really happened. No doubt it was the footsteps of a gigantic hound on the sideboard scarf that led you to the family dog in conspiracy with the monkey, Curio, who was actually a trained accomplice to a thieving organ grinder from Ceylon!" "Not so sour, Watson."
"You still have not said who took the emerald and where it had gone to."
"Gone to the cellar with the plum puddings, of course." "But you skewered the blasted plum puddings, for nothing!" "I was on the right trail, though. The Twelfth Night cake, remember the cake."
"How could I forget it? For dessert, first the cheese, riddled with 'portholes,' so to speak, the port wine in its many holes, was born in. 'Stilton,' Mrs. Oliver announced proudly, 'precedes the crowning cake of the evening.' At which your queen-to-be cried out, 'Dessert without cheese is the kiss without the squeeze.' A most lascivious performance for a family dinner table. And then she winked! Luckily, she could not compete with the Queen of Cakes when it arrived. A lofty affair with thick sugar frosting and marzipan roses; it would take a dozen mouths to consume it at one go, and that is the point of a Twelfth Night cake, to be eaten fully at once so the trinket is discovered."
"This 'trinket' was emerald green and the size of a Brazil nut." "The emerald? But how? And I did not see it." "You were too busy eating your cake and trying to ignore my foolish new title and deliciously ridiculous consort. The only remaining question at that point was whose teeth would strike the Epiphany Emerald. Oddly enough, that honour fell to me, and then resulted in other, even more ludicrous honours, such as the title of Bean King."
"And, after that, you went to the sideboard to fetch the wine and personally refill everyone's glass, a most upstart social behaviour, but I supposed then that a Lord of Misrule could do whatever he liked. You replaced the emerald at that time, didn't you, Holmes? And the family knew it. Why did no one remark upon the finding and restoration? Why was I left in utter ignorance for two decades?"
"No one wished to further upset the thief."
"Who was—?"
"Whose feelings would require sparing."
"Old Mrs. Oliver, the kleptomaniac, then. You said the family made excuses for her."
"Yes, but it was not she."
"Young Andrew? Prodigal sons are famous for being forgiven."
"Perhaps, but I doubt the Olivers could forgive the theft of the Epiphany Emerald. This case was child's play, quite literally. Who is traditionally excused of all mischief at Christmas?"
"Why ... children, I suppose. Holmes! Not Antonia!?"
Holmes nodded in satisfaction. "You have found the right bean at last, Watson. Antonia had witnessed the women toss the raisins into the plum puddings and was duly impressed. When she heard about the hidden surprise in the Twelfth Night cake, she decided to cook up a surprise of her own. She took the emerald amid the Christmas Day flurry and kept it in her apron pocket until the cake batter was prepared some days after Christmas and stored in the cool cellar. A child's presence in a busy holiday kitchen is both tolerated and ignored."
"How was she able to take it without leaving a trace?"
"First, she was clever enough to do it before Maria dusted the dining room. She used a dining room chair, but needed to pull it out only the distance someone would to seat himself, so no telltale scratches marred the floor. And she did leave a clue: the clove flakes, but I attributed them to the maker rather than to one of the recipients."
"Surely Antonia heard the consternation about the emerald and would have confessed."
"The family wanted to spare her their suspicions of each other, so they kept her in the dark as much as possible."
"But when you arrived—"
"More holiday hullabaloo and strangers, as was Miss DeVere's presence. Antonia accepted the uproar; it was still the holiday, wasn't it, especially among the celebratory Olivers? Besides, the emerald was supposed to be a surprise. If she did realize the problem, her young mind only anticipated their greater surprise when the emerald was found."
"So that was why she was subdued at dinner! All had been discovered and she knew that her 'surprise' was a serious matter."
"Indeed. And that is why my discovery was so discreet; no one wanted to inadvertently reward her innocent childish mischief."
