The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (10 page)

“Could that be possible?”

“There are many great mysteries throughout the history of our fair realm, Watson. Who shot William Rufus in the New Forest?
[156]
Did Richard II escape from Pontefract Castle and continue the struggle against Henry IV?
[157]
Who killed the Princes in the Tower?
[158]
Was Perkin Warbeck really the escaped Duke of York?
[159]
Did the Earl of Leicester push his wife, Amy Robsart, down the stairs in hopes of marrying Queen Elizabeth?
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The list goes on and on. History is written by the victors.”

“Things would have been very different if Edward had lived,” I mused. “No Bloody Mary, no religious persecution, no Civil War.
[161]
It is difficult to even consider all of the possibilities.”

Holmes shook his head in disagreement. “You list only the bad things that followed, Watson. You are forgetting that nature tends to balance itself out. The conflict between religions was likely inevitable, and if Edward had lived, would his half-sister Elizabeth have ever ascended to the throne? Without her patronage, would the playhouses have flourished? Would Shakespeare have been motivated to write his plays? Many wonders may have never emerged. We can marvel at history, and we can study it, for it can be a guide to the future. But we cannot regret the past.”

I realized the wisdom in these words. “I still do not entirely understand what Señor Márquez was doing with the letter?”

Holmes nodded. “This was a convoluted case, to be certain. Let me try to elucidate it for you, Watson. As Mycroft noted, the Spanish Empire is tottering. We can only presume that, realizing this weakness, the ambassador ordered that any potentially inflammatory items and documents be secured and removed from the country before they could be captured by foreign agents and used to draw England into a war against them. Márquez must have been put in charge of these efforts, and he took a laudably historic approach to the problem. He researched all of the times when Spain and England were in conflict with each other, starting with the conflict over Charles II’s Iberian and Catholic queen embodied as the Popish Plot. Finding nothing compromising in regards to that plot, in the Archives he nevertheless stumbled upon an older item of even greater importance, what we shall now call the Renard Letter. However, he was insufficiently discreet, and Meyer somehow became aware that Márquez had found an item of note. Meyer determined to take it from him, likely in order to sell it to the highest bidder. Recognizing his danger at the last moment, Márquez dropped the sovereign in the hopes that its presence would eventually come to the attention of his employer, the ambassador, so that he could send additional agents to retrieve the letter. Of course, that is where we came in, and we unwittingly did exactly that with your visit to the Embassy. At the same time, agents of other powers also sought to determine what exactly Márquez had found, hence the man you interrupted at the Lambeth flat. We cannot say for certain whom he represented, but it may have been the Americans, despite the assurances of my brother to the contrary. While it is of far too great a historic importance to simply destroy, we can now ensure that the Renard Letter is kept in a far more secure location, until such time that it is deemed innocuous to release to the public.”
[162]

Holmes paused in his explanation when a knocking on the street door signaled the arrival of another visitor. From the surprised tones of Mrs. Hudson when she answered the door, we knew that we had at least one more incident of note in store for us on that day. I rose to open our door and found most of Scotland Yard assembled in the hall.

Lestrade was the first to enter, as lean, sallow, and ferret-like as ever, his dark eyes glancing rapidly around the room. He was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a long black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself, and lit the cigar which had been offered to him. Behind him came his rival and opposite, Inspector Gregson, tall and flaxen-haired. He rushed forward and with his somewhat fat hands wrung my companion's with great effusion. Next, Athelney Jones, a portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with a pair of very small, twinkling eyes, which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. In a muffled, husky voice he wheezed his congratulations to Holmes. Inspector Bradstreet was barely recognizable without his official peaked cap and frogged jacket, but his tall and stout frame and honest face soon made clear his identity. The battalion was completed with the presence of the smart-looking Inspector Lanner, the sharp, foxy Inspector Forbes, and of course, Mr. Mac.

“Gentlemen!” Holmes exclaimed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His foul, knife-throwing mood was long past and apparently forgotten by all.

Lestrade took the lead. Looking around at his fellows first, he cleared his throat. “There are those who wished to present you with a gift, Mr. Holmes, in recognition for you efforts at recovering that letter.”

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “It is hardly worth mentioning, Lestrade. Work is its own reward.”
[163]
I knew that Holmes was not being modest. He craved not financial, but mental incentives, preferably via the most subtle and bizarre explanation possible so as to be a complete novelty compared to his repertoire of prior experiences. And this case certainly provided such a stimulus.

Lestrade shook his head. “This is the kind of gift that you do not refuse, Mr. Holmes. It comes from someone much higher than us,
[164]
who clearly felt that Boxing Day was an appropriate time for passing this to you.”
[165]
He handed the long black bag to Holmes.

My friend stared at it for some time, clearly trying to deduce what it contained. But even he, with powers of observation far beyond those of ordinary men, could not see through leather. “Open it, Holmes,” I finally insisted, eager to view its contents.

“Very well, Watson.” He twisted the clasp and slowly opened the bag, which revealed a rich red velvet lining that protected a magnificent medieval sword, with a gently down-curving cross-guard. Its wheeled pommel displayed a heraldic lion and a small maker’s mark caught the light that reflected upon the polished blade. Holmes lifted the sword reverently from the bag and held it up for inspection by the now-silent group gathered in our rooms. “A princely gift,” said he, a rarely heard note of awe in his voice.

