“You, Holmes, at a Christmas party?” It was difficult to picture in my mind.
“She fears Dobson may pressure her to conclude the sale while she is at the party. Since she is a client, I feel I must protect her interests. If you are free tomorrow, I’d like you to accompany us as well.”
“Surely you jest!”
“Not at all. Mrs. Ascott resides in London. We will be taking an afternoon train to Rochester, where Dobson’s carriage will meet us. His home is in Cliffe, overlooking St. Mary’s Marshes. Could you join us?”
My wife was spending the holiday with an elderly aunt in Reading, and there was no real reason why I could not accompany Holmes.
“But I have not been invited,” I pointed out.
“Let me worry about that.”
There was a decided chill in the air on Christmas Day, despite the unaccustomed sunshine, when I met Holmes and Elvira Ascott at Victoria Station shortly after noon. Mrs. Ascott proved to be a handsome young woman in her early thirties, wearing a long grey coat over her dress. Her brown hair was gathered attractively beneath a stylish black hat. One look told me she was a woman of the upper classes.
“Mr. Holmes tells me you are his closest confidante,” she said, as the train pulled out of the station for the hour-long journey to Rochester.
“We have shared many adventures together,” I agreed.
“You may be as frank and open with Watson as you have been with me,” said Holmes.”
“Then you know of my distress. I met my husband, William, last year when we appeared together in an amateur theatrical production. Now he is half a world away, fighting for the Empire.”
She took a photograph from her purse and showed it to us. A handsome young man, standing tall in an army officer’s uniform, had his right arm around her in a protective gesture, while his other arm was stretched out straight, pointing a revolver at some unseen menace.
“Isn’t he handsome?”
“Indeed so!” Holmes agreed. “You make a handsome couple. But a Christmas party seems like an awkward setting for the signing of an important contract.”
“Mr. Dobson only wants me to initial it tonight as a show of good faith. The actual signing will take place on Wednesday at his solicitor’s office.”
“And Jules Blackthorn is urging you to do this?”
“He is, and I fear he may appear at the party tonight. Mr. Dobson insists that the land must be deeded to him before the new year, or there will be no deal. Of course, this gives me no time to contact my husband in South Africa.”
“Is the land held jointly?” I asked.
“No, it is from my family.”
“But your husband would inherit if you died.”
“Actually, no. As I said, it is land from my family. I have made provisions for it to pass to my sister’s children in America. William has no connection with it at all. It’s only that I value his opinion and would have sought it had time allowed. Instead, I was forced to rely upon the good offices of Mr. Jules Blackthorn.”
“Which proved to be no good at all,” Holmes observed.
Our train was passing through the countryside around Bexley, about halfway to our destination. There were patches of snow here, a reminder that winter had set in. “How did you happen to contact Mr. Blackthorn?” I asked.
“He contacted me. He sought me out at the theater early last week, on the very day Edgar Dobson made his offer for my land. It was at a production of the new Nutcracker ballet. Have you seen it?”
I noticed a smirk on Holmes’ face as I admitted I had not.
“It is a wonderful show for the Christmas season. William and I planned to see it together until the war intervened. I found a girlfriend to accompany me so his ticket would not be wasted. At the intermission, I was approached by Jules Blackthorn. He identified himself as a solicitor and offered me his card.”
“But how could he have known of your impending business dealings with Dobson?” Holmes wondered.
“He implied that Dobson had told him.”
“Did you mention anything to Dobson about attending that performance of The Nutcracker?”
“I’m certain I did not.”
“And have you conveyed these developments to your husband in a letter?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. His ship would only have arrived in South Africa last week and he has had no time to send me his address. I only pray that he will not be in the front lines of this terrible war.”
Presently our train pulled into the station at Rochester and we found Dobson’s carriage awaiting us as planned. As in many towns, the cathedral was the tallest structure, towering over all else, and we passed it on our way out to the Dobson mansion at Cliffe. Though it was not yet dark when we reached the sprawling cliffside house, a number of carriages were there ahead of ours.
Holmes was the first out and presented his hand to assist the lady down the step to the ground. Already a tall, balding butler had appeared to welcome us and escort us inside. He turned away almost immediately and directed a footman to show us inside. We were led to the rear of the house, where a room called the Great Hall had been aptly named. Close to a hundred feet long, with a ceiling-scraping Christmas tree and a grand piano at its center, the room had been arranged with three dinner tables on either side. It had windows overlooking the cliffs and flatlands of St. Mary’s Marshes. Beyond the marshlands was a majestic view of the mouth of the River Thames, emptying into the North Sea.
Already our fellow guests numbered more than a score, and many of the ladies and gentlemen wore evening clothes. When Edgar Dobson himself appeared, he proved to be a short, somewhat scrawny man with puckered eyelids and a flushed face.
“My dear child!” he addressed Mrs. Ascott. “I thought you were coming with Mr. Blackthorn. Were you forced to make the journey from London alone?”
“Not at all. May I present my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, Dr. Watson.”
The little man frowned. “Holmes? Where have I heard that name before?”
