The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (23 page)

“Yes, that looks familiar,” retorted Holmes dryly.
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“And this I believe is St. Edward’s Crown,” said he, motioning towards a golden diadem with two crossed arches and four fleurs-de-lis, all heavily encrusted with a multitude of precious stones. “Was it not briefly misplaced during the reign of the second Charles?”

“Ah yes,” replied the Keeper, “your history is excellent, Mr. Holmes. And here is the real pride of our collection, the Coron Arthur.” He indicated the plainest item in the case, a silver crown in the form of a double-ring, set with numerous small but lustrous diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, all glowing in the light like sparks in a fire.
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Holmes stiffened and a slightly vain smile rose to his lips. “As yes, Watson, you may recall my early case which you have commemorated under the somewhat fanciful title of ‘The Musgrave Ritual.’ As I mentioned at the conclusion, after some legal maneuverings and a considerable outlay of funds, Reginald was originally allowed to keep the crown that we unearthed down at Hurlstone, after it had been marvelously restored by Mr. Farrar here,” said he, inclining his head to the dapper little man, whose role at the Jewel House finally became slightly less opaque. “While we knew from the minute of its recovery that it must have been one of the ancient crowns of the Kings of England, history is relatively replete with these. Many of our former kings desired that a new crown be made especially for their own ascension to the throne. For example, one such was the Tudor State Crown, which was later sold by Oliver Cromwell in order to raise funds for the depleted coffers of his dictatorship, and thereby was lost to the pages of time. Back to the matter at hand, however, further research by Professor Adams of the British Museum eventually revealed that the crown we pulled from the lake was nothing less than the coronet of Llywelyn, King of Gwynedd, seized by Longshanks during the Conquest of Wales.
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As you may be aware, Watson, that particular crown is reputed have originally belonged to King Arthur himself. Therefore, Reginald was gently persuaded to sell such a treasure back to the Crown.”

“This is fascinating, Holmes,” I said with a vein of asperity in my voice, “but I fail to see how this is related to the case at hand?”

“No?” he replied with arched eyebrows, continuing to slowly ambulate around the room, inspecting all of the items in the cases. “Ah, well then, consider it simply a pleasant diversion, Watson. Nothing more.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “Then we are no closer to the solution?”

Holmes smiled. “I would not say that, Doctor. In fact, Mr. Farrar, I would be grateful if you would accompany us to our next stop.”

“I am your servant, Mr. Holmes.”

“Most kind.” Holmes turned to the Keeper. “Thank you again, Major. Our visit has been extremely elucidating. I hope to return someday soon. Before we leave, would you mind if I sent two quick telegrams from your office?”

Cornwell agreed to this reasonable request, and once complete we were again off in a hansom. I had lost track of how many we had engaged that day, and wondered at the financial outlay Holmes had assumed in order to pursue this peculiar little case without any apparent end in sight.

“Where exactly are we headed, Holmes?” I asked, without serious hope of an answer.

Holmes smiled. “All in good time, Watson. All in good time.” He looked out the aperture of the hansom and suddenly called out, “Stop here for a moment, my good man.” With no word of instruction, Holmes hopped out of the cab and vanished into a small grocer’s shop. A few minutes later he emerged with a bag in hand, and resumed his place in the hansom.

“As you recall, Watson,” said he, settling back in his seat, “while you were selecting a tree with which to adorn the bay window at Baker Street, I availed myself of a look at Mr. Clancy’s books. He is a methodical man, with a system much to be esteemed. Perhaps to avoid any accusations of bait-and-switching, his descriptions at the time of sales are faultless. As he mentioned to us, there were three trees sold this year with a fine burr. As we have already seen, two of those trees have been destroyed. The third tree was delivered here.” This last remark was made as our hansom pulled up in front of a magnificent three-storied crenellated mansion, set back twenty yards from the bustle of the Embankment, and tucked into the side of the Temple grounds.