"And Viola DeVere was—"
Holmes chuckled again, like a rather young man. "Andrew's Pinkerton, grafted onto Sebastian. And a true performer as well, who couldn't resist taking the name of 'Viola' from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night for her impersonation in honour of the season."
"Then she was not as she seemed." My mind peeled away the gaudy gown, tawdry red hair, clownish face paint, and above all, the atrocious accent. The scales fell from my eyes. "You are right, Holmes, she was a beautiful woman, quite the most beautiful woman we have ever encountered, save for. . . Holmes! She was not...?!"
"Let me just say that we have encountered the lady before, in another case... or, to be perfectly accurate, Watson, after." Holmes rose and rubbed his hands together, case closed. "Well, Watson, I believe that our mental exertions have by now exhausted Mrs. Hudson's splendid repast. Let us brave the fresh winter's day to view London's rare, pristine semblance. Then we may visit Simpsons-in-the-Strand for our own just desserts. I crave some Twelfth Night cake after all these years, and a splendid sherry."
I agreed with alacrity, but once I had donned my coat, paused at the door. "What of Miss DeVere's mousy friend, Holmes? Apparently she was no music-hall performer, after all."
"A true friend and an innocent, ignorant witness, present only to account for a slice of cake, like yourself, Watson. Unlike yourself, she was a personage of no importance, who has truly not been heard from again in our time. A respectable parson's daughter. A Miss Penelope Huxleigh, in fact. You will not find her in my index, Watson, I assure you."
And with that, Holmes hurtled down Mrs. Hudson's dark stairs with a young man's agility.
The Italian Sherlock Holmes
Reginald Hill
Halloa! What's this,' said Sherlock Holmes, studying the sheet of paper he had just removed from a thick white envelope heavily embossed with a crest I did not recognise. 'I don't suppose you have ever attended an execution, Watson?'
'Indeed I have,' I replied, not displeased to be able for once to surprise my friend. 'As duty medical officer at a hanging in Afghanistan. Not my happiest memory of army life. Why do you ask?'
He tossed the sheet of paper to me.
'These Italians are an original race,' he said. 'This is surely the rarest Christmas entertainment a man was ever invited to!'
The news that Sherlock Holmes was wintering in Rome had spread through the British community like wildfire, almost eclipsing the rumour that the Prince of Wales, incognito, was dallying with an opera singer at Ostia. Had we so desired, we could have dined at the best tables in the city every night of Advent. But it was not for the social round that we had paused in Rome on our way north from Naples. I have met with few men capable of greater physical and mental exertion than my friend Holmes, but frequently once the occasion of such exertions has passed, a period of deep lassitude ensues in which that most brilliant of minds fades to the merest glimmer of consciousness in an all but moribund shell. For a few days after the conclusion of the affair of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife, which had taken us from the foetid cellars of the Camorra's Neapolitan stronghold to the smoking rim of Mount Vesuvius, I had hoped that the surge of energy success always brings would carry him safe across Europe to the healing solace of Mrs Hudson's traditional Yuletide cheer in Baker Street. But as we entered Rome he had suffered an almost complete nervous collapse and there had been nothing for it but to take rooms in a respectable pensione and bide out time till a quiet atmosphere and healthy diet should have worked their repairs.
Alas, in Italy the one is almost as hard to find as the other, and once the news of his presence had spread, I was hard pressed for at least ten hours of each day turning visitors fro
m our door.
The written invitations, however, I admitted in the hope that something in them might spark an interest. But up till now they had all fluttered from his hand after the most cursory of glances. So to see him react with something of his old alertness to this latest invitation at first made my spirits rise. When however I reread the elegantly penned missive, my pleasure diminished somewhat.
My dear Holmes,
My delight at hearing from my good friend the British ambassador that you are presently in Rome was naturally tempered by learning of the reasons for your stay. May I join with all the honest men of Europe in wishing you a speedy return to health?