“I’m mentioned occasionally in the press,” said Holmes with a slight smile.
“Well, I’m pleased you could accompany Mrs. Ascott. It’s a lengthy journey to make alone.” He turned his attention to her. “Shall we wind up our business before the festivities get under way?”
“I’d like Mr. Holmes to be present as my advisor,” she said, taking Dobson by surprise.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
“I think it is.” Her voice was firm as she spoke the words. “I trust him a great deal more than I do your Mr. Blackthorn.”
“Oh, very well. This way, please.”
Holmes glanced in my direction, but I motioned toward a butler with a tray of beverages. “I believe I’ll have a sip of wine.”
The three of them disappeared into Dobson’s study, while I took the wine and walked over to admire the view from the windows. By now, it was late afternoon and growing dark. Here and there, lights were beginning to come on.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” the young man standing next to me said.
“Certainly is,” I agreed. “Do you live around here?”
“London.” He held out his hand. “Erskine Childers. I’m a committee clerk in the House of Commons.” He was a small, neat man, probably not quite out of his twenties. “That’s my wife over there in the yellow dress.”
“Watson. Medical doctor. I’m down from London, too.”
“Dr. Watson? You’re not the one who chronicles the cases of your friend, Sherlock Holmes, are you?”
“I’ve done that on occasion,” I admitted, both gratified and embarrassed that he’d recognized my name.
“Well!” His face brightened. “I’ve been wanting to try some writing myself. I’ve joined the City Imperial Volunteers and expect to leave shortly for South Africa. I’m hoping to get a book out of it.”
“I wish you luck. The war reports speak of heavy casualties.”
“They won’
t want me in the front lines. I have a slight sciatic limp, acquired from long walks in the Irish countryside.”
“You’re from Ireland?”
He laughed. “On my mother’s side. I spent much of my childhood in Wicklow.”
Before we could speak further, we were interrupted by a late arrival, a large, barrel-chested man with a black beard. “Dr. Watson?” he inquired, his deep voice cutting through our conversation with an accent I couldn’t place. I caught a whiff of whiskey on his breath.
“That is correct. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Jules Blackthorn, and I am seeking a woman named Elvira Ascott. The head butler said she arrived with you and Mr. Holmes.”
“I believe she is busy at the moment,” I replied, trying to prevent any sort of confrontation.
“It is very important that I see her at once!” His voice had risen so that Childers and a few others nearby were looking alarmed.
The balding butler who’d greeted us upon our arrival hurried forward and tried to calm him. Despite the apparent difference in their ages, the butler grabbed him from behind with a strong left arm, catching him in a half-nelson. Then he hurried him out of the room with a minimum of commotion.
Erskine Childers grinned and said, “It’s nice having wrestlers on your staff.”
Edgar Dobson appeared, followed by Elvira Ascott and Sherlock Holmes. “What is it, Samuels?”
The butler went to him for a whispered conversation, turning his face away from Holmes and Mrs. Ascott. Then Dobson said, “Forgive us for the slight altercation,” and the party continued.
“Was that about me?” Mrs. Ascott asked. “I heard someone say Blackthorn had been here.”
“No, no,” our host assured. “It had nothing to do with you. I’d asked Jules to be our Father Christmas after dinner. Samuels said he’d been drinking too much and had to be removed.”
Holmes had an accustomed twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps Dr. Watson could offer his services. He was Father Christmas for the Baker Street children just last evening.”
I was so startled by his suggestion that I could only murmur, “I’m sure the costume wouldn’t fit me.”
“We’ll try it after dinner,” Dobson said. “If it’s too big for you, I’m sure Samuels could fill the bill with a bit of padding.”
The six tables had been set with six places each and, as the guests took their seats, I saw that thirty-five of the chairs were occupied. They’d accommodated me at the last minute, and only Jules Blackthorn was missing. I was at the table with Holmes and Mrs. Ascott, and we’d been joined by Erskine Childers and his wife, an attractive young woman with a pleasant smile. An older woman, a neighbor of Dobson’s named Monica Selfridge, rounded out our table.
Elvira glanced over at the next table where their host seemed to be seated without a female companion.
“Is Mrs. Dobson here,” she asked the neighbor.
“No, the poor dear died some years back. Edgar has been alone here since then.”
Holmes was two seats away from me, with Elvira in between, so it was impossible for me to ask him what had transpired in the meeting with Dobson. Before I knew it, the first course was being served and we’d drifted into a discussion of sailing. “Two years ago, Erskine and his brother crossed the North Sea on a yacht,” his wife told us, “all the way to the Frisian Islands in Germany.”
“And what did you find there?” Holmes inquired.
Childers gave a shrug. “Germans.”
“As long as they weren’t the French,” the older woman commented.
“We have nothing to fear from France,” Childers insisted. “It is Germany who wants to invade and conquer us.”
“Really?” Monica Selfridge drew in her breath. “I’m planning a trip there next summer. Will I be safe?”
“If we’re not at war by that time.”
“How would they invade us?” asked Holmes.
