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

by Craig Janacek

  I had some difficulty inducing Lomax to look up from the dusty tome that he was intently studying. When I eventually did so, his strongly-lined face alit with a mixture of surprise and happiness. “John!” he exclaimed, good humor appearing upon his mobile, smiling lips, which peered out from under bushy brown side whiskers and a moustache. His eyes were an arresting shade of deep blue, and bespoke of an intense inward life, so alert and responsive they were to every question put to him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You would be fascinated at what I have just discovered,” he said, turning the book towards me and stabbing down upon a particular spot on the page. “Did you know that the monotheism of Akhenaten inspired…”

  “I am certain that is very fascinating, Walter, but I am afraid I have something more urgent on hand. This is not simply a social call.”

  “Ah, work for Mr. Holmes?” he asked excitedly, for he was always much interested in the adventures of my former flat-mate.

  “Indeed. A man’s life may hang in the balance.” I described the events of the day and then pulled out the playing card I had discovered. “Do you happen to know what this is?” I asked, handing it to him.

  He studied both sides of it carefully. “Ah, yes, this is quite exquisite, John. I am not certain how many of these still exist, you know. It’s a sad chapter in our history.”

  “What is?”

  “The Popish Plot,”[96] replied Lomax. “These engraved cards tell the story of the plot and show the dire penalties meted out to those Catholic enemies of the state. Playing cards depicting historical events were very popular towards the end of the seventeenth century. They were effective political propaganda.”[97]

  “But what is connection between a plot from two centuries ago and a missing Spanish attaché today?”

  Lomax shrugged. “That is an excellent question, John. And I have no idea. But I would suggest that we visit the Registrar General of Births, Marriages, and Deaths at Somerset House. They might be able to shed some light upon the matter.”

  “How so?”

  “Come, I will explain on the way. Despite years of getting used to this false leg, it takes some time for me to travel anywhere.” The two of us slowly made our way back through the open sky of the Great Court[98] and into a passing hansom cab.

  Once we had settled in, Lomax explained his reasoning. “The building that you and I know as Somerset House is not the first of that name. The present structure is but a century old, having replaced that of an earlier structure with many historical associations.[99] It was first used by the queens consort. Despite the laws of the land forbidding such a thing, the wife of Charles I built a Roman Catholic chapel within its walls. That was but one of many grievances that led to his eventual beheading. During the Protectorate, it was a Parliamentary Army headquarters, and in 1658, the body of Oliver Cromwell lay in state there before his short stay at Westminster Abbey.[100] During the Restoration of Charles II it became notorious as a hot-bed of Catholic conspiracy. And it was at Somerset House that the magistrate Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey[101] was murdered by person or persons unknown to this day.”

  “I once read a book belonging to Holmes about the Godfrey murder.[102] The author postulated that he was killed by Philip Herbert, 7th Earl of Pembroke and 4th Earl of Montgomery.”[103]

  “Yes, I suppose that is possible. However, at the time, not one but two different committees unsuccessfully investigated the murder,” Lomax continued. “There was no evidence of a struggle at the spot where the body had been found and Godfrey still had his money and rings. On the other hand, curious people had already trampled the ground when investigators arrived.”

  “It’s a good thing that Holmes had not yet been born to witness such a slipshod handling of a crime scene,” said I, smiling wanly.

  “Indeed. The body was covered with bruises and a circular mark around Godfrey's neck revealed that he had been strangled with his own cravat and his neck broken. He had been impaled with his own sword, but the wound had not bled, meaning that Godfrey was already dead when he was skewered.”

  “Yes, for perhaps four or five days,” I surmised.

  “The authorities announced a reward for information about the murderers, but this was never claimed. Titus Oates claimed that he was killed by the Catholic plotters,[104] which only served to fan the flames of public hysteria.”

