Strepponi was kneeling beneath the knife. His head rested in a hole in a cross plank. Another plank with a matching half circle removed from it was fitted over his neck. A priest made the sign of the cross over him. The executioner bent to a lever. And the next moment with a rattle like the passage of a metal-rimmed wheel over a cobbled street, the knife descended and the severed head fell forward into a leather basket. From this the executioner plucked it and, holding it by the hair, displayed it to the mob, prior to fixing it on a pole to be left as a target for the crows and a warning to the criminals of this great city.
It was all over in a few seconds and immediately the crowd began to disperse, save for some morbid souls eager to take a closer look at the headless body.
Our party all streamed back from the balcony to the room where fresh bottles of champagne awaited. Signora Masina and her sister did not pause but left immediately. I saw the judge and Zardi and Falcone and the doctor in a close group, deep in conversation. The count and Signorina Medioli stood close together but exchanged no words. And all the journalists were crowding around Sherlock Holmes, who raised his hand to command silence and said, 'Gentlemen, please. You have your own Italian Sherlock Holmes to question. And in Signor Chiari I believe you may have your own Italian Dr Watson to chronicle his exploits.'
He smiled at Chiari, who glanced at me with an expression eloquent of apology, then turned back to Holmes, who pulled on his cloak and said, 'As for me, I am too fatigued to talk. And besides, my good friend Watson and I have a train to catch.'
This was the first I had heard of this and at first I took it for a mere excuse to make a rapid departure. But half an hour later, with scarcely time to draw a breath let alone use one in idle conversation, I found myself seated in plush comfort in one of the most ornately decorated railway coaches I had ever seen, rattling northwards out of Rome.
'But our luggage, Holmes!1 I had gasped as I was hurried aboard.
'All taken care of,' he said with that air of knowing far more of things than I do which I find so insufferable. I determined not to feed his complacence by asking questions about our travel plans. Instead as we relaxed and lit our pipes, I turned back to our morning's adventure, about which I was still greatly curious.
'Holmes, what you implied, most ungallantly I may observe, about the Signora Masina, that she was ... enceinte, do you believe it true?'
'I should have thought a medical man could tell at a glance,' he replied. 'Sixteen to twenty weeks, I should have said.'
'And you believe this to have been the old count's child?'
'I would hope so. But no need to worry about her. She is going to America, where no doubt she will be presented as a grieving widow. And I do not doubt the new count has been most generous in making a settlement to take care of the upbringing of his bastard nephew.'
'Who would, if the old count had lived to marry, have been the legitimate heir,' I said slowly.
'Indeed,' said Holmes.
'And it is almost entirely as a result of young Montesecco's investigation including the evidence of his own inamorata that Giuseppe Strepponi was condemned?'
'Evidently.'
'Holmes,' I said, horrified. 'What have we done?'
'Explain yourself, my dear chap,' he said, affecting puzzlement.
'Everything you said towards the end of our visit seemed to me to imply a possible refutation of the count's logic. Now you seem to be suggesting that he more than anyone had an excellent motive for killing his uncle.'
'I cannot argue with you there,' said Holmes complacently.
'Then how can it not trouble you that even as you made your comments, that poor young fellow, Strepponi, was being hauled up onto a scaffold and executed within your very sight?'
Now Holmes threw back his head and laughed, a sound which would have struck me as callous had it been emitted by any other man.
'My dear Watson, rest easy. I cannot say how much the unfortunate secretary may have been egged on to the murder by his connection with Claudia Medioli. That is for Zardi and perhaps the Roman press to discover. But I can assure you that Strepponi was guilty, and probably committed the crime very much as the count worked out.'
'But how can you be sure after the way you undermined his deductions?'
'Oh, never doubt it, his deductions deserved to be undermined, but his conclusion was I believe correct. Partly because, (a) he probably knew that Strepponi was the killer from the start, and (b) if it had not been correct, he would not have dared involve me. But principally because the execution took place on time.'
'I'm sorry, I don't understand. I know these Latins are sadly deficient in their timekeeping, but I do not see how you draw such a remarkable conclusion from a single instance of punctuality!'