“By sea, of course. It’s the only way. A fleet of small boats hidden among the Frisian Islands could cross the North Sea and land along our coast before we knew what was happening.”
A sudden shudder seemed to pass through Elvira Ascott’s body. “Please! I don’t want to hear any more talk of war. It’s bad enough to have a husband volunteer to fight the Boers…”
Childers was immediately interested. “I say! Is he down there already? I thought my group would be the first volunteers to go.”
“He sailed last week,” she said, looking more distressed by the moment. “I wish he were here with me now.”
I watched Samuels carving roast beef for the main course, holding it with a fork in his right hand while he carved it perfectly with his left. The meat was delicious and, after the main course, Elvira excused herself.
I was able to lean across her chair and ask Holmes quietly, “Was an agreement reached?”
“She put him off, but promised a final decision before she returned to London this evening. I fear she is about to sign away something of value, although the price he offers seems fair enough.”
The neighbor, Miss Selfridge, left our table and sat down at the piano. As she played some holiday carols, the waiters moved among the tables, serving an ice cream dessert in the shape of a Yule log. I was quite impressed, having never seen anything like it before. As I finished the last of it, our host came over to my seat and asked if I would try on the Father Christmas costume.
“Through that door,” he instructed. “Samuels will show you.”
The butler pointed me toward an unoccupied sitting room, where I found the costume draped across a chair. I removed my shoes, but left the rest of my garments in place, quickly determining that the baggy costume would slip on easily over them. A hat, with wig and beard attached, lay next to the suit and a pair of black boots stood on the floor. There was even a bed pillow included, should I need extra padding around my middle.
I was pulling the Father Christmas pants over my own, silently regretting that I’d allowed myself to be talked into this. Entertaining children was one thing. Parading around in this costume before adults, and strangers at that, was something entirely different. As I bent down to reach for the boots, my eye was attracted to a feather on the carpeting. Then I saw another a short distance away. And a third. I checked the pillow, but there was no rip in it.
The feathers formed a definite trail across the carpet to a door that I took to be a closet. At the door itself there were two more, and I could not resist the urge to turn the knob and open it.
That was how I came to find the bloodied body of Jules Blackthorn.
I instructed the butler to summon his master and Holmes at once. It was only a moment before he returned with them both. When I revealed my discovery in the closet, Dobson was shocked.
“How could this be? I thought he’d gone home.” He turned to the butler. “Didn’t he leave the house, Samuels?”
“I escorted him to the door myself, sir.”
Blackthorn had been stabbed twice in the back. The trail of feathers was quickly explained when Holmes lifted the body slightly to reveal a slashed pillow beneath the dead man’s stomach. It might have been the twin of the one that had been left out for my costume.
“I believe you should notify the local police at once,” said Holmes. “They might wish to contact Scotland Yard as well.”
“But who could have done this terrible thing?” Edgar Dobson wondered. “Did Blackthorn surprise a thief?”
“This was no thief’s act,” Holmes pointed out. “If the man really left the house, as your butler says, someone must have let him in again. I believe we can reasonably assume that person is the one who killed him.”
While we awaited the arrival of the local constable, Dobson made the announcement to his assembled guests.
“I’m sorry to report, ladies and gentlemen, that there has been a serious accident to Mr. Jules Blackthorn, one of this evening’s guests. The local constable has been summoned and I suggest that we await his arrival. I’ll try to
make you as comfortable as possible in the meantime. The waiters will pass among you with after dinner libations while Miss Selfridge entertains us with some additional carols.”
A murmur ran through the three dozen guests and several insisted they had to be starting home. However, the arrival of brandy and cigars soon lured the male guests into the library, while the women stayed to be entertained by the music. As for Holmes and myself, we quickly found ourselves in our host’s study, along with Elvira Ascott. “Please understand, Mrs. Ascott,” Dobson told her, “that Blackthorn’s death makes it more imperative than ever that we complete our transaction.”
Holmes merely smiled at this. “Would you explain yourself, Mr. Dobson? It seems to me that Blackthorn was nothing more than a cohort of yours, sent to persuade Mrs. Ascott to adhere to your wishes regarding the sale of her land.”
“Blackthorn was a principal in the sale. He was putting up a portion of the money for it. I know nothing of his motives. I do know that I am willing to take a worthless parcel of tidal land off your hands for a fair sum of money.”
It was night now, and all we could see against the windows was our own reflection in the darkened glass. For a full minute, no one spoke, and then Elvira Ascott herself broke the silence.
“I will sell you the land, Mr. Dobson, just to be rid of it and put an end to this business.”
“Not so fast,” Holmes cautioned, holding up a hand. “I am acting in your best interests, Mrs. Ascott, when I beg you to delay your decision.”
He slipped something, a small notebook, from his pocket and held it out to her. “Tell me…have you ever seen this before?”
She took the notebook and opened the cover. On the first page was the notation Boot, underlined. It was followed by a column of numbers, each having three digits.
Elvira Ascott shook her head. “I know nothing about this. What is it? To whom does it belong?”
Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch Page 12
