The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock

by Craig Janacek

  I strode across the room and knocked softly upon the door to Holmes’ bedchamber. Before I could even open it, however, his voice carried through the wood.

  “I must warn you, Watson, that any attempt to convey a note of holiday cheer will be met with extreme unction. I still have four weapons left in my small arsenal, which Billy[17] confiscated from Mrs. Hudson before she could divine my plans for them.”

  I opened the door and, through the thick tobacco cloud, found six kitchen knives decorating the wall immediately to my right.[18] “And who provoked these?” I inquired mildly, indicating the converted weapons.

  The shades were drawn and I could only vaguely see through the dim light that Holmes had waved his hand indifferently from his recumbent perch. His long frame seemed to take over the entire bed, and about the face he seemed thinner than usual, his hawk-like nose and square chin accentuated. But his hands seemed steady and his voice was strong, so I knew he was not again feigning some illness. “The usual suspects, Watson. The usual suspects. Lestrade,[19] Tobias Gregson,[20] Athelney Jones,[21] Bradstreet,[22] Lanner,[23] Forbes.[24] Who else? You know I have no friends.”

  I tried to not let it rankle me that he neglected to include me in the count of his friends. I generously attributed this oversight to today’s particularly foul mood, even for Holmes.[25] “What about your brother?”

  Holmes snorted. “You have a better chance of catching Father Christmas hanging a stocking filled with cigars on the mantel than finding my brother Mycroft at Baker Street. He has his rails and runs on them without deviation.”

  “So are you truly injured, Holmes, or is this another case of your malingering in order to fool some criminal?”[26]

  He laughed bitterly. “Even your modest medical talents, Watson, should be sufficient to judge from a distance of four yards that I do not confine myself to this cursed bed without good reason.”

  I threw open the shades and allowed the glorious winter sun to shine into the dismal room. I could then make out that his left leg appeared to be in some form of traction. “Ah yes, I see now that this is not just a simple case of tobacco poisoning.”[27] I looked around the room and noted with some dismay that upon his night-table the dreaded morocco case was lying open, exposing its syringes and phials.[28] “Singlestick or sword?” I asked.

  “Sword,” he replied laconically.

  “I thought so.”

  I finally noted a glimmer of interest appear in his dull eyes. “Tell me, Watson, how exactly did you deduce that I was injured by a handled weapon? Was it the particular way that the traction has been applied to my leg? I admit that I have not studied these devices sufficiently to appreciate any differences in their settings.”

  “Not at all,” I shook my head. “In the eight years that we shared these rooms, you have always kept your singlestick in the umbrella stand and your sword over the mantelpiece. However, I now see that they have both been moved to a place where they are almost the only items within your immediate view. I assumed that this must have been done upon your orders, and that could only be because you wished to meditate upon some particular failing.”

  A slight smile cracked Holmes’ lips. “Very good, Watson. You are learning the trick, I see.”

  “Would you care to explain what happened?”

  He sighed with affectation. “Very well, though I have not the energy for a full recital. I am afraid this case will never make it into your recountings of my triumphs.”

  I shrugged nonchalantly. “Not everything you do, Holmes, is worthy of transmitting to my readers. There have been a few cases I purposefully omitted for lack of sufficient interest.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Very few, I think. And this would not be one of them. You have heard of the Baron Robert Cranborne?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps something in the papers? Some sort of socialite, I believe?”

  “Only on the surface, Watson. He was, in fact, the second most dangerous man in London.”[29]

  “How so?”