'Then you must learn to understand as well as pity and patronise these poor benighted foreigners, Watson. To these Romans, death by execution for no matter how foul a crime does not mean eternal punishment for the criminal. No, even the vilest creature may, after serving his time in Purgatory, be admitted to the grace of God, which passeth all understanding, even mine. But not if he goes to his death unconfessed and unshriven. Wherefore the young man Strepponi was taken into the church of San Cassiano on his way to the scaffold. Had he refused to make his confession, the execution would have been delayed until sunset, so determined are these merciful priests that the condemned man should have every chance of grace. So when the execution of one who was reputed to be a devout young man takes place on time, it may be assumed that he has made a full and free confession of his guilt.'
'And had he not confessed?'
'Then the case would have been altered,' said Holmes grimly. 'So a guilty man has been sent to his Maker. All that I wished to ensure was that this mountebank of a would-be detective should not be able by misuse of my reputation to send other, perhaps less guilty men to their dooms. I believe there are at least two already languishing in jail as a result of his so-called deductions. I trust once our friend Chiari, and some of the other pressmen also, have their say, these will be released, and any other attempt by the count to interfere with justice will be greeted by indignation and derision!'
'Holmes, you are a marvel,' I said. 'And not the least marvellous thing is that we should be sitting on this train heading heaven knows where.'
'Why, where else should a man head at this time of year but home?' my friend replied. 'We shall travel nonstop across the face of Europe and not stop until we are safe in Baker Street. I have telegraphed Mrs Hudson that we are coming, so, though you may eat it late, you will not after all be deprived of her famous goose, which I know you value so much.'
'But, Holmes,' I said. 'Nonstop, you say? How may that be?'
'Because this is a Special,' he said.
'A Special? All the way to England? But that must be costing us a king's ransom!' I said alarmed.
'Possibly. Fortunately we have a king, or one who will be a king, to pay for it. It is not our Special but His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. You may recall I was able to do him a trifling foolish service some years ago, and he said if ever he could be of use to me, I had only to let him know. Hearing that he was at Ostia, and guessing that he would not disoblige Her Majesty, his mama, by spending the whole of Christmas out of the country, I telegraphed him via the embassy. He is not the man to forget a promise. So rouse yourself, Watson. We are to take lunch with the prince in half an hour, and I hardly think you will want to appear looking like a municipal rat catcher! One thing you may neglect to take with you, however.'
'What's that?' I asked.
'That infernal notebook of yours. This part of the tale you will not be able to tell for a hundred years!'
The Christmas Client
Edward D. Hoch
It was on Christmas Day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her
goose later in the day, and when we heard her on the stair I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.
"A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes."
"On Christmas Day?'1 I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption, and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I'd been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.
"My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day it must be a matter of extreme urgency—either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson."
Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build, with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake. "Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my dear friend Dr. Watson."
The man shook my hand too and spoke in a soft voice. "Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir, and I-I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days."
As he spoke I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke. "Please be seated," Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. "Now tell us what brought you out on Christmas Day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church up in Oxford."
Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. "Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?"
Sherlock Holmes smiled. "I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford's Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried, and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today."
"Are you a wizard?" Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.
Holmes, for his part, casually reached for his pipe and tobacco. "Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket I can see a small pamphlet on which the author's name is given as Reverend Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today the ticket would not still be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also on the front of your pamphlet I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of passing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?"
"What about the unpleasant experience?" I reminded Holmes.
"You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor's pants are scraped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London."
"You're correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes," Charles Dodgson told him. "I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago but I-I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater."
"And what brought you to London this day?"
Dodgson took a deep breath. "You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What I am about to say is highly embarrassing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an-any moral wrong."
"Go on," Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.
"I am being blackmailed." He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none he continued. "Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I-I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents I sometimes did nude studies." His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.
"My God, Dodgson!" I exclaimed before I could help myself.
He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired. Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he'd just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, "Was this after you had taken holy orders?"
"I sometimes use 'Reverend' before my name but I am only a deacon. I nev-never went on to holy orders because my speech defect makes it difficult for me to preach. Some-sometimes it's worse than this. I also have some deafness in one ear."
"Tell me about the pictures. How old were the girls?"
"They were usually prepubescent. I took the photographs in all innocence, you-you must realize that. I photographed adults, too, people like Ellen Terry and Tennyson and Rossetti."
"With their clothes on, I trust," said Holmes with a slight smile.
