The Curse of Christmas (33 page)

Desperate to pretend everything
was normal; Dr Watson offered her a mince pie. “Mrs H made them.
They’re rather good.” He took one for himself. “We still have no
idea who the fire cracker man is though.”

She tried not to rudely stare as
Sherlock placed her glass of port on a side table with what looked
like a mechanical arm. “I think I have a fair idea.”

“Viscount Cazenove!” Sherlock’s
cocky outburst was typical of the detective.

Dr Watson laughed at the
outrageous suggestion then immediately regretted it. “No! It can’t
be! Don’t tell me he had anything to do with it! No!”

She nibbled at the crimped edges
of the mince pie. “No proof, but it is highly likely Freddy
Cazenove hired the fire cracker man. He happened along just as the
fire crackers started to make an impact. His carriage was
conveniently parked in Pall Mall. He rescued his prospective fiancé
and is now a hero in the eyes of his prospective
father-in-law.”

“Qui bono,” said Mycroft.

“Qui bono,” echoed Sherlock.

“No, no,” argued the good
doctor. “No man would hurl fire crackers into a crowd of
defenceless women just to make himself look a hero!”

“Why not?” challenged Mycroft.
“Some men commit arson so they can run into a burning building and
rescue children.”

“Some throw dogs in the water so
they can swim out and pluck them to safety,” added Sherlock.

“Some men have a pathological
need for adoration,” finished the Countess. “Now, who is going to
explain things to me or should I just use my imagination?”

Sherlock burst out laughing.
“Chip off the block!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he
topped up his own port glass. “I shall start. I shall make more
sense. Here goes: After that terrible business at Reichenbach Falls
in 1891 – more than eight years ago now – I did not think there
would be any coming back for my little brother. When his body was
hauled up two days after going over the cliff and crashing onto a
rock shelf he was a mess. I was surprised he was still alive. His
injuries were horrific. His left arm was totally mangled. Every
bone in his left foot had been crushed. And a tree root had gouged
out his right eye. The eyeball was hanging by a thread.”

“Spare our illustrious guest the
poetic details,” quipped Sherlock, gazing out of the French window
before drawing the curtain. “You are no romantic novelist.”

Mycroft performed another
eye-roll. “I considered letting him go peacefully. I thought that
would be the kindest thing. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t. But
Sherlock always was contrary and tenacious. He clung to life. I
began making enquiries about a suitable Swiss sanitorium and a full
time nurse to take care of him once he came home, but the speed of
his recovery surprised everyone. Most of all me.”

Dr Watson snatched up the plate
of mince pies again and offered them round a second time.

“I had to keep everything
secret. Even from Dr Watson. I have apologized more than once.
Sherlock agreed that was the only way. It was easy to fake his
death. He was on death’s door anyway. He went to the sanitorium
under an assumed name. He then moved from house to house, country
to country, to make sure Moriarty’s henchmen weren’t on the trail.
I refer specifically of Colonel Sebastian Moran, a ruthless rogue
who would have been hell-bent on revenge had he suspected
anything.”

“Where is Colonel Moran these
days?” mused Sherlock, moving to the small window by the bookshelf
and drawing that curtain too. “I have lost track of the man.”

“Cairo,” snapped Mycroft. “Stop
interrupting. The injuries were another problem. But Sherlock had
time on his hands. He researched the best specialists in their
respective fields.”

“That took almost six months,”
said Sherlock. “I’m making hot chocolate when this gothique requiem
is over; real chocolate not cocoa. Say nay if you’re not having
any.”

No one said a word. Sherlock!
Hot chocolate!

Mycroft continued. “Dr Mannheim
from Zurich amputated the foot below the ankle and a Jewish
boot-maker from Antwerp designed the boot. How does it feel,
Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a circuit of the
small sitting room littered with books and newspapers, refreshing
the port glasses, to demonstrate the fluidity of his stride. “Once
I have strapped on the boot in the morning I hardly know the foot
is missing. Mr Rozenberg was marvellous. Fitted it brilliantly. It
works like a charm with these little leather straps and buckles
holding it firmly in place. Keep going Mycroft, you are doing an
admirable job recounting my resurrection.”

