The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (2 page)

THE ADVENTURE OF

THE SPANISH SOVEREIGN

It was on 25 December, 1890, when I first had intimations
[1]
that Sherlock Holmes was not invincible.
[2]
I already knew, of course, that he was not infallible, and have provided several examples in the cases which I have so far managed to set to paper,
[3]
most notably the tragic cases of the orange pips
[4]
and of the poisoned tiffin.
[5]
But his iron constitution
[6]
and great physical strength,
[7]
as evidenced by both his prodigious boxing skills
[8]
and his ability to bend steel in his slender fingers,
[9]
were such that it was inconceivable to me that Holmes could ever be laid low. However, I was soon to find just how wrong I could be. Unfortunately, the adventure that followed this discovery dealt with concerns of such importance to the first family of the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it public. I can only hope that he who appropriated both this manuscript and my supporting notes will someday see fit to return them to me.

On the morning that I left my house on Crawford Place,
[10]
Christmas day was only remarkable for falling during a bitterly cold winter. Even the brightly shining sun could not shake the chill from the air. My wife
[11]
ensured that I was carefully bundled before I set foot from our doorstep upon my mission. I had heard nothing from Holmes for many weeks, and secretly hoped that he was engaged on a case upon which I might attach my company. The previous year’s encounter with a rare goose
[12]
had been such a brilliant display of both Holmes’ perspicacity and magnanimity that I could hardly hope for anything quite so thrilling, but one never knew with Holmes. The extraordinary was always just around the corner.

When I rang the bell at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson opened the door herself. She looked more flustered than I could ever recall seeing her, excepting only when she mistakenly thought Holmes was dying from a Sumatran fever.
[13]
Before I could even wish her the compliments of the season, she poured out her concerns to me.

“Oh, Dr. Watson!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad that you are here. Mr. Holmes is in such a state, I fear for his sanity.”

“Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Hudson?” I inquired in my most soothing tone.

“Mr. Holmes has been dreadfully injured, Doctor. He is confined to his bed, and won’t allow any to enter his room. He won’t even permit me to bring in food and drink.”

“Hmmm, I see. I think I’ve heard this one before, Mrs. Hudson,” said I. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. I feel certain that he will listen to you.”

As I climbed the stairs, the appetizing scent of roasting goose wafted over me from the back kitchen. It seemed that my former landlady was determined to attempt a cheering of Holmes by appealing to his epicurean senses, which from time to time were able to be aroused.
[14]

I entered our old sitting-room and looked around. I found nothing festive there to indicate the joy of the season that was upon us. It was as if the holidays had passed Sherlock Holmes by completely. I even saw several Christmas cards, my own among them, lying unopened upon the mantel, transfixed by the old jack-knife.
[15]
The cards looked sad and neglected amongst the other debris scattered around them, including a litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, revolver cartridges, and an overturned photograph belonging to
the
woman.
[16]
Not for the last time did I feel sympathy for the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson, who daily had to deal with the very worst tenant in London.

I strode across the room and knocked softly upon the door to Holmes’ bedchamber. Before I could even open it, however, his voice carried through the wood.

“I must warn you, Watson, that any attempt to convey a note of holiday cheer will be met with extreme unction. I still have four weapons left in my small arsenal, which Billy
[17]
confiscated from Mrs. Hudson before she could divine my plans for them.”

I opened the door and, through the thick tobacco cloud, found six kitchen knives decorating the wall immediately to my right.
[18]
“And who provoked these?” I inquired mildly, indicating the converted weapons.

The shades were drawn and I could only vaguely see through the dim light that Holmes had waved his hand indifferently from his recumbent perch. His long frame seemed to take over the entire bed, and about the face he seemed thinner than usual, his hawk-like nose and square chin accentuated. But his hands seemed steady and his voice was strong, so I knew he was not again feigning some illness. “The usual suspects, Watson. The usual suspects. Lestrade,
[19]
Tobias Gregson,
[20]
Athelney Jones,
[21]
Bradstreet,
[22]
Lanner,
[23]
Forbes.
[24]
Who else? You know I have no friends.”

I tried to not let it rankle me that he neglected to include me in the count of his friends. I generously attributed this oversight to today’s particularly foul mood, even for Holmes.
[25]
“What about your brother?”

Holmes snorted. “You have a better chance of catching Father Christmas hanging a stocking filled with cigars on the mantel than finding my brother Mycroft at Baker Street. He has his rails and runs on them without deviation.”

“So are you truly injured, Holmes, or is this another case of your malingering in order to fool some criminal?”
[26]

He laughed bitterly. “Even your modest medical talents, Watson, should be sufficient to judge from a distance of four yards that I do not confine myself to this cursed bed without good reason.”

I threw open the shades and allowed the glorious winter sun to shine into the dismal room. I could then make out that his left leg appeared to be in some form of traction. “Ah yes, I see now that this is not just a simple case of tobacco poisoning.”
[27]
I looked around the room and noted with some dismay that upon his night-table the dreaded morocco case was lying open, exposing its syringes and phials.
[28]
“Singlestick or sword?” I asked.

“Sword,” he replied laconically.

“I thought so.”

I finally noted a glimmer of interest appear in his dull eyes. “Tell me, Watson, how exactly did you deduce that I was injured by a handled weapon? Was it the particular way that the traction has been applied to my leg? I admit that I have not studied these devices sufficiently to appreciate any differences in their settings.”