But even out of evil may come good, and though you may set it down to mere Romish superstition, forgive me if I see the hand of God in this (I hope) temporary indisposition of yours. How else am I to interpret your unforseeable presence in my city on the very day which sees the culmination of my first poor efforts to emulate your unique methods? I refer of course to the tragic case of the murder of my beloved uncle, Count Leonardo Montesecco. Tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, the foul assassin, Giuseppe Strepponi, will meet his richly deserved fate on the scaffold in the Piazza San Cassiano. I and a few interested friends will be gathering to witness this triumphant vindication of the laws of God and man, and I would be honoured if, health permitting, you and your companion, Dr Watson, would care to join us. If so, my carriage will collect you at eight of the clock.
With deepest respect from one who is honoured to inscribe himself your disciple and colleague,
The signature was a hieroglyph too elegant to be called a scrawl but too ornate for legibility.
'So what do you make of it, Watson?' asked Holmes.
'To invite us to watch some poor devil being put to death on the Eve of our Saviour's birth is such a monstrous piece of impiety,' I replied indignantly, 'that I can only hope the missive is a fraud.'
'No fraud,' he replied with a lively smile which cheered my heart. 'I know the coat of arms of the Montesecco family, and from what I recall of the hand and signature of Bruno Montesecco, the present count, the letter bears none of the inevitable telltales of forgery.'
'In that case,' I replied, 'it is an impudence as well as an impiety. I am sorry that such an ancient family has finally forgotten its manners. Will you dictate our refusal or shall I pen it myself?'
Now Holmes threw back his head and let out that characteristic cackle of laughter which I had not heard for many days and, despite my indignation, my heart grew lighter still.
'I think, dear fellow, in your present state of mind,' he said, 'that any reply from you is likely to be read as an invitation to pistols at dawn, or more probably a stiletto at night in view of your plebeian origins. No, I shall write myself and what is more, I shall accept the invitation with pleasure. When in Rome, Watson! But first ring the bell and summon up Signora Grillo to order some luncheon. Also I have some telegrams I would like to send.'
As he spoke he leapt to his feet in search of his neglected pipe, and the heavy shawls in which his narrow frame had been swathed, even though a roaring sea-coal fire turned the room into an oven, fell away. And with them fell the greater part of my resentment at Count Montesecco's invitation.
'Tell me, Holmes,' I said as we sat over luncheon, which I was pleased to note he wolfed down, 'how is it you came acquainted with this Count Montesecco? And why should he think the fate of this poor devil Strepponi should be of interest to you? And is it the custom of this country to treat executions as an occasion of social festivity? And does ... ?'
'Stay, stay, my dear Watson,' he cried. 'Let me finish this excellent cutlet and I shall gladly try to answer your questions.'
Later as we sat before the fire, adding the sweet smoke of my Arcadia mixture to that of the coals, he began his explanation.
'I have never met the count in person, but he began writing to me early this year, before he had succeeded to his murdered uncle's title. From the style and manner of his writing, I put him down as the kind of young aristocrat who is rich enough to be idle but a little too intelligent to be satisfied with the customary recreations of his class. His restless enquiring mind, in search of some pastime which might satisfy his desire for activity without demeaning his self-esteem, chanced upon some of those infernal scribblings of yours about my cases, and having made his first deduction, which was that in England where we still set the standards for such things, it is possible to be a consultant detective without ceasing to be a gentleman, he decided to follow my example.'
'He must have a pretty large conceit of himself,' I observed.
'I think there can be little doubt of that,' replied my friend dryly. 'I think that in his very first letter he pointed out a couple of apparent deficiencies in my deductive processes which he very handsomely laid at the door of my inefficient chronicler rather than my inefficient technique.'
'The impudent puppy!' I snorted.
'Youth must be given its head, Watson,' said Holmes. 'I replied politely but coolly, not so much because of anything I found offensive in his manner, though I was always left aware, despite the flattering tone of his letters, that he was an aristocrat and I was not, but rather because I am sensible that my methods misapplied are as capable of causing serious damage as a surgeon's scalpel in the hands of a schoolboy.'
'But he persisted in the correspondence?'