Praise was rare from the little
brother even when delivered cynically so Mycroft acknowledged it.
“Thank you, Sherlock. As for the left arm, that proved more
difficult. It had been crushed and was fairly useless, but it did
not require amputation. The blood vessels were still intact but the
muscles were weak. Mr Graz from Stuttgart fitted the mechanical
arm. He was a scientist who specialized in medical instruments. He
and Sherlock worked together for about a year to perfect the
mechanics of it. Isn’t that right Sherlock?”

It was a rare now for Sherlock
to take the floor in the manner he had once been accustomed to, but
he rose to the occasion. “Yes this leather sleeve and glove which
supports the wasted muscles in the manner of an exo-skeleton is
fitted with retractable wires and tiny springs that work almost
like human sinews that stretch and retract. Within a few months I
had managed to grip the door handle and pretty soon I was turning
the actual knob. Turning the key is still proving tricky. I can now
pick up a tea cup without breaking the delicate china handle and I
can use a dip pen without blotting ink all over the place like
drunken sailor.”

Everyone laughed. It was turning
into a jolly night with a crackling fire warming everyone on the
outside and some port warming them on the inside.

“You’ve saved the best for
last,” said Sherlock, indicating for Mycroft to continue.

“Ah, yes, the ocular bit. There
are not many men who can do much with an empty eye-socket and a
frayed eyeball but Dr Lubitsch from Prague University was
outstanding.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, “I had
resigned myself to being blind in one eye and half-blind in the
other but Lubitsch managed to save the sight in my right eye.”

“But the real genius was that
blind watchmaker from Wroclaw,” said Mycroft. “His own eyesight had
been fading for several years so he had devised a telescopic lens
that fit perfectly into his eye-socket, held firmly in place by a
leather band that strapped easily around his head. Pretty simple
when you think about it - jewellers use very short loupes, opera
goers use short telescopic glasses, so why not a blind
watchmaker?”

“And a desperate detective!”
chuckled Sherlock. “I could talk collimation, magnification and
vignetting all night but suffice to say the greater the stability
of the monocular lens the better the focus. I sometimes think it
works better than a mammalian eye.”

“Does eye fatigue still bother
you?” asked Dr Watson.

“Not any more, old boy.”

“What about the contrast between
one normal eye and the monocular lens?” asked the Countess. “Does
it become confusing?”

“It did at first. Things looked
odd and unfocussed, not to mention blurred and fuzzy. At one stage
I was even considering settling for having objects the right way up
in one eye and the wrong way up in the other, but the blind
watchmaker persisted with different porro lenses and the eyes have
adapted astonishingly well. A marvellous example of human evolution
– the eye. Truly Darwinian.”

As if to prove his point
Sherlock went to the window and poked his telescopic lens through
the gap in the curtains, jiggling the focus until he got it just
right. “Don’t be alarmed anyone, but there is someone standing at
the edge of the coppice. He has been watching the house for some
time.”

Well, saying don’t be alarmed
had no effect. They all felt instantly alarmed.

“Calm down,” advised Sherlock
when Mycroft leapt to his feet and began pacing the room and Dr
Watson grabbed the fire poker and started stabbing the embers in
preparation for an imminent assault. “It looks like your ADC,
Mycroft. Have you set Nash to spy on me?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, it’s him all right. I can
see him no problem. There’s a bright moon and it’s a clear night
and there’s no mistaking his chiselled features. If I didn’t know
better I’d have thought I was looking at a life-size garden statue
of Hercules or Apollo. How did he get hold of my address if you
didn’t give it to him?”

“I think I can answer that,”
said the Countess. “He hand-delivered my invitation this morning;
the two addresses, this one and the village house, were both on
it.”

“Had the envelope been tampered
with?” quizzed Mycroft, still fuming at the careless
accusation.

“No,” she said.

“Nash has access to your
stationery,” tut-tutted Sherlock. “He could easily have ripped open
the first envelope, read the contents, and then resealed it in a
fresh envelope.”

“But why the devil do that?”
growled the elder.