Mr. Farrar and I followed Holmes out of the cab and watched, mystified, as he paid and dismissed the driver. We stood in the small light emitted from a nearby lamppost and awaited Holmes’ next move. Given the flurry of activities on that day, I was little surprised to soon find another cab arrive, from which Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson both emerged, despite the rarity of seeing those rivals at the Yard working a case together.
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“What gives, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade, vigorously waving a telegram in the air. “‘Tis a rum night to pull a man from his hearth and home. This had better not be about that ridiculous Christmas tree case! That can certainly wait until the morn.”

“Ah, Lestrade, excellent. I am happy that you are here. You as well, Gregson. You were both present at one end of this case’s beginning, and the time has come to tie those two unraveled threads together into a coherent final tapestry.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Holmes,” began Gregson. “We already know the identity of the man, thanks to your assistance, I might add…”

Holmes forestalled further protest with a raise of his hand. “You will simply have to take my word for it, Gregson, that not all has yet been made clear. I believe that over the course of the last dozen years, I have earned a small modicum of latitude to conduct an investigation according to my personal whims.”

Gregson glanced at Lestrade, who sighed. “Have it your way, Mr. Holmes. We will humor your little fancies, not for the last time, I am sure.”

Holmes smiled. “Excellent. I fear we may have a very weary vigil before us, as I cannot say with absolute precision when our man may appear. But, unless I have missed my mark, appear he shall before the night is out. I have taken the precaution of filling my flask, which I am happy to share, and obtained a few paper-wrapped sandwiches with which we may fortify our watch. But, not here under the light, I think,” he said, inspecting the surrounding area. “Yes, follow me, gentlemen, this is just the spot. I apologize that we cannot afford a lantern, nor the comfort of a pipe. The light would prove fatal to our cause.”

He led us to a darkest corner, where a small foot-lane led along the side of the Middle Temple. There lay a forgotten bench, tucked hard against the high wall, happily shielded from snow by the oak branches overhanging from the gardens of the other side. Fortunately, the night proved to be relatively mild, but after a span of nearly an hour I found the cold begin to penetrate through my inverness. For myself, my term of service in India and Afghanistan had trained me to stand heat far better than cold,
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and I wondered how the little Mr. Farrar was managing. Even the thrill that we were lying in a blind, awaiting the arrival of some big game to our metaphorical watercourse, began to wear thin. I was about to speak when I noted Holmes’ frame suddenly tense by my side. Even in the relative darkness, I could see his grey eyes shining with excitement, and I suspected that his nostrils were dilated and his cheeks tinged with more color than absolutely required by the chill in the air. I knew that these battle signals were a sign that our hunt was drawing to a close.

Within a few moments, I finally perceived what had triggered Holmes’ keen senses. A solitary man was quietly making his way down the street. He was judiciously avoiding the circles of light cast by the streetlights, though at one point he veered too close to one and a glimmer reflected off the blade of what could only be an axe. His destination was clear, and as he began to climb over the low wrought-iron fence, Holmes pounced.

“That is far enough, Mr. George Blunt,” said Holmes with authority, though I noted that he was sufficiently cautious to approach only close enough to avoid being within range of the man’s weapon. The inspectors and I trailed Holmes, with Mr. Farrar sensibly bringing up the rear.

The man startled at the sound of Holmes’ voice. Pulling his leg back, he gazed with astonishment at the five of us confronting him. “How did you know my name, mister?” the man asked incredulously, slowly inching away from us.

“No further, please,” warned Holmes. “You cannot hope to outrun us. Watson here is especially fleet of foot. As for your question, it is my business to know things, Mr. Blunt.”

“Well, I don’t know who you are, mister, but can tell a copper when I see one, and you’ve got two flanking you. But you’ve got nothing on me. I was just out for a stroll on this fine night. I am enjoying the holiday decorations.”

“What about that axe?” cried Lestrade.

