Holmes waved off the distinction. “It was simple. When a man has some minute wooden shavings snagged upon his sweater and a fishtail gouge poking from his pocket, there are few other occupations he could follow. And did you purchase your tree for its decorative role in the upcoming holiday, or for a more practical function?”
The man shrugged sadly. “A little of both. Any tree would have sufficed for the first purpose, but this one was special.”
“How so?” asked Holmes, leaning in ever so slightly.
“This tree had a fine burr[281] on it. I picked it out special, after visiting four different stalls, in hopes of harvesting the wood on Boxing Day for a future carving of a statuette.”
“I see. And which stall did you finally settle upon?”
The man considered this question for a moment. “It was one of those shops that appear in time for the holidays, and then vanish like a hibernating bear for the next eleven months of the year. It was in Leadenhall Market,[282] and I believe that it was called ‘Clancy’s Trees.’”
Holmes smiled. “You have been most helpful, Mr. Heppenstall. Although we cannot recoup the same tree, of course, I have high hopes that we may soon be able to see that you receive some minor compensation for your loss.”
The man seemed mystified by how Holmes’ exactly proposed to accomplish this, but thanked him nonetheless and wished him the compliments of the season. We climbed back into the hansom, where I immediately queried Holmes’ ratiocinations.
However, he shook his head. “It is far too early to say anything for certain, Watson. But each step brings with it another curious clue. I have often said that it is the blandest crimes that are the most difficult to decipher, for there is nothing novel to pick out from the crowd. The more outré the misconduct, the more likely that something obvious will emerge. And this promises to be most singular.” He settled back into his seat, pulled out his pipe, and refused to say any more about the subject until we arrived at Albion Grove.[283]
Our visit with the excitable Sir James Oldcastle in his study was remarkable for its brevity. When we were ushered into his august presence by the butler, Lestrade had barely finished the introductions when the little man leapt from his leather-lined armchair.
“No, no, no, this simply will not do, Inspector! Did I ask you to involve a private agency? How many others have you told about this? It was bad enough to see my name dragged through the morning papers. Once the jackals hear that an amateur detective has been called in, all will come out. I will be ruined.”
I could tell from the gleam in Holmes’ eyes that he little cared for Sir James’ choice of words and implications about his sense of confidentiality, and he launched into a bit of restrained bluster. “Let me put it to you frankly, Sir James. I have reason to believe that last night’s vandalism was a threat of the gravest nature. Attacks with an axe are the hallmark of the Schwarze Hand, a Bavarian gang known by Scotland Yard to have infiltrated some of London’s premier clubs. The sooner you answer my questions, the more likely we will be able to stop them before their final strike falls.”
The expression on the baronet’s face transformed from one of red anger to that of a bloodless horror in a manner of seconds. He licked his lips before answering. “What do you wish to know?” he croaked. “I will tell you the names of every man I have ever played cards against.”
“Describe the tree to me,” commanded Holmes.
‘The tree?” he replied blankly. “I don’t know. It was about six feet high, I suppose. Green, as you might expect. Nicely decorated by the maids with ribbons, candles, and some glass baubles.”
Holmes shook his head irritably. “No, no. Tell me about the burr.”
Sir James frowned in utter bafflement. “The what?”
“The burr, man! Was there not a large overgrowth on one side of the tree’s trunk?”
“Oh yes, now that you mention it, there was. How could you have known? I asked Roberts to turn that unsightly thing to the wall, so that it would be less evident. Why the man bought a defective tree in the first place is beyond my ken.”
“Thank you, Sir James. I have heard enough,” said Holmes, turning on his heels.
“Wait!” called the man, “you’ve asked me nothing about my clubs!”
Holmes stopped at the door to the study. “Do not worry yourself overmuch, Sir James. Lestrade has his best men on the case. Within a fortnight, you should be out of danger.” He then turned and strode out of the room, Lestrade and I scurrying in his wake.
As we passed through the hall, we were met by the butler. “Ah, Roberts,” said Holmes smiling. He reached into his pocket and slipped a guinea into the man’s palm. “Tell me, where did you purchase that fine tree from?”