“Only one way to find out,” said
Sherlock. “Mycroft you work your way to the left behind the barn.
Watson you skirt through the orchard on the right. Come at him from
both sides. The Countess and I shall stand on the front doorstep
and pretend to be looking at the moonshine on the roses to draw his
attention. He has some binocular field glasses and he will have
them trained on us. Off you go.”

When Sherlock was standing with
his daughter on the doorstep his voice dropped to a throaty timbre.
“Thank God you didn’t inherit my nose. You have my grey eyes. More
of your mother in you though. I have been keeping abreast of things
since that Baskerville business in September. You have done well. I
am proud of you but I will never acknowledge you. I think you can
understand why.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I
understand.”

“Have you met your mother
yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Your mother is a remarkable
woman. Our paths only crossed once during that Bohemian scandal
but…”

“Twice,” she corrected. “Your
paths must have crossed twice.”

“Yes, of course. I stand
corrected.”

She decided now was the time for
the answers to the questions that had been plaguing her for years
and which had grown in leaps and bounds since meeting up with Dr
Watson three months ago. “I am still slightly confused. I can see
your injuries for myself, that is perfectly clear, but I feel as if
I have entered an elaborate game of charades. Can you explain what
exactly is going on? The sitting room at 221B Baker Street is more
like a shrine than a home. It is clear this cottage is your real
home.”

“Ah, yes, nicely observed. It
was Mycroft’s idea. He has one every now and again. Following on
from the incident at Reichenbach Falls, after which I played dead
for three years, the criminals of England started to get the better
of Scotland Yard. Dr Watson, Lestrade and Mycroft grew a trifle
concerned. It was hatched between us that the great detective would
need to be miraculously resurrected. An actor with an uncanny
likeness to me is paid to portray me at regular intervals. A
dastardly crime is invented by Mycroft and an article written up by
him about my solving it. Article and likeness appear in several
newspapers. Dr Watson churns out chronicles in a haphazard order,
old cases, older cases, fictional cases. I have penned one or two
myself. It keeps the public reassured and the criminals in check.
In the meantime, I potter around here with my bees. Ah, here comes
Major Inigo Nash, collared and sheepish. I shall make myself scarce
in the kitchen cooking up some hot chocolate and putting together
some supper for when the young man leaves with his tail between his
legs. We can continue our tête a tête then. It isn’t me he has come
to spy on anyhow.”

“Then who?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“I think it fair to say you have
two suitors.”

“Two suitors!”

“The younger Moriarty and the
Major. I would caution you to keep your wits about you but if you
have inherited a portion of my brains and a fraction of your
mother’s that would be redundant.”

Major Nash
did
look
incredibly sheepish. He admitted to opening the envelope and
reading the address. He admitted to following the Countess onto the
train. He claimed he saw Colonel Moriarty loitering around Mayfair
Mews (perfectly true) and he was concerned the Irishman might be
planning something underhand, perhaps even a kidnapping and ransom
demand. He suspected Moriarty of throwing the fire crackers during
the rally and so he took it upon himself to act as a lookout in the
event of foul play in Sussex.

His story was accepted. After a
glass of port from Dr Watson and a sharp reprimand from Mycroft, he
left with his tail between his legs. He had a horse concealed in
the oak wood and he had a room at the inn. He intended to spend
Christmas at the family seat in Kent. His sister and her family
were coming down from Sevenoaks tomorrow.

Major Inigo Nash was no fool. He
might have appeared sheepish but years of secret service had
trained him to get the measure of what was what whilst being
interrogated, sometimes painfully.

Mycroft Holmes, Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna were spending Christmas Eve in a nondescript
flint cottage on the South Downs. Why? And who was the imbiber of
that fourth glass of port? He could hear someone rattling around in
the kitchen but he could not catch a glimpse. The house belonged to
a man, that was clear by the mess: newspapers strewn on the floor,
briar pipe resting on the desk, stale tobacco fumes in the curtains
and carpets. There was only one answer. It was the house of Mr
Sherlock Holmes. But what was a rich foreign countess, the toast of
London society, doing in the humble abode of Mr Sherlock Holmes
when she could be dining at Marlborough House or Buckingham
Palace?