  As our hansom drew up to the great U-shaped court before Somerset House, its massive neo-classical façade topped at the center by a verdigris dome, I turned to Lomax. “I still don’t understand what exactly you hope to find here?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a hunch. You have three clues so far, Watson. First, the coin from the time of Edward VI, the only legitimate son of Henry VIII. This was the beginning of the great schism of religion in England. The second is the disappearance of a Spanish attaché. The Spanish have long been considered the great bastion of Catholicism in Europe, and thus the natural enemy of Protestant England under the Tudors. Finally, we have a card depicting the later Popish Plot, which for all its fictions sufficed to ensure that England would forever remain free of the Catholic yoke. Everything so far is connected to the great conflict between the Churches of Rome and of England.”

  I shook my head sadly. “A terrible thing to contemplate on Christmas Day. He would have been greatly dismayed to learn what terrible deeds had been sowed from his well-intentioned words.”

  “Indeed, John,” agreed my friend. “Now let us see if your attaché has ever paid a visit to the archives here.”

  Unsurprisingly, we found that the Registrar was closed for the holiday. However, by the bronze statue of George III with the Thames river god, we found the tiny room of a lone watchman, who was heavily bundled against the cold in a greatcoat and muffler. The man was initially reluctant to engage in a bit of conversation, but a few drams of brandy from my travel flask soon loosened his tongue.[105] He was an older fellow named Abner Wickham, his grizzled brown hair and lined face placing him nearer sixty than fifty. However, he still possessed a trim and wiry frame, with the vague remnants of a military bearing to his stance. I suspected that he was a long-since retired marine.

  When introduced ourselves and explained to him that we wished to see the tome into which visitors were logged, the man shook his head ruefully. “I am very sorry that I can’t let you in, Mr. Lomax, Dr. Watson. You look like fine gents. But I haves my orders from the boss himself. No one inspects the records without direct supervision of an archivist, and seeing how’s they are all snug in their homes, the building is shut up tight.”

  Lomax frowned. “Come man, I visit here all of the time. No such rule exists.”

  “Mayhaps not a month ago, sir. But new orders are in place after the event.”

  “What event, Mr. Wickham?” I inquired.

  The man removed his cap and scratched his head. “Can’t say that I know all of the details, not being in the inner circle of Sir Edwin Ainsworth,[106] but from what I hears, we had a visitor walk off with an important document.”

  Lomax and I glanced at each other, each recognizing the possible significance of this theft.

  “Do you know what the document was?” I asked, trying as best as possible to conceal my excitement.

  Wickham chucked softly and then blew out his breath, which crystallized in the cold air. “No, siree, Dr. Watson. They don’ts deign to share such information with the likes of me.”

  “I see,” said I, disappointedly. “And I suppose the name of Diego Márquez means nothing to you?”

  “That’s a true statement, Doctor,” Wickham replied.

  Disappointed, I thanked the man, and Lomax and I turned away. We began our slow trudge back to the street, where no further clues pointed to a next destination. The investigation had hit a solid wall. However, we had barely gone five yards when Wickham suddenly called out. “You know, Doctor, you are the second person to ask me that question this week.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, hurrying back to the man. “Who was the first?�
�

  “What was his name?” asked Lomax simultaneously.

  Wickham shrank under our excessively exuberant questioning. “I honestly cannot recall, gentlemen.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Wickham scratched his head again and shut his eyes, plainly trying to summon a mental image of the man. “Well, he was about forty years of age, give or take a few, with dark, almost black hair and deep brown eyes. He was rather thin, with a sharp nose and chin, but with a vigor to his bearing. His dress was neat, but rather plain. Nothing flashy about him, that’s for certs.”

  Lomax sagged in disappointment. “That could be half the men in London.”

  While I too was tempted to admit defeat, I stared at the man for a moment. He was not purposefully withholding information, of that I was certain. But could he still possess a clue of which he failed to realize the importance? I asked myself what Holmes would do if faced with this situation. And then I had it. The man was naturally taciturn. Some gesture of goodwill was required to induce him to verbosity.

  “Mr. Wickham, did this man happen to share any warming spirits with you?”

