The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (22 page)

“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.”

Such 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.”

He would say no more until the hansom had passed through Trafalgar Square and arrived in front of the unmarked door of Diogenes Club,
[294]
a short distance from the far more salubrious Carlton. If I had expected the club to relax its rules at this festive time, I was sorely mistaken. A locale less conducive to the practice of Christmas cheer has not been seen since before the ghosts visited the home of Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens’ fine tale.
[295]
Not a decoration was in sight, and the oppressive silence reigned triumphant.

The sight of my friend was sufficient to effect our immediate entrance, though not without a mute scrutiny of my particular acceptability by the forbidding doorman. Holmes led the way down the double-paned window-lined hall, allowing a glimpse of the luxurious hall filled with the individual nooks of its misanthropic members, of whom a great number were in residence, despite the proximity of the date to one of such great cheer. Another dozen strides found us in the diminutive and uncomfortably-furnished Stranger’s Room, its very name and character purposefully designed to induce in its temporary occupants a strong desire to remain within for the most limited duration of time. Only a bow-widow, looking out upon the passersby in the street, lightened the oppressive atmosphere.

A handful of minutes ticked by before Mycroft himself appeared. He was unchanged from our last meeting, still stoutly built and massive, with a suggestion of corpulence due to inertia in the figure. However, these details were obscured by the sheer presence of his remarkable face, which shared many of my friend’s features, albeit in an elder form.
[296]
His dominant brow presided over steel-gray, deep-set eyes, whose look alternated between the piercing alertness and the far-away introspection required to balance the vast and intricate workings of the policies of an Empire.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft began, his fleshy hand outstretched. “I hope the few months have served you well?”
[297]
He turned to Holmes. “I expected to see you around here sooner, Sherlock. I thought you might have found the name of the dead man suggestive.”

“So Gregson solved it?” asked my friend. “We have been on the move for the last few hours and in no position to receive a telegram from him.”

“Of course, though his official report, a copy of which made its way past my humble desk, makes little reference to your role in the affair.”

Holmes waved away the implications. “I do not mind when the official force appropriates a preponderance of credit for my part in the solution. It keeps them content and likely to continue to bring their most unusual cases to my doorstep, the very uniqueness of which I crave.”

“Art for art’s sake?” asked Mycroft.

“Exactly.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You always did inherit the stronger degree of our grandmother’s particular vein of talent,
[298]
Sherlock. While I received the least, and must confine myself to the dreary minutia of the governmental machinery.”

Holmes laughed. “You may convince Watson with your act, brother, but I know that they will pry your cold corpse from your desk before you abandon the effort.”

“Yes, well, a pleasant image, to be sure. Was there a point to your visit, then, Sherlock?”

“Of course. I need you to open a door for me, so to speak.”

“And what, pray tell, is behind that door?”

Holmes carefully looked around the room. “Are you certain that the walls have no ears?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Of course not. All walls are so endowed this close to Whitehall.”

“I thought as much,” nodded Holmes. “Then I will write it down for you.” He ripped a sheet from his small notebook and quickly scribbled what looked like three words upon the paper. Once complete, he slid it over to Mycroft.

If Mycroft was surprised by the contents, he hid it well. “So be it, Sherlock, though I do not see why exactly you need to make this detour?”

“I have my methods, Mycroft, as you have yours. I prefer to ensure that the case is complete before I commit to a final course of action.”

Mycroft shrugged. “As you like,” he said. “I will send off a telegram that will serve to unlock said door upon your arrival.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. Then you
were
involved, what was it, twelve years ago?”

A smile spread across his face for the first time. “Of course, Sherlock. As you are fond of pointing out, I am involved with everything of matter that transpires in our great Empire. Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

We made our way back into the street, my mind seemingly further from the solution with every rapid twist in the case. The light snow had passed and the sun reemerged. Hailing a passing cab, Holmes surprised me again by instructing the man to take us to the Tower of London.

“I say, Holmes,” said I with a small hint of censure in my voice, “it would not be amiss if you would care to share some of the chains of your logic with me.”

Holmes smiled. “Forgive me, Watson, but you are aware that at times I take some small pleasure in instilling a flair of the dramatic into our cases. If you will endeavor to consign yourself to patience for but a few hours more, I think it highly probable that there will be a
dénouement
to this case that will be all the more piquant when presented
en masse
. Call it my modest gift to you, to satisfy your penchant for the mysterious.”

I frowned, but ultimately nodded, silently acquiescing to his judgment.

Holmes suddenly leaned out the window. “Stop at that telegraph office, cabby!” As the man pulled over, Holmes provided a partial explanation. “I must send a note to Threadneedle Street,
[299]
and ask if a certain gentleman can meet us there.”

The twenty-minute drive along the Embankment quickly passed and we soon arrived at the eight hundred year-old Tower slumbering in the shadow of the barely one year-old Bridge.
[300]
  When we arrived, it was approaching the twilight of a lovely winter evening, and the stones of the White Tower gleamed golden and glorious in the slanting rays of the setting sun. Upon our entrance to the inner ward, we were met by two men. The first was a dapper and smartly dressed little man of about sixty years, who introduced himself as Andrew Farrar.
[301]
This gentleman appeared to already know my friend, but his role at the Tower was unclear to my eyes. The second middle-aged man wore the flat-topped black hat and the gold and black-highlighted amber-colored, white-ruffed uniform of a Yeoman Warder.
[302]

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, proffering his hand, “I am Major William Cornwell, current Keeper of the House. Your brother has requested that we allow you a private visit.”

“It is very good of you on such short notice,” replied Holmes. “I assure you that we will not occupy too much of your valuable time.”

“If you will come this way, I can show you the regalia.” Major Cornwell led us to the south of the White Tower into what I belatedly recognized was the Jewel House.
[303]
Passing a set of guards, the four of us ascended some stairs to the upper floor, which was crowded with glass-lined cases.

“Here we guard the royal crowns, orbs, scepters, swords, and rings, without which the coronation ceremony cannot take place,” continued the Keeper, his arm sweeping the room. “Fortunately for us, it has been many years since any were put to such use.
[304]
This piece here is the famed Beryl Coronet,” said he, leading over to one case. Upon soft, flesh-colored velvet, lay the magnificent specimen of jewelry which he had named. “You can see the thirty-nine enormous beryls, and its gold chasing is the finest in existence.”