"I know what I did was viewed with distaste by many of my acquaintances," our white-haired visitor said. "For that reason I abandoned photography some eight years ago."
"Then what is the reason for this blackmail?"
"I must go back to 1879, when I published my mathematical treatise Euclid and His Modern Rivals. Although the general public paid it little heed, I was pleased that it caused something of a stir in mathematical circles. One of the men who contacted me at the time was a professor who held the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities. We became casual friends and he learned of my photographic interests. Later, af-after I'd ceased my photography, he apparently did some picture taking of his own. I was at the beach in Brighton this past summer when I met a lovely little girl. We chatted for a time and I asked if she wouldn't like to go wading in the surf. I carried some safety pins with me and I used them to pin up her skirt so she co-could wade without getting it wet."
I could restrain myself no longer. "This is perversion you speak of! These innocent children—"
"I swear to you I did nothing wrong!" he insisted. "But somehow this former friend arranged to have me photographed in the very act of pinning up the little girl's skirt. Now he is using these pictures to blackmail me."
"What brought you to London today," Holmes asked, "and what unpleasantness brought you here to seek my help?"
"The professor contacted me some months ago with his threats and blackmail. He demanded a large sum of money in return for those pictures taken at the beach."
"And what made him believe that a retired mathematics instructor, even at Oxford, would have a large sum of money?"
"I have ha-had some success with my writing. It has not made me wealthy, but I live comfortably."
"Was your Euclid treatise that successful?" Holmes chided.
"Certain of my other writings ..." He seemed reluctant to continue.
"What happened today?"
"The professor demanded that I meet him here at Paddington Station, with one hundred quid. I came down from Oxford on the noon train as instructed, but he was not at the station to meet me. Instead I was assaulted by a beggar, who pushed me down in the street after handing me an odd message of some sort."
"Did you report this to the police?"
"How could I? My rep-reputation—"
"So you came here?"
"I was at my wit's end. I knew of your reputation and I hoped you could help me. This man has me in his clutches. He will drain me of my money and destroy my reputation as well."
"Pray tell me the name of this blackmailer," Holmes said, picking up a pencil.
"It is Moriarty—Professor James Moriarty." Sherlock Holmes put down his pencil and smiled slightly. "I think I will be able to help you, Reverend Dodgson."
It was then that Mrs. Hudson interrupted us with word that the Christmas goose would be served in thirty minutes. We were welcome to come down earlier if we liked, to partake of some holiday sherry. Holmes introduced her to Dodgson and then a remarkable event
occurred. She stared at him through her spectacles and repeated his name to be sure she'd heard it correctly. "Reverend Charles Dodgson?"
"That's correct."
"It would be a pleasure if you joined us, too. There is enough food for four."
Holmes and I exchanged glances. Mrs. Hudson had never even conversed with a visitor before, to say nothing of inviting one to dinner. Still, it was Christmas Day and perhaps she was only being hospitable.
While she escorted Dodgson downstairs, I whispered to Holmes, "What's this about Moriarty? You spoke of him earlier this year in connection with the Valley of Fear affair."
"I did indeed, Watson. If he is Dodgson's blackmailer, I welcome the opportunity to challenge him once again."
We said nothing of our visitor's problems during dinner. Mrs. Hudson entertained him with accounts of her young nieces and their occasional visits to Baker Street. "I read to them often," she said, gesturing toward a small shelf of children's books she maintained for such occasions. "All children should be exposed to good books."
"I couldn't agree more," Dodgson replied.
As we were finishing our mince pie and Mrs. Hudson was busy clearing the table, Holmes returned to the subject that had brought Dodgson to us. "If you and Professor Moriarty were casual friends, what caused this recent enmity between you?"
"It was the book, I suppose. Moriarty's most celebrated volume of pure mathematics is The Dynamics of an Asteroid. When I followed it with my own somewhat humorous effort, The Dynamics of a Particle, he believed the satire was aimed at him. I tried to explain that it dealt with an Oxford subject, a contest between Gladstone and Gathorne Hardy, but he would have none of it. From then on, he seemed to be seeking ways to destroy me."
Holmes finished the last of his pie. "Excellent, Mrs. Hudson, excellent! Your cooking is a delight!"
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." She retreated to the kitchen while he took out his pipe but did not light it.
Holmes for the Holidays Page 29