  He shook his head. “No, only you were so kind, Dr. Watson.”

  “And what about a cigar?” I persisted.

  He pursed his lips and then nodded slowly. “Now that you mention it, he did share with me a cheroot.”[107]

  A thrill of excitement ran through me. Although I had not a whit of Holmes’ skills in these matters, if only I could acquire some ashes to bring back to Baker Street, I knew my friend could identify them.[108] “Was there anything unusual about the cigar, Mr. Wickham? A rare blend of tobacco, perhaps? Do you still possess the stub?”

  He shook his head at each of these questions. “‘Fraid not, Dr. Watson. It was just a typical two-penny cigar you can get from any corner stand. Nothing to remark upon. And my tray was emptied by the char-woman yesterday. But I do still have the vestas[109] that he gave me to light it.”

  My eyes grew wide as he fished a battered matchbook from his breast pocket. He held it out for my inspection. The book had markings upon its face, clearly intended to promote the domicile from which it originated, the Black Horse Inn in the town of Burford.[110]

  “This is most helpful, Mr. Wickham,” said I, smiling. “If it is not too much of a bother, I would like to keep this little book, but a man who has to work on the holidays should not be left wanting. Here’s a sovereign for your trouble. My compliments of the season to you.”

  Wickham was clearly pleased by this trade, and retreated to his small booth in jovial spirits. As Lomax and I returned to the street, I clapped my friend upon the shoulder. “You are a genius, Walter. Somerset House was absolutely the correct place to go looking for the missing Señor Márquez. Holmes himself could not have done better.”

  “Then to Burford next, John?” he asked, clearly pleased by the compliment.

  “No, no,” I shook my head. “Your task is done, Walter. You have pointed me to the next clue, and any further steps carry with them an element of danger. You have already done your bit for Queen and Country,” I concluded, motioning to his leg.

  “So have you, John. If I recall correctly, you still have some Jezail lead in your shoulder.”

  “Ah, but I am not doing this for the Queen. I am doing this for my friend.”

  He nodded. “I understand. But don’t hesitate to call upon me if you are ever in need of assistance in the future.”[111]

  Lomax climbed into the first hansom that we could hail, heading home to Richmond, while I directed the second driver to take me to Baker Street. I wanted to update Holmes on my progress before heading for Kings Cross Station. For some minutes I was lost in my thoughts, until I suddenly realized that the route that the brougham was taking was not in the direction of Baker Street. I panicked, wondering if the driver was in the employ of our mysterious adversary. Who had ransacked Márquez’s chambers, and how had they discovered that I was on their tail, I wondered? Had they been following me this entire time? I cursed my lack of aptitude with disguises, for surely Holmes’ would have not gone about without some clever cloak thrown over his true identity. Fortunately, due to Holmes’ advice I was not without some method of defense. I drew the Webley from my pocket and silently vowed that they would not take me without a fight.

  However, when the brougham stopped shortly thereafter, it was not apparent who exactly I should be pointing the gun at. We were paused in front of a three-story building of polished white marble, every arched window elaborately flanked by a pair of Corinthian columns. I recognized it as the home of the Foreign Office on Whitehall.

  A uniformed guardsman held open the door of the carriage, while another stood by the inconspicuous doorway. As I alighted from my seat, this second man threw open this door for me and silently invited me to enter. With no evident threat, I hurriedly stuffed the Webley back into my pocket, feeling somewhat foolish for having waved it about. I shrugged and entered the passageway behind the door, which eventually led to an unmarked office. Knocking once, a voice bade me enter. To my surprise, inside I found no other than Holmes’ brother, Mycroft, seated in a plain office. It was without hint of personal effects or holiday decorations.

  “Hello, Doctor, how are you today?” he said amiably, but not bothering to rise or hold out a hand. He was stoutly built and massive, with a suggestion of corpulence due to some inertia in his figure. Although I had seen his face, which shared so many of my friend’s features, albeit in an elder form,[112] in happier moments, today it was grim. His overriding brow presided over steel-gray, deep-set eyes, whose look alternated between piercing alertness and far-away introspection, both of which I suspected were required in order to balance the immense and convoluted workings of the British Empire.