'Indeed. A snub must be very blatant to penetrate the complacence of such an innate conviction of social superiority,' said Holmes. 'And I saw no reason to descend to rudeness. Then late in the summer I received a letter which was so full of the sheer excitement of investigation that it almost forgot to patronize! After bemoaning in previous letters the lack of such challenging crimes as seemed to be the commonplace of my life, he found himself actually present at the scene, indeed almost the occasion of one of Rome's most sensational murders. The fact that the victim was his uncle, the head of his own noble family, seemed almost inconsequential when set against the opportunity afforded him to investigate. Or perhaps he did not think it seemly to share a private grief with a stranger.'
'But from the sound of it, his investigation of the crime has met with some success?'
'So it would appear. His first letter on the subject, written the day after the murder, told me of a few preliminary deductions he had made and forecast complete success within twenty-four hours. I must confess I found his confidence smacked somewhat of arrogance.'
I concealed a smile. When it comes to an arrogant assumption of his own infallibility, Holmes can on occasion make the Holy Father ex cathedra sound like a bashful tyro.
'The next letter came hot on the heels of the first and proclaimed absolute triumph. The murderer was caught and all on account of Montesecco's insights. By now rather than asking advice, I felt he was with difficulty restraining himself from giving it. I sent a polite letter of congratulation. Since coming to Italy I have twice noted his name in the papers in connection with other investigations. They are calling him the Italian Sherlock Holmes! But as you know I have been too busy for more than a cursory interest. Now, however, fate has brought us close and I find I have a fancy to meet this prodigy. Who knows, Watson, he may be able to teach this old dog some new tricks, hey?'
'He would need to get up very early in the morning to do that,' I said loyally.
'From the sound of his invitation, that is one trick he has learned already,' said Holmes so merrily that I went to bed that night feeling more comfortable in my mood than for many a day.
Precisely on the stroke of eight on the morning of Christmas Eve the bell of out pensione was rung with a most imperious hand and a moment later Signora Grillo, our padrona, appeared to me in a state of great excitement to announce the presence of the Count Montesecco's coach. I summoned Holmes and was a little taken aback when on seeing me he burst into laughter and said, 'I hope the kernel is a little more fashionably shaped than the husk, Watson.'
Uncertain what local custom decreed was the acceptable g
arb for an execution, I had opted for comfort and was wearing my heavy Abercrombie with my long plaid scarf wound three times round my neck, my earflapped travelling hat pulled firmly on my head, and my legs cased in my stoutest boots. Holmes by contrast was clad in a light jacket and silk shirt, with a thin cloak thrown over his shoulders.
I said sternly, 'I may not know much about fashion, Holmes, but I have stood on more parade grounds than you and I think this wind which has rattled our panes all night will strike as cold in a Roman piazza as it would on Horseguards. I would advise you at the very least to change into your twill trousers.'
He looked a touch disconcerted and replied, 'You may be right, but it is too late to change now. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings. Hurry, or else we shall be late!'
I told him rather testily as we bowled along that as the execution was fixed for nine-thirty and nothing in this country ever seemed to start on time anyway, there was little need for haste.
'Indeed,' I concluded, I cannot imagine why Montesecco should request our presence so far in advance of his main entertainment/
'Come now, Watson,' he said. 'Surely you know that it is not the execution but our presence which is the main entertainment.'
I brooded on this till, as we neared the Piazza San Cassiano, our progress became noticeably slower. Looking from the window, I became aware that we were not the only people drawn out on a raw Christmas Eve by the prospect of witnessing a man's death. There were many other carriages and also men on horseback, but the greater part of those flocking to the square were pedestrians with every conceivable variety of citizen represented, from sober, suited businessmen to the rag, tag and bobtail. The chill winter wind was pulling at hats and tousling hair and I said to Holmes, 'Now you may see why our presence was required so early. From the look of it, no latecomer will get to see more than the top of the scaffold.'
Holmes for the Holidays Page 26