The man shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “I’m on my way home from work, Inspector. I sell Christmas trees. And you cannot procure yourself of a Christmas tree without a little axe.”

Holmes chuckled softly. “You are a far ways from Farnham, Mr. Blunt. It appears you have gotten lost on your way home” he said, dryly. “It may also surprise you to learn that the field of forensic science has advanced considerably in recent years.”

“You don’t say,” interrupted Blunt.

“I do. In fact, as it turns out, when studied under the lens of a high-powered microscope, every axe blade becomes as unique as a snowflake. And everything chopped with a particular axe can be traced back via that inverse pattern left in the residual material by the microscopic imperfections of said blade. I think, given the position where we found your leg, half in the property belonging to a house that is not your own, that Lestrade here has more than sufficient reason to confiscate your axe and submit it to the laboratory in order to determine if it matches the remains of trees found at both Albion Grove and Garden Road.”

The man’s confident façade began to crumble. “What did you say?” he stammered.

“I told you,” Holmes continued, solemnly, “I know all. There is only one thing I do not know for absolute certitude. Has your family surname always been such, or was an ‘n’ perhaps added recently?
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Although I had at least partially followed Holmes’s logic so far, I could not comprehend the nature of this novel tack of interrogation. However, this strange question produced a visible fear in our quarry’s eyes.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Ah,” Holmes smiled, “thank you. I see it all now. I am sorry for the loss of your brother.”

To my utmost surprise, the man dropped his axe, and suddenly began to sob. Holmes adroitly sidled up to him, and managed to both console the lachrymose man while simultaneously handing the confiscated axe to me for safekeeping.

In what was rapidly approaching the level of a stage farce, a rich carriage rumbled up the street and stopped in front of us. From this appeared none other than Mycroft Holmes, followed closely by a bull-dog-faced man, with a bushy mustache and carefully parted brown hair.

“Ah, Mycroft, excellent,” said Holmes. “I see that you received my telegram. But I hardly expected you to come yourself. It is far from your usual rails. It is like seeing a submarine in the Serpentine.”

“I freely admit, Sherlock,” said he, blandly, “that I rarely deign to bring to bear any surfeit of energy for the sake of mere exercise, as it threatens to steal blood-flow from where it is more vitally needed for the workings of my brain. But when the honor of the Crown is at stake, exceptions can be made. May I introduce, gentlemen, Mr. Edward Asbury,
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who has the honor of owning this fine residence. Mr. Asbury, this is my brother Sherlock, his associate Dr. Watson, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Andrew Farrar of Farrar & Co. I have not had the pleasure of the final gentleman’s acquaintance, but I can only presume he is the brother of the late Mr. Stephan Blunt.”

Asbury shook his head, as if trying to clear away the bizarre tableau that he found before his eyes. He turned to Gregson, and when he spoke it was with the accent of a man who had spent most of his life in the Americas. “Inspector, I certainly hope that you can explain what is happening here. I was called away from an important Christmas ball at the home of the Trelawney Hope by Mr. Holmes here. No lesser man than Lord Bellinger
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himself assured me that I should follow his every instruction.”

Gregson shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am afraid that I am just as mystified as yourself. Only Mr. Sherlock Holmes seems to understand,” he replied, nodding towards my friend.

Holmes took charge. “Mr. Asbury, I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. However, I believe that I can give you assurances that, before the evening is out, you will comprehend all and you will agree that the explanation is of far greater interest than anything that might have transpired at the ball of the Right Honorable Mr. Hope. I would suggest that, rather than trying to explain out here in the cold street, with your permission, we repair into your hall. There, I believe I can demonstrate the
primum movens
for a series of unusual activities.”

When we entered Mr. Asbury’s hall, we were immediately greeted by a magnificently decorated tree approaching ten feet in height and topped with a Union Jack. A multitude of candles gleamed forth from its branches, their red drippings filling the mat below. Holmes immediately strode up to the tree and rounded it slowly, stopping to study a spot on the far side from us.