  “Over the last three years, the baron has been responsible for at least ten murders of young women who fell into his wicked grasp. I finally noted a pattern to the disappearances and recommended him to the attention of Scotland Yard. But the proof was lacking. The only way to bring him to justice was to catch him in the act. For weeks I stalked his every movement, utilizing every disguise in my arsenal to avoid attracting the notice of his keen eyes. Finally, Cranborne could not control his foul appetites any longer and he lured another woman back to his townhome in Belgravia. I had only moments to act. With the police surrounding every exit, we burst into the building. But something had tipped him off. Although we had saved the girl before she could meet the same fate as the others, the baron himself had fled away from the direction of my approach. He encountered a constable in his path, and silently struck the officer down. When we found the poor man’s corpse, a trail of blood clearly indicated the path by which Cranborne had escaped down a rear alleyway. In a rage over the death of one of their own, Lestrade, Gregson, and the other constables chased after him as fast as their feet would lead them, but something held me back. Within a fraction of a minute, I realized that the trail of blood was a carefully prepared diversion. I could not but feel some degree of admiration for the man’s ability to plan such a thing in the heat of the moment, no matter how foul he may be. I determined from the presence of a small scuff mark that he had instead taken to the roofs of the closely adjoining houses. Up I climbed, and quickly located a fresh set of footprints unmistakably belonging to Cranborne. A few minutes later, I came upon the bloody baron himself, a pair of razor sharp sabers in hand.

  “He explained, Watson, that he had been awaiting me. Somehow he had become aware that I was on his tracks, and he had determined to flee to a fresh start of his villainy in far-off Italy. But he wished to test my skills before he left. He tossed me one of the swords, and performed a salute. I had known that he was considered amongst the best at the London Fencing Club, but I never thought to see this talent in action. You have reported, Watson, that I am an expert swordsman,[30] but I soon realized that my skills were rusty and I was plainly overmatched. The man was a whirling demon with a blade, and I found myself on the defensive, with little hope of victory unless the Scotland Yarders soon realized our location and relieved me. But, alas, that was not to be. He finally landed a blow that I was unable to parry. The best I could do was adjust my stance sufficiently such that it was the flat of the blade that hit my leg, otherwise, I might be fitting myself for a stump. I felt the femur snap and I collapsed in agony. Baron Cranborne stood over me, gloating. He said that he was disappointed that I did not put up more of a challenge, and that my skills were overrated. He debated whether or not to even bother killing me, for I had failed completely in stopping him. But he ultimately decided that I was too stubborn to admit my failure and might continue to dog his tracks, no matter how far he fled. So that he could continue his life abroad unfettered, he leaned forward to stab me in the heart.”

  “Whatever did you say, Holmes, to stop him?” asked I breathlessly.

  “I said nothing, Watson. I shot him.”

  “You what?” I exclaimed.

  “While he was exulting in his apparent victory, Watson, I had slipped my revolver out of my coat pocket. I put a bullet through his brain and gladly ended a plague upon the realm.”

  “That doesn’t seem very sporting, Holmes, though I suppose it was warranted in the situation.”

  “Chivalry is all well and good, Watson, when your life is not on the line. But it has its limits, and Baron Cranborne had long passed beyond the bounds of common decency. I put him down like the rabid dog that he was.[31] However, you are missing the point entirely, Watson. This was a perfect example of the dangers of acceding to emotion when dealing with the criminal element. I let my anger get the better of me, and as such, I raced alone into a situation in which I had failed to account for all of the possible elements. You can see where such a mistake has led me.”
He gestured to his bandaged leg.

  “Well, your actions of saving of the poor girl and elimination of this foul murderer have made the streets of London a safer place, Holmes. The men of the Yard are clearly grateful or they would not have visited en masse. It was a noble act, even if it came at a temporary price to your health.”

  Holmes shook his head irascibly. “Not just my health, Watson. Any absence of mine from London, whether in body or in spirit, causes an unwholesome excitement among the criminal classes[32] and my incapacity threatens to remove the last restraint from one or two gentlemen who I could mention.”[33]

  I also realized that the inaction was dangerous for Holmes’ brain.[34] His finely honed mind was like the engine of a racing locomotive.[35] It needed to be pushed to its limits by a grand challenge, or a dark ennui would settle in, and he would relapse back into insalubrious habits.[36] “Well then, how about a nice game of chess?[37] I have beaten you once or twice in days gone past, eh, Holmes?”