“Not at all,” I shook my head. “In the eight years that we shared these rooms, you have always kept your singlestick in the umbrella stand and your sword over the mantelpiece. However, I now see that they have both been moved to a place where they are almost the only items within your immediate view. I assumed that this must have been done upon your orders, and that could only be because you wished to meditate upon some particular failing.”

A slight smile cracked Holmes’ lips. “Very good, Watson. You are learning the trick, I see.”

“Would you care to explain what happened?”

He sighed with affectation. “Very well, though I have not the energy for a full recital. I am afraid this case will never make it into your recountings of my triumphs.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Not everything you do, Holmes, is worthy of transmitting to my readers. There have been a few cases I purposefully omitted for lack of sufficient interest.”

His eyes narrowed. “Very few, I think. And this would not be one of them. You have heard of the Baron Robert Cranborne?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps something in the papers? Some sort of socialite, I believe?”

“Only on the surface, Watson. He was, in fact, the second most dangerous man in London.”
[29]

“How so?”

“Over the last three years, the baron has been responsible for at least ten murders of young women who fell into his wicked grasp. I finally noted a pattern to the disappearances and recommended him to the attention of Scotland Yard. But the proof was lacking. The only way to bring him to justice was to catch him in the act. For weeks I stalked his every movement, utilizing every disguise in my arsenal to avoid attracting the notice of his keen eyes. Finally, Cranborne could not control his foul appetites any longer and he lured another woman back to his townhome in Belgravia. I had only moments to act. With the police surrounding every exit, we burst into the building. But something had tipped him off. Although we had saved the girl before she could meet the same fate as the others, the baron himself had fled away from the direction of my approach. He encountered a constable in his path, and silently struck the officer down. When we found the poor man’s corpse, a trail of blood clearly indicated the path by which Cranborne had escaped down a rear alleyway. In a rage over the death of one of their own, Lestrade, Gregson, and the other constables chased after him as fast as their feet would lead them, but something held me back. Within a fraction of a minute, I realized that the trail of blood was a carefully prepared diversion. I could not but feel some degree of admiration for the man’s ability to plan such a thing in the heat of the moment, no matter how foul he may be. I determined from the presence of a small scuff mark that he had instead taken to the roofs of the closely adjoining houses. Up I climbed, and quickly located a fresh set of footprints unmistakably belonging to Cranborne. A few minutes later, I came upon the bloody baron himself, a pair of razor sharp sabers in hand.

“He explained, Watson, that he had been awaiting me. Somehow he had become aware that I was on his tracks, and he had determined to flee to a fresh start of his villainy in far-off Italy. But he wished to test my skills before he left. He tossed me one of the swords, and performed a salute. I had known that he was considered amongst the best at the London Fencing Club, but I never thought to see this talent in action. You have reported, Watson, that I am an expert swordsman,
[30]
but I soon realized that my skills were rusty and I was plainly overmatched. The man was a whirling demon with a blade, and I found myself on the defensive, with little hope of victory unless the Scotland Yarders soon realized our location and relieved me. But, alas, that was not to be. He finally landed a blow that I was unable to parry. The best I could do was adjust my stance sufficiently such that it was the flat of the blade that hit my leg, otherwise, I might be fitting myself for a stump. I felt the femur snap and I collapsed in agony. Baron Cranborne stood over me, gloating. He said that he was disappointed that I did not put up more of a challenge, and that my skills were overrated. He debated whether or not to even bother killing me, for I had failed completely in stopping him. But he ultimately decided that I was too stubborn to admit my failure and might continue to dog his tracks, no matter how far he fled. So that he could continue his life abroad unfettered, he leaned forward to stab me in the heart.”

“Whatever did you say, Holmes, to stop him?” asked I breathlessly.

“I said nothing, Watson. I shot him.”

“You what?” I exclaimed.

“While he was exulting in his apparent victory, Watson, I had slipped my revolver out of my coat pocket. I put a bullet through his brain and gladly ended a plague upon the realm.”

“That doesn’t seem very sporting, Holmes, though I suppose it was warranted in the situation.”

“Chivalry is all well and good, Watson, when your life is not on the line. But it has its limits, and Baron Cranborne had long passed beyond the bounds of common decency. I put him down like the rabid dog that he was.
[31]
However, you are missing the point entirely, Watson. This was a perfect example of the dangers of acceding to emotion when dealing with the criminal element. I let my anger get the better of me, and as such, I raced alone into a situation in which I had failed to account for all of the possible elements. You can see where such a mistake has led me.” He gestured to his bandaged leg.

“Well, your actions of saving of the poor girl and elimination of this foul murderer have made the streets of London a safer place, Holmes. The men of the Yard are clearly grateful or they would not have visited
en masse
. It was a noble act, even if it came at a temporary price to your health.”

Holmes shook his head irascibly. “Not just my health, Watson. Any absence of mine from London, whether in body or in spirit, causes an unwholesome excitement among the criminal classes
[32]
and my incapacity threatens to remove the last restraint from one or two gentlemen who I could mention.”
[33]

I also realized that the inaction was dangerous for Holmes’ brain.
[34]
His finely honed mind was like the engine of a racing locomotive.
[35]
It needed to be pushed to its limits by a grand challenge, or a dark
ennui
would settle in, and he would relapse back into insalubrious habits.
[36]
“Well then, how about a nice game of chess?
[37]
I have beaten you once or twice in days gone past, eh, Holmes?”