by Terry Deary
“Ah, yes. If Santa was second-worst in 1T then young Pardon was the very worst. At least Santa was a kind, gentle boy. But !Burp! was wicked! Did you know he used to pull the legs off dolls?”
“We have heard,” I said. “Was he as stupid in class?”
“Not stupid!” she snapped. “Awkward!”
The teacher shook her head. “And !Burp! was always late. I once asked him why. He said it was because there were eight in his family – and the alarm was only set for seven! Another time he said he was late because his father ran over himself that morning. Of course I was very concerned so I called to see !Burp!’s dad and he explained. His dad had asked !Burp! to run over to the shops for a loaf of bread. !Burp! refused . . . so his dad had run over himself!”
Sherlock sighed. “Very interesting, I’m sure, but not very important.”
“Sorry, Sherl,” I muttered.
“Don’t call me Sherl,” Sherl said.
“Sorry, Sherl . . . er, Sherley.”
“And don’t call me Shirley!” he moaned, steam coming out of his pipe.
“Sorry, Sherl . . . ock!” I smiled.
He turned to the old teacher and asked, “What we really want to know is what happened to Santa Claus when he left school?”
Miss Taycon drew a deep breath through her channel-tunnel nostrils. “He became a right little tearaway!”
“No!” I gasped. “Surely!”
“Don’t call me Shirley!” Sherlock screamed.
“No! No! No!” I said quickly before he pushed his magnifying glass into my big mouth – sideways! “I meant surely Santa didn’t turn bad!”
Miss Taycon shrugged her large shoulders. “Got in with a bad crowd – with that !Burp! Pardon’s gang!”
“A gang! What did they do?” I asked.
“They dressed in leather clothes . . .”
“They bought some two-stroke, twin-cylinder sleighs . . .”
“They fitted supercharged reindeer . . .”
“And they raced them round and round the North Pole!”
“No one was safe on the roads!”
(!!Important Footnote!! Penguins do not live at the North Pole – they live at the South Pole. But you sometimes get a lost penguin wandering around and kindly nuns take them home! OK? That’s sorted that out. Now we can get on with the story.)
“No one could sleep at night for the jingle and the clangle of the harnesses.”
“Their name struck terror into the heart of every polar bear north of the Sahara desert!”
“They were . . .”
I asked Santa’s old teacher how his days as a Bell’s Angel ended. Seems he had a nasty accident once.
Santa escaped with just a bruised beard . . . but the reindeer was a write-off.
Miss Taycon told us how sorry Santa was about the crash. He never forgot how to drive a speeding sleigh – and that came in useful later! But he has always been kind to his reindeer ever since.
What I wanted to know was, what happened to !Burp! Pardon. But Sherlock asked, “What did Santa do after his crash?”
“Luckily he found himself a nice girlfriend and settled down . . . she lives just a few doors down. Why not pop along and see her?”
We had just nine hours left to save Christmas . . . but Santa’s girlfriend might be able to give us a clue. We had to go.
“Her name is Helen . . . Nellie for short!”
We dashed to the door.
“But, Sherl!” I cried. “We don’t know where she lives!”
But the great detective hurried down the street and into a cottage with “H” on the door.
“Helen-entry, my dear Sherlock,” I muttered, “I should have known!”
A cheerful old lady answered the door and grinned. Her cheeks were as rosy as a tomato and her teeth as yellow as best butter. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun – it was a bread bun and the crumbs were falling down her back.
“Here! I know you!” she cried.
Sherlock blushed.
“You’re that famous detective! I’ve seen you on the telly!”
“Well, madam . . .” Sherlock began.
“I think you’re brilliant! Eeeh! Wait till I tell my friends . . . I’ve met Agatha Christie.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Actually, I’m not Agatha Christie – I’m the famous Sherlock Gnomes – I’m on the trail of the even famouser Santa Claus. I wondered if you could answer some questions!”
“Come in, come in!” she smiled and led the way into her small cosy cottage. On the mantelpiece stood a picture of Santa himself.
“You were a friend of his?” I asked.
She sighed. “My very first boyfriend! Every time he saw me in the street he used to run and hide!”
“He did?” Sherlock asked.
“Well . . . he was very shy as a young man,” she explained.
“But at last I sent my pet dog out to catch him and bring him back. A cute little hound called Buttercup!”
She explained that all she wanted was one of Santa’s famous poems.
“And he wrote one for you?” I asked.
“Eventually,” she cooed. “After I’d locked him in the garden shed for two days without any food! Ahh! He was so shy!”
“Hmm!” Sherlock muttered. “Have you still got this poem?”
She took it lovingly from a drawer and spread it on the table in front of us. It wasn’t one of Santa’s best – and the handwriting was very shaky.
“He must have been very shy when he wrote this. Nervous even!”
Nellie nodded. “Probably because Buttercup was smiling at him!”
I read the poem . . .
“Er . . . very moving,” I said.
“Yes,” Nellie sniffed. “So sad. So sad. He’s dead, you know!”
Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Impossible! Santa can’t be dead!”
Nellie looked at him blankly. “Not Santa . . . Buttercup, stupid.”
“Oh!”
“He ate someone that didn’t agree with him,” she sighed. Then she looked up brightly. “Would you like to meet my new dog?” she asked.
I beat Sherlock to the door by a centimetre. “No thanks!” I said quickly. “Just tell us what happened to Santa!”
“Oh, he got a job,” she shrugged. “I remember seeing it advertised in the North Pole Times . . . everyone said he should apply for it. They said he was a natural, what with the whiskers and all that!”
“What sort of job was it?” Sherlock asked.
Nellie took another scrap of paper from the drawer and pushed it across the table to us.
“Of course Santa applied. He knew it meant we could never be married – but he made that great sacrifice because he loves helping people!” Nellie explained.
“So, Old Father Christmas was retiring, was he?” I asked.
Nellie nodded. “He only does quiet jobs now – like sitting in shops in December and dishing out presents to children. He’s too old to do all that flying around!”
“So, Old Father Christmas gave the job to the thieving Santa Claus, eh?” Sherlock guessed.
“I’m not sure,” I began.
“Santa wasn’t very bright,” Nellie admitted, “but he was never a thief.”
“He is now!” Sherlock snapped. “Docker Watson here saw him with his own two ears, didn’t you, Doc?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Let’s go and see the Old Father Christmas. See what made him trust a toy nicker. Always thought he was Saint Nickerless!” Gnomes went on, sucking his pipe.
“He still lives in the Ice Palace,” Nellie told us. She told us a lot more. She told us so much that we thought we’d never get away. At last the desperate detective leapt to his feet.
“Let’s go, my dear Watson!” Sherlock cried.
“We’ve only got seven hours left to save this Christmas.”
“Cup of tea before you go?” Nellie asked. “Please!” I said.
“Lemon?”
“No, thanks, I never eat raw lemons! Yeuch!” I told her.
“No! No! No!” Sherlock groaned. “Not tea and a lemon . . . lemon-in-tea, my dear Watson!”
And so we made our way to the palace of Old Father Christmas.
It was a fabulous palace made entirely of ice! The tourists loved it! – but the sparrows weren’t so keen. Every time they landed on the roof they slid off!
And it was an absolute nightmare for window- cleaners!
We stood at the mighty Ice Gate to the palace and wondered how to get in.
“Tap on the door, Watson!”
“Can’t do that, Sherlock.”
“Why not?”
“Because we did that joke already!”
“Then jingle his bells!”
The door was answered by a maid on ice-skates.
“Is Old Father Christmas at home?” Sherlock asked.
“Eh?” the maid asked, cupping a hand to her deaf ear. Unfortunately the cup was full of hot tea.
“He said is Old Father Christmas at home?” I shouted.
“A gnome?” she said. “No! Old Father Christmas isn’t a gnome – but he has some gnomes working for him.”
The old maid passed us each a pair of ice skates and said, “Follow me!”
Sherlock pulled the skates on and sighed, “I like to slip into something comfortable now and then!” Just as he said it he slipped into an icy wall! Ouch! Great detective – awful skater.
The maid showed us through the icy palace till at last we came to a comfortable sitting room. She offered to announce us.
“Who shall I say is calling?” she asked.
“I’m Docker Watson . . .”
“There’s a doctor to see you, Old Father Christmas!” she yelled at the old man in the red, fur-trimmed coat.
“Ah good! Doctor! Doctor! My kidneys are bad. What should I do?”
“Take them back to the butcher,” Sherlock suggested. “Now breathe out sharply three times.”
“You want to check my lungs?” the old man asked.
“No! I want to clean my magnifying glass,” the great detective told him.
“But I can’t keep food down. Everything I swallow keeps coming up!” Old Father Christmas complained.
“Then quick! Swallow my football pools!” Sherlock cried.
It took us a long time, but at last we convinced him that we weren’t doctors and got down to the point of our visit.
“We’re trying to find out the truth about Santa Claus – he’s been pinching presents,” Sherlock explained.
“Oh, dear!” the old man exclaimed. “Doesn’t sound like him at all!”
“Docker Watson here saw it all!” Sherlock said sadly.
“I thought you said he wasn’t a doctor! I have this problem with my red suit . . .”
“Don’t start that again,” I groaned.
“I keep wanting to wear a gold suit instead!” the old man said.
“Just a gilt complex,” Sherlock snapped. “Now tell us how you came to employ this villain Claus!”
“Well, it all started when I decided to retire, a hundred years ago – we Father Christmases live a very long time, you know. To tell the truth I was getting too old and fat to get down the chimneys.”
“Don’t tell me,” I muttered, “it didn’t soot you any more?”
He ignored me. I don’t really blame him.
He went on, “I put an advert in the North Pole Times. Only two people applied.”
“Santa Claus was one,” Sherlock said smugly.
“How did you know?” Old Father Christmas gasped.
“I’m a detective,” Sherlock shrugged, “I guessed.”