  He snorted loudly. “Only when I let you win, Watson,” said he, callously. “Did you seriously believe that you could best me? You are not even aware of the King’s Gambit or the Florentine Defense.”[38]

  I attempted to not let his tone ruffle me. “Then backgammon or draughts?”[39]

  He dismissed these with a wave of his hand. “Trifles.”

  “Écarté?”[40] I persisted. “Or whist?”[41] I suggested, knowing his love for that game.

  He sighed again. “You are in a particularly pertinacious mood today, Watson. Will you not simply leave me be?”

  “Absolutely not, Holmes. Today is Christmas. I will not hear of it!” I looked back into the sitting room, where I spied upon the sideboard a copy of the morning edition of the Times. Mrs. Hudson must have feared to carry it herself all of the way into Holmes’ bedchamber. In a few strides, I had commandeered both the paper and the basket chair,[42] hauling them back into Holmes’ bedchamber with me.

  I sat down solidly in the chair, signaling to Holmes that no force was about to dislodge me. “What about these?” said I, motioning to the leaders of the Times. “I am certain that there are a myriad of possible crimes to solve herein.”

  “It is a poor season for wrongdoings, Watson,” Holmes protested wearily, though I could tell his heart was not in it.

  “Oh, what about this one, Holmes? The British Bankers Club reports that thirty thousand pounds have vanished from the safe on the premises. It was there two nights ago, and was found missing the following morning, though there are no signs of a forced entry and the night watchman, whose honesty is not in doubt, saw nothing.”

  Holmes emitted a disgusted sound from between his lips. “Please, Watson. The night watchman suffers from hypnolepsy.[43] Mr. Sexton, the manager of the club, whose debts at the tracks have attained new proportions, knew this when he hired him. It was simplicity itself for Sexton to await the man’s inevitable collapse and pilfer the safe while the man slept.”

  I stared at the newspaper article in confusion. It mentioned nothing that might hint at a neurologic condition in the watchman. “How could you possibly know that, Holmes?” said I, accusingly.

  He shook his head sadly. Inspector Jones mentioned the case when he stopped in. I asked him to describe the watchman in intricate detail, and while I am certain that he left out many instructive features, he did note that the man was yawning excessively and had great dark circles under his eyes. Jones assumed this was a mark of sleep deprivation, and a sign that the man was being truthful that he stayed awake all night.”

  “That does seem like a logical conclusion,” I pointed out.

  “Not if you wish to solve a so-called impossible crime, Watson! You must always be on the look-out for incongruities, and be willing to consider all possible paths that may explain them. I took the opposite approach. The man was a professional watchman, and had been for many years. His very existence is a mirror image of the average man. When we are awake, he is asleep, and vice versa. There is no reason for him to appear so tired after a typical night’s shift. The man was noted by all who knew him to be exceptionally honest, so why would he lie?”

  “To save his job?”

  “Possibly, Watson. But perhaps he was ashamed of his affliction? Perhaps he was sufficiently chagrined to seek out professional assistance? We both know that there is only one specialist in London to whom he might go to for advice.”

  “So you sent Inspector Jones to go see Dr. Trevelyan?”[44]

  “Exactly, Watson. Dr. Trevelyan would never break his Hippocratic Oath, but he was able to confirm that the man was a patient under his care. Jones directly questioned the man, who corroborated that Mr. Sexton was aware of his condition. That, in addition to Sexton’s debts, was sufficient to explain all, even to a policeman of Jones’ limited acumen. There is a telegram somewhere,” he waved in the direction of the floor, where I caught sight of more than one crumpled note, “that concludes that the unscrupulous Mr. Sexton is now spending the holidays in rather less luxury than he previously imagined.”

  “Well, then, what about…” said I, indefatigably.

  “Forget it, Watson. I tell you that there is nothing of interest in the paper.”

