I gasped in horror. “That is terrible, Holmes!”
“Indeed,” he nodded grimly. “Over the years, the good folk at Marylebone Chapel began to wonder if she had been falsely accused.”
“Of course she was falsely accused by that foul harridan!” Vaughan exclaimed. “Miriam’s great joy was administering that fund and seeing it put to good use. She was the one who discovered the theft, which was carried out by none other than Berenice Molyneux. However, before Miriam could report it, Berenice made it appear that Miriam had stolen the funds herself. It probably would not have been sufficient to convince the police, if it had not been for the Reverend, who verbally attacked Miriam with bitter venom. To this day, I wonder if he knew that Berenice was guilty, or if his lust simply blinded him. But in either case, he was as guilty as her for causing Miriam’s death.”
“And your relation to Miss Pearl?” Holmes asked, almost gently.
“She was my fiancée.” Across the parlor, Dr. Lowe startled again at this revelation. “It was a secret, as my family did not approve of her,” Vaughan continued. “But I loved her with all of my heart and we planned to wed that spring. Until she was ripped from me by the actions of two evil people, who have now met their deserved fate.”
“But why did you not tell the police?” I asked.
He shook his head sadly. “I had no proof. It was Miriam’s word against theirs, and she was dead. But her word was true.”
“So you were powerless to act, until you recently became sick,” said Holmes. “It then became critical to you that Miriam not die unavenged. And when your familiarity with China, learned from your connections in the jade import business, taught you that a sufficient dose of arsenic could either kill you or cure you, you decided to make certain that if you died, it would not be alone. First you dismissed your old maid, so that there would be no chance that she could be suspected in the case. Then, you invited your greatest enemies to sit down at the table with you, and pay them back for a wrong they committed nearly twenty years ago. Learning the required dose in the now-burned note, you poured the poison into the ewer while their heads were bowed in prayer. You then rolled the empty bottle away from you so that it would not be found on your body, in case your gamble paid off and you actually lived.”
Vaughan nodded grimly. “I see that you understand what I have done and why it was necessary.”
“But Dr. Lowe had no role in the death of Miss Pearl,” I protested. “He may have drunk the poisoned wassail.”
“That is not true, Dr. Watson,” said Lowe, suddenly. “I too share a measure of blame for poor Miriam.”
“She was your relative?” asked Holmes.
“My cousin,” said he, hoarsely. “But when she left the faith and converted to the Church of England we cast her out. Thus, we were not there for her in her moment of greatest need. It is a terrible shame that I have borne for twenty years.”
“Vaughan blamed your entire family as an accessory, and you were its representative,” said Holmes. “Your crime was that of omission, rather than commission, so he spared you the fatal blow of the poison by arranging for the timely delivery of the note that called you from the house. But if Vaughan died, the blame for the poisoning would likely fall upon you. Even if you were set free from lack of motive, you would receive at least some mental punishment for Miriam’s death.”
Lowe rose unsteadily to his feet. “I can assure you Mr. Vaughan that the two days I have spent in the Bow Street cells are nothing compared to the lifetime of guilt that I have felt at her death. There is no excuse for my initial actions, or those of my family. I like to believe that if she had turned to us in her hour of despair that we would have welcomed her back with open arms. But she never gave us the chance, so I will never know the truth. And that haunts me to this day.”
Vaughan also rose to his feet and held out his hand to the doctor. “Then I am sorry for what I have done to you, sir. I am most glad that Mr. Holmes was here to clear your name.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, addressing Dr. Lowe. “At this time of year, it should be clear that the most important things in life are your family and your friends. No mere words from almost two millennium ago should stand in the way of that. Go be with your wife.”
When the door closed behind the doctor, Holmes turned back to our host. “And what will you do now, Mr. Vaughan?”
He appeared to contemplate this question for a minute. When he looked up, his eyes were dull. “I honestly did not think that I would make it through that dose of arsenic. That is why I settled some money on Mrs. Sumner in advance. My thoughts have been consumed with darkness for so many years, I do not see a way forward now that Molyneux and Arden have gotten their just rewards.”
Holmes laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Nothing can bring Miriam back, Mr. Vaughan. But you have been given a new lease upon life. And I understand that you are still a wealthy man. Perhaps, now that Marylebone Chapel has been cleared of its foul influences, you could continue Miriam’s work?”
A light of understanding appeared in Lowe’s eyes. “The Crippled Children’s Fund?”
“Indeed. Today is Christmas Eve, Mr. Vaughan. I think such a day is an appropriate time to bring some joy into the world, do you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, yes!” he said, smiling broadly. He reached out and pumped Holmes’ hand enthusiastically. “You are a genius!”
I may have imagined it, but I thought I detected a small flush of color rise to Holmes’ pale cheeks upon hearing these words of praise. He may have affected the external armor of a purely rational machine, I but knew that was only part of the truth.
Mutually, we silently decided to walk back to Baker Street. The lantern-lit streets were filled with throngs of merry-makers. Last-minute gifts were being purchased, holiday geese were being distributed by burly poultry-men, and the smell of roasted chestnuts filled the air.