The man blew out a breath of air and shook his head ruefully. “Fine tree, indeed! Not according to Lord Oldcastle! All he did was complain that it wasn’t right. Too short, too skinny, too knotty, too browning. I wish I had never laid eyes upon the blasted place.”
“Yes, well, you many find your master in a more conducive mood in the future. Perhaps next year he will deign to accompany you on this critical mission and utilize his own masterful sense of balance to select the perfect tree?”
Roberts looked at Holmes askance, uncertain of whether my friend was being serious. “I suppose anything is possible, sir. Still, I plan to steer clear of Leadenhall next year. Covent Garden is the place for me.”
“Leadenhall, you say? Not ‘Clancy’s Trees’ by any chance?” asked Holmes.
“Aye, that’s the spot, indeed.”
“You are a treasure, Roberts” said Holmes, slipping him another guinea. “Here’s one more for your troubles and as my compliments of the season.”
Once we were safely ensconced back in our hansom, Holmes let out a great laugh in response to my critical gaze.
Lestrade merely shook his head bewilderedly. “I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that I’ve not heard of a Bavarian gang operating in London. What did you call it?”
“The Schwarze Hand,” I interjected. “And the reason for your ignorance, Inspector, is because he made it up on the spot,” I said with a tone of obvious disapproval.
Holmes continued to chuckle. “I fear Sir James is in for a rough fourteen nights, but I hope that he emerges from his ordeal a man with less debts, less vices, and a more forgiving personality.”
I shook my head. “Really, Holmes, I must protest. Sir James is not a young man. What if your little pretense triggers an attack of the heart or an episode of brain fever?”
He held up his hands in appeasement. “Very well, Watson. I will send Roberts a telegram asking him to inform me of all concerning changes in his master’s health, any of which will prompt me to hasten the round-up of the gang. Will that suffice?”
“I suppose,” I nodded reluctantly. “So tell me, Holmes, how did you know that Sir James’ tree had a burr?”
“Of course, I could not be completely certain, but I thought it a calculated presumption given the description of Mr. Heppenstall’s tree. As I proposed at the beginning, if you will recall, Lestrade, Sir James was not targeted for who he is, but for what he owned. The trees are the object of our man’s attention, not innocent bystanders of his wrath. Now it simply remains to determine the reason for the particular interest in these trees.”
I nodded and leaned out the window to call up to the cabby. “Leadenhall Market, if you will, my good man.”
“Excellent, Watson. Yes, I think the market may provide the final answers that we need. What say you, Lestrade? If we let you off at St. Clement Danes,[284] I suspect that you can get back to the Yard on your own.”
The inspector frowned. “Of course, but should I not accompany you to Leadenhall?”
Holmes shook his head. “I think not. We don’t want to frighten Mr. Clancy with an official visit by the police. Watson and I are simply two private individuals who are a bit tardy in purchasing a tree for our rooms. I assure you that if we find any conclusive leads, I will telegram
you forthwith.”
Lestrade nodded slowly. “As you say, Mr. Holmes. I suppose I can make some headway on the official report.”
Holmes peered out of the hansom’s window and rapped on the roof to catch the driver’s attention. “Just over here, my good man.” Lestrade shook our hands before departing, and Holmes then instructed the man to continue to the market. I knew that we had a few more minutes of rattling down the Strand and its various re-namings before we would turn onto Gracechurch Street, so I settled back in my seat.
Holmes did likewise, but proved to be in an expansive mood. “As you have become increasingly aware since those first months of our association, Watson, I do have some cerebral pursuits that do not strictly relate to my line of work.[285] Diversions, if you will, the knowledge of which I keep in a separate little store-room from the more crucial data in my brain-attic.[286] One such interest, perhaps stimulated by that little book which I gave to you after my return from the East,[287] has been the role that trees have played in the cultural histories of the world. For instance, the Buddhists of Ceylon are known to venerate the Bodhi tree, under which Siddhartha sat while attaining enlightenment.”[288]
“I can hardly see the relevance to our case, Holmes. We are talking about a criminal in London, not the wilds of Asia.” I paused for a moment to consider my own words. “Unless you suspect the presence of another savage, like the deceased Tonga?”[289] I said, excitedly.