“And the other one was . . .”
“!Burp! Pardon,” I put in quickly.
“Amazing!” the old man said. “Are you a detective too?”
“No. I’m a docker!”
“Then, doctor, maybe you can tell me why I feel so dog tired!”
“How long have you felt like this?”
“Ever since I was a puppy!”
“But tell us about the interviews,” Sherlock cut in.
“Ah, yes. The interviews. I interviewed !Burp! Pardon first . . . I asked him if he liked children.”
Old Father Christmas thought it was a bit odd that he said his favourite toys were dolls.
“I remember, he didn’t own a reindeer, which could have been a problem. Seems he had had one but it crashed and broke an antler.”
OLD FATHER
CHRISTMAS:
You’d need a reindeer for this job.
!BURP!:
That’s alright, I’d hire one.
“I was tempted to give him the job . . . but he wasn’t as pleasant as young Santa Claus . . . and I thought his dark glasses might scare the kids,” Old Father Christmas explained.
“The thief that I saw was wearing dark glasses!” I told Sherlock.
“Aha! A clever plot by Santa Claus to put the blame on !Burp! Pardon, see?”
“Er . . . no! I don’t see,” I muttered.
“So how did you come to hire this Santa character?” Sherlock asked.
“He seemed so keen to do the job he dashed straight out and bought a second-hand reindeer . . .”
“Santa explained that he knew nothing about reindeer and honest Arfur said he had just the animal he needed. That was the first time Santa Claus set eyes on his famous friend, Rudolph!”
Of course Santa was hopeless at sums, Old Father Christmas explained, but he did notice that the reindeer had a very red, shining nose.
And Arfur Chance went on to describe how Rudolph came to get his red nose . . . .
Arfur explained that Rudolph was a very famous reindeer. One day his owner had been taking a short-cut across a frozen pond when the ice cracked and the sleigh slipped in.
Rudolph tore himself free and galloped off for help as the sleigh was slowly sinking. He couldn’t use the phone to call help so, instead, he galloped up to the top of the church tower and rang the bell – an alarm bell.
The fire brigade rushed out and saved the sleigh . . . but Rudolph was left with a badly battered conk.
So Santa bought Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer . . . but couldn’t afford to have his nose resprayed. Old Father Christmas told us that it’s been that way ever since.
“But, Sherlock!” I said excitedly. “The reindeer on my roof – the one that flew off with my presents! It had a black nose!”
“So?”
“So . . . it wasn’t Rudolph!” I cried.
But Sherlock had the answer to that. “Everyone knows that great criminals use stolen cars for bank robberies. Santa must have used a stolen reindeer for a toy robbery!”
“I suppose so,” I agreed glumly. After all – Sherlock was the world’s greatest living detective. Still, I couldn’t believe that the great poet and popular young Santa could have grown up to be a thief.
“And Santa Claus took over from you?” the detective went on.
Old Father Christmas nodded. “Had to train him first, of course . . .”
But Old Father Christmas wasn’t going to give up that easily . . .
Old Father Christmas chuckled as he remembered that trick. But then he sighed and said, “Maybe that’s what went wrong. Maybe after a hundred years of getting it right he’s getting it backwards.”
“I see!” Sherlock said. “Taking the toys instead of giving them! Elementary, my dear Watson.”
But I shook my head. “Then why didn’t he take all of the toys? How come he only took the dolls?”
“Ah! Oh!�
� Sherlock spluttered. “You didn’t tell me that!” he objected.
“I thought I did. Maybe I forgot,” I mumbled.
He pointed his magnifying glass at me and said, “You’ll never make a great detective. First you suspect the innocent !Burp! Pardon – and then you forget things!”
“Sorry, Sherlock . . . where to next?”
“Er . . . I’ve forgotten!”
Old Father Christmas said, “If I were you I’d pop down to the gnomes’ toy workshop. They’ll be all ready to load up in time for Santa leaving . . . three hours from now. If they don’t know what’s become of him then no one will!” That didn’t leave us much time! We had to get going again immediately!
Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Just what I was going to suggest. We’ll interview the gnomes and chat to the reindeer!”
“Oh, Sherlock!” I laughed. “You can’t chat to the reindeer! You’re talking through your hat!”
“Of course I am!” he grinned. “It’s a deerstalker hat!”
There was no answer to that.
The kind old man offered us food before we went. “Have a cake!” he offered.
“Thanks!” I smiled.
Old Father Christmas rang a bell. “The cakes were baked by my maid.”
“Wonderful!” Sherlock cried. “I love gnome maid cakes!”
So, full of tea and cherry cake, we set off down Reindeer Road to the Father Christmas workshops. But time was short – nearly as short as Sherlock – and it was growing dark!
Father Christmas’s workshops were set in a huge log building. There were a dozen doors or more and outside each one stood a sleigh, loaded with sacks. Not a gnome was in sight.
“Which door shall we try?” I wondered. Each entry had letters above it. “A/B Entry”, “C/D Entry” and so on.
“Different entries for different countries,” Gnomes explained.