  Not without some degree of exasperation did I look about his room, seeking a new inspiration. Fortunately, I was spared the need to find a distraction for my friend’s brain by the sound of a knock upon the stairway door. I leapt to my feet, and hurriedly opened it to find a middle-aged man with a mousy face standing upon Holmes’ mat, his battered hat being twisted nervously in his gnarled hands. His eyes were a light brown and his thinning hair already gone much to gray. His clothes were of a poor cut, and it was plain that he was not destined to be one of Holmes more illustrious clients. However, at this point in his career Holmes cared little for the weight of a man’s pocketbook when deciding whether to take on a case, and he only required that it possess features of some particular uniqueness to spark his interest. For myself, I was simply glad to see him and hoped that he could help dispel Holmes’ ennui.

  “Mr. Holmes, sir?” he began. “I am in need of your assistance.”

  I forestalled any further explanation from the man. “I am not Holmes, but rather Dr. John Watson, at your service. Mr. Holmes is resting in his bedchamber.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said anxiously. “Is he ill?”

  “No, only injured and confined to his bed.”

  The man’s face fell in disappointment. “Oh. Would he be willing to hear me out?”

  “Certainly,” said I, warmly. I knew from long experience that Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case, providing it contained a certain element of novelty. He was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge that was sufficient to shed light upon a previously dark matter.[45]

  “Send him away, Watson,” Holmes’ voice suddenly carried from his bedroom.

  I smiled reassuringly at the man. “Don’t mind him,” I said in a low voice. “He is a bit out of sorts, but he will get to the bottom of your matter nonetheless. Follow me, please.”

  I took the man’s overcoat and led him into Holmes’s room. Ignoring Holmes’ glare, I directed him to the chair which I had recently vacated. I then leaned against the wall, eager to hear the man’s story.

  However, before he could even begin, Holmes spoke. “What happened,” he said acerbically. “Did someone skip out on paying his fare?”

  “Yes, but…” the man began, before stopping himself and starting in amazement. “Do you know me, sir?”

  “My good man, it hardly takes a personal familiarity to discern that you are a London cabman. Even Watson here can spot the distinctive marks upon your person,” he turned his gaze upon me, questioningly.

  I will admit that I was surprised, for this humble person little appeared to be one of the typical insolent cabmen that rule London’s streets.[46] Attempting to conceal this from Holmes, I straightened up, an
d addressed the challenge. “Yes, well, the clues are self-evident. We start with your hands, which you hold in a partially clenched position. This is a form of rheumatism, a locking of the muscles into the form where they spend the majority of their time. And yet you are still a relatively young man, so only years of exposure to cold weather could thus mimic the effect of age. This is also apparent from the reddened and wind-chapped appearance of your face, as even the thick muffler that you wear has failed to fully shield you from long nights on the streets of London. The other item of note is, of course, your boots and pant-legs, which are often a source of much information about a man’s habits. Your left leg remains quite clean, but the right side is heavily stained with browning snow. How else could a man acquire such a pattern than by sitting all day and night upon the right-sided seat of a brougham cab?”

  When I concluded, I glanced over at Holmes to gage his approval. “Not bad, Watson. Not bad at all. You missed the two most evident clues, however, without which our visitor here could just as easily be a railway-man changed out of his uniform.”

  “And what are those?” I inquired, as politely as possible.

  “First, the piece of straw upon the distal edge of the left sleeve of his jacket. I presume you will find more on his overcoat, but this one crept under the coat while adding feed to the horse’s nose bag. But the most distinctive sign of all is not a visual finding, but an olfactory one. Close your eyes, Watson, and tell me what you smell.”

  I followed his instructions and breathed in deeply, but failed to note anything out of place. I admitted as such, and Holmes shook his head. “You must train all of the senses, Watson. Perhaps too many years of dealing with the various foul emanations that can come from the human body, living or deceased, has inured your senses. To my nose, I clearly detect the subtle aroma of horse manure. His boots are clean, however, so he could only have acquired this from long hours of sitting directly in the line of fire, so to speak.” With that conclusion, Holmes turned his piercing gaze back upon the man.