Holmes shook his head. “Not at all, Watson. We have our native tree worshippers on these shores as well.”
“Surely you jest, Holmes. Or are you suggesting that the druids have returned?”
“Tell me, Watson,” Holmes said reasonably. “Have you heard of the Glastonbury Thorn?”
“Of course.”
“Is it not considered sacred for its rare Christmas blooms?”[290]
“Well, yes, in a way, I suppose…”
“Suppose nothing, Watson. It may shock you to know that you too have a strain of tree-worshiper in you.”
I spluttered in indignation. “What?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly,” said Holmes, reasonably. “Have you not previously expressed a desire for Mrs. Hudson to bring in a tree to our rooms for the occasion of the holidays?”
“Decorating a tree for Christmas is very different from planning to idolize it, Holmes,” I protested.
“But that is only because you possess an inadequate knowledge regarding the history of the Yule tree, from which our modern arboreal interests descend.”
I was fortunately spared any further lecture by Holmes noticing our approach to our destination. “Ah, here we are,” Holmes leaned out and called to the cabby. “Stop just here, my good man.”
In a matter of minutes, we found that one of the largest stalls in the covered market bore the name of Clancy upon it, but the proprietor was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a small boy of seven or eight stood a lonely guard over a thin crop of trees.
Holmes tossed him a shilling. “Fetch your master, lad. We’ve come for a tree.”
The boy mutely nodded and scampered off in the direction of a few public houses. Within a few minutes he had returned in the company of a mustached man of about fifty, his bald pate enclosed by a rumpled bowler, and his suit covered by a not overly-clean apron. “What can I do for you, gents?” said he, with the over-enunciated voice of a man who had already consumed one pint too many.
“You are Mr. Clancy?” asked Holmes.
The man made an exaggerated swivel to look up at the sign over his head. “That’s what it says.”
“Well, then, Mr. Clancy, we are in need of a tree.”
“You are a bit late, my friend. My inventory is not what it was. However, the early-birds generally choose the least expensive trees, often leaving the finest for the very end. I am certain that you will find the remainder to be of the highest quality.”
As he spoke, Holmes was slowly wandering about and inspecting the trees. He suddenly shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake, Watson. We’ve come to the wrong locale.”
The man’s eyes widened in dismay. “Whatever are you talking about, sir? You won’t find better trees in London this close to Christmas.”
“No, no, Mr. Clancy. My friend here is a Professor of Forestry at the University of Aberdeen,” said Holmes, motioning in my direction. “He has come to the studied conclusion that we have vastly overharvested the great woodlands of England. He will not stand to see any more wild trees cut down for the span of a few weeks enjoyment, only to subsequently vanish into the fire. No, I am afraid that it can only be farm-grown trees for us, Mr. Clancy.”
“But these are farm-grown trees!” Clancy spluttered.
Holmes shook his head. “Do not try to fool us, sir. These trees are plainly from the wild. See these imperfections!” he pointed. “We want a farm-grown tree that is perfectly symmetrical upon all its sides. Come, Professor, let us try Covent Garden Market.”
“Now see here, Mister. These are the finest farmed trees you will ever see!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Holmes. “Look at that small burr on that tree there. That never came from a farmed tree.”
“It did, I tell you! Some folks prefer a little character to their trees, others want them pristine. We have all kinds. In fact, we had three this year with much larger burrs. Those often sell early and for the most money, as the wood is highly-prized.”
“I cannot believe you!”
“It’s the truth, sir. All of these trees came from the farm of George Blunt, down in Farnham, on the border of Surrey.”[291]
“Blunt, you say? I think I know him. A short man, late sixties, white hair and clean shaven?”
“Not at all, sir. No, George is a tall one, in his early forties, with a full mane of red hair and beard.”