  “I am well, thank you, Mycroft,” I replied, hesitantly. “I say, whatever am I doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Doctor. I have reason to believe that you have stumbled into an international incident.”

  “The missing attaché?” I asked. “Is he the son of some dignitary?”

  Mycroft waved his hand. “Señor Márquez is himself of no consequence. What matters is what he stole from the Registrar at Somerset House.”

  “What exactly did he steal?”

  Mycroft sighed. “That is just the problem, Doctor. We don’t know exactly. It might surprise you, but we do not have a full catalogue of everything that exists in our archives. Our nation’s history is long and tumultuous, and there are many best-forgotten secrets which have yet to be unearthed.”

  “I don’t understand. If you don’t know what he took, then why are you concerned?”

  “It is an excellent question, Doctor, and the answer is not a simple one. You have heard of the Sick Old Man of Europe?”

  “The Ottoman Empire?”[113]

  “Indeed. Although no one has termed it as such, there is also a ‘Sick Man’ of the Americas. The once proud Spanish are desperately grasping the last tendrils of their Empire, which has steadily withered after the near-fatal blows dealt to it by Nelson and Napoleon.[114] Most of their colonies slipped through their fingers over fifty years ago, but a handful remain. And there are those who, like vultures, are circling the carcass of the Spanish Empire, eager to feed upon its remains.”

  “Are the Spanish in such a sorry state as that?”

  “Oh, yes, Doctor. They have had a century of political instability marked by the three Carlist Civil Wars. After the fall of the First Republic, the Bourbon Restoration has been in place for less than a score of years.[115] The four year-old Alfonso XIII sits on a rickety throne, propped up by his Austrian mother and regent. But dangers, both internal and external lurk everywhere for him and his country.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “Tell me, Doctor, do you recall the Virginius Affair?”

  I shook my head. “Only the vaguest details.”

  “Then let me remind you. It was October 1873. I was just up to London from school when this great diplomatic inciden
t threatened to drag us into a war. The Virginius was an American blockade runner, manned by a mixed American and British crew. It was carrying munitions to insurrectionists in Cuba that were attempting to overthrow the Spanish government upon that isle. The Spanish fleet captured it and put the entire crew on trial as pirates. Despite the protest of the American vice-consul, they were all sentenced to death by firing squad. The British vice-consul requested that our navy intervene to stop this madness, but fifty-three men had already been executed, their corpses decapitated and their bodies trampled with horses, before the HMS Niobe could arrive. Captain Sir Lambton Lorraine threatened to bombard the city of Santiago if the executions were not halted and the local commander finally agreed. For their part, the United States threatened to declare war. However, lengthy negotiations eventually led to the Spanish government paying a small fortune in reparations to the families of the murdered men. The incident is most remarkable that wise use of international diplomacy was able to find a path to peace rather than allowing these deplorable actions to be turned into a justification for a war.”

  “So you suspect that whatever Señor Márquez was carrying could be sufficient to provoke a war between us and Spain?”

  “That is only the beginning of my concerns. Spain is tottering, and if pressed, we could win a war against it with ease. But would Spain fight alone? Europe is an armed camp, and at the center of that camp sits a powder keg waiting to explode. The ramifications of a war against Spain are too terrible to contemplate. Those of us that work in this building dedicate the vast bulk of our waking hours to ensuring that such a horror never comes to pass.”[116]

  I thought about the implications of Mycroft’s words for a moment. “Could the Americans have kidnapped Señor Márquez? They have had a generation to recover from the scars of their civil war, and I have heard rumblings that yellow journalists are agitating for a war by publishing anti-Spanish propaganda.[117] They might be trying to drag Great Britain into their own squabble, not recognizing the dangers to Europe at large.”[118]