After we had been walking for about ten minutes, I turned to my friend. “Did we commute a felony today, Holmes?”
“Perhaps we did, Watson. By and large, the laws of England are magnificently fair, but even they cannot cover all extenuating circumstances. If I had told Lestrade the full account, Vaughan would be lucky to spend the rest of his life rotting in gaol. Recall, however, Watson, that we were hired by Mrs. Lowe to free her husband, which we did. I do not recollect Lestrade ever asking me to solve his case for him. I presented one possible solution, and to any discerning detective it had far too many defects to be plausible. I can hardly be blamed if Lestrade blindly accepted it. Furthermore, I think the new Mr. Vaughan can do more good out in the world,” he concluded magnanimously.
“So you expected him to recover from his illness?”
“It was a desperate gamble, Watson, but he was a dying man. He saw a way to rid himself of all those that he felt wronged by, and thus if he did not survive, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken his perhaps justifiable revenge.”[218]
“A terrible business, Holmes.”
“Indeed, Watson. But to some extent a happy ending for all deserving of such.”
“So when you said that you eliminated the impossible, you meant that you eliminated the possibility that his recovery was due to a miracle?”
Holmes pursed his lips. “Watson, let me tell you a story. It concerns one of the greatest thinkers of the modern era and one of the greatest despots. You once accused me of having little knowledge of astronomy,[219] which at the time was true. But when I began to investigate the Napoleon of crime, I realized that I needed to rectify this deficiency in order to understand the mind of a man who could write about such pure mathematics as The Dynamics of an Asteroid.[220] So I began with Newton, and then moved to Laplace. When reading about the Frenchman, I encountered an amusing anecdote about his meeting with Bonaparte himself. Laplace formally presented the Emperor with a copy of his masterwork, Mécanique Céleste, but Napoleon had already been informed regarding its contents. Bonaparte was fond of asking embarrassin
g questions, so he received it with the remark, ‘Monsieur Laplace, they tell me you have written this large book on the system of the universe, and have never even mentioned its Creator.’ Laplace drew himself up and answered bluntly, ‘Je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là.’”[221]
“I had no need of that hypothesis,” I translated, after which. I walked on in silence for some time.
Given the acuity of his senses, Holmes was certainly able to detect that I was troubled by this answer. “Watson, do you know the true meaning of the Christmas season?”
“A midwinter festival, I suppose?” I replied irascibly.
“Yes, for certs, that is how it began,” he agreed in an amiable tone. “But it has taken on a larger meaning. People make a grave mistake when they think that they simply need to ‘believe’ for all to turn out right. It is not about believing. Belief without action accomplishes naught. The true meaning of Christmas can be found in our actions. Doing good deeds for your fellow man. And it is, of course, a time for forgiveness. A time for peace on earth and good will towards men, women, and children.”[222]
I thought about this in silence, my equanimity slowly returning, until we reached Baker Street. We paused before Number 221 and I turned to Holmes with an outstretched hand.
“Happy Christmas, Holmes,” said I, smiling.
He took it warmly. “Happy Christmas, Watson.”
§
THE
ADVENTURE OF
THE FIRST STAR
To Danica
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Let your heart be light.
From now on our troubles
Will be out of sight.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Make the yuletide gay.
From now on our troubles
Will be miles away.
Once again as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more.
Through the years we all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Hanging a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”
by Hugh Martin
(1943; alternate lyrics added by Martin 1957)
LITERARY AGENT’S FORWARD
It is a rare occasion when something truly magnificent results from what at first appears to be a straightforward tragedy. However, twenty-two years after the fact, that is exactly what transpired in 2014, when a long-suppressed manuscript by Dr. John H. Watson was brought to light by the serendipitous accident of the great fire at Windsor Castle, the preferred weekend residence of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.
The fire began in the Queen's Private Chapel at 11:33 am on 20 November, 1992 when a wayward spotlight ignited a nearby curtain. Despite the rapid response of the Castle Fire Brigade, the blaze spread quickly through the original medieval timber ceilings and the later oak paneling which so richly adorned the royal chambers.
In addition to the several hundred firemen directly involved in fighting the fire, the Castle staff and tradesmen swiftly transformed themselves into a volunteer salvage corps. Working with an admirable mix of haste and care, they removed the vast majority of furniture and works of art from the endangered apartments, even including a 150-foot long table and a 120-foot long carpet from the Waterloo Chamber. In an exercise of logistics likened to the Dynamo Operation on the beaches of Dunkirk, three hundred clocks, a collection of miniatures and Ming pottery, and many thousands of valuable books, manuscripts, and old Master drawings from the Royal Library were all saved. Only on the instructions of the fire officers were certain heavy chests and tables left behind to face the destructive wrath of the flames.
Perhaps the greatest wonder of all was that there were no deaths or serious injuries caused by the fire, save for one brave lad who was partially burned while trying to rescue additional paintings. There was, of course, an enormous amount of destruction caused to the rooms of the Castle, over a hundred of which had suffered at least partial damage. It was not until four years and £36.5 million later that the exacting restoration program was finally complete.