Holmes shrugged unconcernedly. “No matter, it must be a different Blunt that I am thinking of. Very good, Mr. Clancy, you have convinced me. We will take one. Professor, as this is your area of expertise, I will leave the final choice up to you. I think I saw a promising candidate in the very back, if you would care to inspect it?” He turned his gaze upon me. “Spare no expense, Professor.”
“Ah, yes, that is a fine idea,” said I, in my best attempt at a Scottish brogue. Still uncertain of Holmes’ actual intentions, I headed towards the back of the stall, followed closely by the proprietor, whose spirits had been uplifted by Holmes’ last comment. There I endeavored to delay Mr. Clancy as long as possible, all the while pretending that I knew something about trees that would allow me to choose the finest candidate from his remaining stock. Finally, I settled upon a tree, and by the satisfied look upon Holmes’ face when we returned to the front of the stall, I assumed that my distraction proved adequate for his purposes. I noted that Clancy’s lad had vanished.
Clancy presented Holmes with a bill, which he promptly signed. “Thank you, sir,” said Holmes, holding out his hand for the man to shake. “Please have it delivered to 221B Baker Street.”
And with the conveyance of that unexpected purchase complete, we departed the covered market only to find a light snow falling. Once we were sufficiently out of earshot, I turned to Holmes. “Would you care to explain, Holmes what exactly that charade was all about? Does the University of Aberdeen even have a Department of Forestry?”
“I have no idea, Watson, a state of ignorance which I was confident Mr. Clancy shared.” Holmes smiled radiantly at me. “In your published chronicles of our adventures, you never give yourself sufficient credit, Watson. That was a magnificent performance that you put on with such short notice. I especially enjoyed when you referred to one rejected tree as ‘wee’ and the final choice as ‘bonnie!’ I certainly could not have done it without you.”
“Done what exactly?”
“Looked through his books, of course. Mr. Clancy is a man with some admirable traits. He is no mere middle-man, peddling any tree that comes his way. He genuinely cares about the quality of his goods.”
S
uch niceties escaped me during my interactions with the man. “How can you tell?”
“By the way he records each sale in his books. Not just with a simple height and breadth, but a careful description of each tree’s identifying characteristics, which in some ways are as unique as the face of a man.”
I shook my head. “If you say so, Holmes. But what did you do about the boy?”
Holmes smiled broadly. “Another shilling, and a gentle suggestion to find some mulled cider, was sufficient to effect his absence for the few minutes which I needed to complete my task. Holmes stepped out from the curb and hailed yet another cab. As it approached he asked, “Well, Watson, what would you recommend as our next course of action?”
“Waterloo Station,” said I, confidently. “From there, we should be able to find a local to Farnham.”
“Good old, Watson. The straight line. Yes, we could certainly go to Farnham. You remember, Watson, that Hughes, the poisoner, also came from there. However I expect that we would find little of interest in Farnham, save perhaps Mother Ludlam’s Cave, where you will recall that Captain Moore hid during the case of the dancing monk.”[292]
“Really?” said I, with perhaps a note of petulance. “Then what do you suggest, Holmes?”
His response could not have surprised me more. “I think we should pay a visit to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft is – I am certain – in need of some Christmas cheer.” He looked up at the cabby, and as he climbed aboard he ordered our destination, “Pall Mall,[293] if you please.”
Flabbergasted, I clambered in after him. “Your brother?” I exclaimed. “What possible role could he play in these Christmas tree attacks?”
Holmes shook his head. “I cannot say for certain, Watson, but the name of Blunt has raised some interesting possibilities. There was a Blunt involved in some sort of scandal many years ago, near the time when our residence in Baker Street first commenced.” He pulled out his pocket-watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “I confined most of the details, scanty as they were, to the index, but there is likely insufficient time to journey to our quarters and then back to our ultimate destination tonight. Furthermore, at the time of the scandal, I became suspicious that certain facts were suppressed from the papers, and I detected a hint of Mycroft’s hand in the matter. I simply wish to confirm the truth of that, and ask of him a small favor.”
The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock Page 16