“Literally, Holmes,” said I, holding up a note that I had plucked from the set-aside bag. “This is the sword of Sir John Chandos.”
[166]

“Ah, the advisor of Edward, the Black Prince, if I recall my history correctly,” said Holmes.

“The note continues, Holmes,” said I, beginning to read. “‘A gentlemen, noble not by birth, but by deed alone, Sir John was not just the greatest warrior of England, but also the most strategic. Solely by his cunning devices was won the battles of both Crecy and Poitiers. As Edward well knew, a prince cannot rule effectively without the counsel of the wisest minds in the land. We have heard that you are an expert swordsman,
[167]
Mr. Holmes, and one who appreciates the history of the Middle Ages,
[168]
so we are entrusting this treasure to your worthy hands. Consider it a life bequest, which will ultimately revert to the Crown, so to be once again passed into the hands of another worthy knight, in deed, if not in name.” I looked up. “It is not signed.”

Holmes nodded and waved his hand. “There was no need. Only one man of the realm could send such a gift.” He gazed at the sword for another minute, and then gazed out at the group of men gathered about him. He finally smiled. “Gentlemen, I thank you for delivering this. If Watson would be so kind as to liberate some Scotch from the tantalus and fill your glasses from the gasogene,
[169]
I would ask that you join us in a Loyal Toast.”
[170]

So gathered, we all saluted our monarch. At the end, I heard Holmes mutter a continuation under his breath. “A willing foe and sea room.”
[171]

Despite their differences in temperament, the officers from Scotland Yard proved to be sociable souls in their hours of relaxation, and they enjoyed their drinks with the airs of
bon vivants
. After some time, one by one, the men paid their final compliments to Holmes and departed back to their homes and families. Inspector Macdonald was the last to leave. Once the door had closed behind him, I sank back into my old familiar armchair, exhausted at the events of the last two days. I glanced over at the sword of Chandos, which now lay propped up against the wall, near Holmes’ beloved Stradivarius. Gleams of light shimmered off its polished steel in the flickering firelight. “A magnificent gift,” said I, wonderingly.

Holmes glanced at the blade. “Indeed, Watson. But it pales before the gift that you have given me this Christmas.”

I frowned in confusion. “But I brought no gift.”

“Not all gifts come in boxes, Watson. In fact, the most valuable cannot be seen at all. They can only be experienced. I have at times wondered what I have done to deserve such loyalty, for I am not a man who much inspires friendship.”

“There you are wrong, Holmes. Did you not see it in the eyes of all those men, who wished to spend part of their Boxing Day holiday with you, rather than with their own families?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Perhaps, Watson, perhaps. But again your wise words stimulate my brain, not for the last time, I hope. You too have another place to be this evening. You have been away from hearth and home far too long, I fear.”

“Mary will understand,” said I, simply.

“Yes, I suspect she will. But that is no excuse. Your task is done, your gift delivered, my friend. Thanks in no small part to your energies this day, my intellect is satisfied. I have plenty of notions to ponder before the break of day. While you belong at her side.” Holmes slowly pushed himself out of his chair.

I rapidly rose to help him, but he waved me away with his typical brusque manner. However, once he had straightened his aching back, he smiled and stretched out his hand towards me. I took it gladly.

“My most sincere compliments of the season, Watson.”

“And to you, Holmes. May there be many more to come.”
[172]

I shrugged back on my coat, lifted my hat to my head, and headed towards the door. Before I closed it behind me, I turned back to gaze upon my friend, who had settled back into his armchair. He had already lighted his favorite pipe, and he was contentedly contemplating the crackling fire. At first glance, his slender frame and aquiline profile might not have invoked the image of the great knights of yore, but there is no doubt in my mind that he is their spiritual heir, for he is both the foremost champion of the law of our generation and the wisest man that I know.

§

To Danica

“See the blazing yule before us,

Strike the harp and join the chorus.

Follow me in merry measure,

While I tell of Christmas treasure,

Fast away the old year passes,

Hail the new, ye lads and lasses!

Sing we joyous all together,

Heedless of the wind and weather.”

Traditional

(ascribed to John Jones & Thomas Oliphant)

LITERARY AGENT’S FORWARD

The literary world was surprised in 2013 when another purported ‘lost’ manuscript of Dr. John H. Watson, biographer of the celebrated detective Sherlock Holmes, was brought to light. However, the provenance of the story in question is ironclad. It was discovered in some long-neglected legal files at the Great Ormond Street Hospital, where it appears to have been misplaced by a harried administrator in approximately 1930. This is one of those stories which required suppression while some of the principals were still within the reach of human law, but by 1930 it seems that Watson felt that it was possible to make the facts public. Although not specified in the tale itself, since one of the individuals herein was affiliated with Great Ormond Street (under its prior name of the Hospital for Sick Children) it appears likely that at some point Watson may have given the manuscript to that person for conveyance to the hospital itself. Watson was perhaps inspired by the action of a good friend and collaborator of his literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930). In April 1929, the Hospital for Sick Children was the recipient of the copyright to the
Peter Pan
works by playwright J. M. Barrie (1860-1937). This gave Great Ormond Street control of the rights to these works, and entitled it to all royalties from any performance or publication of the play and derivative works. The near-simultaneous donation of two manuscripts of great value was perhaps too much for an institution dedicated to improving the health of children, but with no expertise in publishing literary works. When Watson’s tale finally came to light, the hospital board of trustees decided to donate it to the world
pro bono
every December in perpetuity, in the spirit of the season in which it is set.

§