A tally of the lost items from the Royal Collection sadly included the Sir William Beechey equestrian portrait of King George III at a Review (which was simply too large to quickly remove), an almost twenty-foot c.1820 sideboard from the state dining room, several pieces of porcelain, numerous chandeliers, and the famous Henry Willis organ from the Chapel itself. Two items were only partially burnt, but deemed to be beyond reasonable hope of repair: the 1851 Great Exhibition Axminster carpet, and an exquisite pendulum clock made in 1719 by John Harrison himself.
Perhaps due to the history intrinsic to the latter item, which was made by the fledgling genius who would later go on to solve the problem of establishing longitude (which launched the modern age of British sea exploration), the pendulum clock was not immediately consigned to the trash heap, but instead removed to a remote storage closet in the Castle’s Riding School. There it lay neglected in the concerted rush to restore the Castle proper, and by the time four years had gone by, its location was essentially forgotten by those who might have appreciated its unique value.
Finally, in early 2014, the lingering presence of the blackened clock was brought to the attention of the Director of the Royal Collection. Impressed with its ornate Victorian outer case, thoughtfully provided with (now-melted) glass windows so that the intricate inner workings could be inspected by the curious, the Director ordered the clock brought out for a long-overdue attempt at restoration. But to the great surprise of the conservators they found tucked within the clock itself, in a cunningly-hidden nickel case, something far more rare and valuable than almost anything else in the Castle’s entire collection (save perhaps some of the drawings and paintings of the great Renaissance artists such as Raphael): the aforementioned lost adventure of Sherlock Holmes, which details his efforts during the 1895 winter holiday season to undo an old embarrassment to the Royal House.
Since by 2014 the restoration was long complete and there was no pressing need for additional funds, the curators of Windsor Castle (presumably with the blessing of the Queen to whom it must be considered to officially belong) have decided to donate the tale to the world pro bono for five days every 20 November, in commemoration of the great fire which so fortuitously finally brought it to light.
§
THE ADVENTURE OF
THE FIRST STAR
Sherlock Holmes was not a man much given to the celebration of holidays, especially ones which were driven by sentiments of goodwill towards the masses of mankind. To those who knew Holmes but slightly, he could easily be mistaken for a man purposefully devoid of common feelings, as unwelcome distractions to his cold, precise, and finely honed mind. In many ways, he was like an automaton, perfectly crafted to observe and reason through any problem, no matter how perplexing and inexplicable.
And yet, a man is not born in such a state. He comes to it only through conscious choice and after years of effort to surgically excise all typical emotions from his breast. In so doing, he cuts himself off from the normal flow of humanity and companionship. Despite his carefully constructed facade, however, I knew Holmes was not entirely devoid of feelings, and thus, on this December day in 1895, I found myself pondering why Holmes had such little interaction with his family.
The holiday of Christmas has a different meaning for every person, but as a youth I had always considered it a time to spend with loved ones celebrating the happiness that you shared. And yet, in all the years that I had known Sherlock Holmes, I never once heard him voice any desire to pass the holiday with his relations. In fact, I knew very little of them.[223] That they were originally country squires, with an imported vein of artistic blood, was almost the limit of my understanding. Only the indisputable fact that he had a brother, so similar in intelligence, if not physical form, was pro
of that Holmes had not formed fully developed, like Athena from the brow of Zeus.
For one such as myself, with all my kith and kin, my dear wife included, passed on to that undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns,[224] Holmes’ evident lack of inclination to spend Christmas with his brother struck me as exhibiting a small measure of ungratefulness. Not for the last time I wondered if Holmes had an unhappy childhood.
However, as events ultimately unfurled, Holmes would have a chance to spend at least a portion of the holiday season with his family, while simultaneously sparing the reputation of the realm. Unfortunately, given the need for absolute discretion, I fear that it will be impossible for me to make the facts public for many years to come, though I will nevertheless detail the case in these pages to guard against any waning of my memory.[225]
On the day in question, Holmes and I had just finished attending a morning concert of Handel at the Albert Hall.[226] We had retrieved our winter coats and hats from the cloakroom and stepped out into the chilly day. I put on my rather fashionable black silk top-hat, while Holmes insisted upon his close-fitting cloth cap.
“Care for a stroll, Watson?” asked Holmes. “The frozen snow upon the ground will make any attempt to take a cab a dangerous proposition.[227] But the sun is shining, and it is only a walk of three-quarters of an hour through Hyde Park.”[228]
I nodded my acquiescence and off we went along the carriage drive, where we passed others out upon a similar mission of enjoying the rare winter sunshine. As we crossed the Serpentine Bridge, I recollected the role that this body of water had played in one of Holmes’s great triumphs of deduction. “I’m glad that Lestrade doesn’t need to drag the Serpentine today, for he would have a hard go of it through all of this ice,” I remarked.
The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock Page 13
