Holmes and his Christmas Smoke

 

David Rowbotham

 

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve 1899. Holmes was bored, to be fair he’d been bored for week or so now, even the most astute of criminals, it seems, tend to wind down their activities in the days leading up to Christmas.

We had spent the entire morning trying to tidy the drawing room and create at least enough space for us both to be able to sit at the fireside and benefit from the warmth of the glowing coals. I uncorked a bottle of rather pleasant brandy and after a glass or so, combined with the oh so soporific effects of the open fire, we’d both fallen willingly into the arms of Morpheus. Waking momentarily I shook my head; this idleness was really not suiting Holmes or myself at all. As I gazed into the fire I found myself drifting away once again. Slowly I became aware of the distinct voice of a girl singing in some foreign tongue which I could not identify. I sat up and the voice fell silent.

“Holmes, did you hear that?” but he was slouched in the chair, his eyes were closed, elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingers arched before his slumbering face. He had not heard me. Suddenly I was aware of a voice calling out to me.

“Holmes? I’m here, it’s alright”

“What?” Holmes dropped his hands and looked across at me, perplexedly.

“You were asking where I was, you were crying….”

“Not me Watson, You’re mistaken.”

“But I heard you, Holmes. You were calling out to me”

Holmes viewed me with a certain amount of distain, “Crying? Watson; me? Do I look like I’m crying?” Narrowing his piercing gaze he returned his attention to the fire and relit his pipe, puffing clouds of the most oddly scented smoke into the room. I frowned in his general direction, he gave me one of his withering scowls; after a brief silent stand-off I took another deep draught of brandy and we returned to our dozing daydreams.

“ You’re mistaken, Watson”

“Eh? What upon Gods great earth are you enunciating upon now, Holmes?”

“I don’t ride, I never have; why should I ride, when I can take a cab to anywhere I need to be?” declared Holmes indignantly.

“What? You are babbling too now my dear friend.”

“You, Watson, asking if my horse is secure outside…………..”

“What?”

I sat up now. “I said no such thing .”

“Yes you did. I distinctly heard you ask after the well being of my steed ‘Kasztanka’. Since when have I owned a horse, Watson, a chestnut horse at that?”

Holmes puffed another cloud of his peculiarly scented smoke in my direction. His mutterings were just beginning to irritate me now. What had got into the man? A chestnut horse indeed, He was clearly not himself….

“Just what are you rambling about now, Holmes?..... And, what exactly is that weed which you are smoking today?”

A bittersweet herby aroma had permeated the drawing room, nothing like Holmes’s usual blend from Ireland. Knowing his openness to the imbibing of illicit substances I was suspicious of his latest smoke to say the least.

“Urrrm, well; I…..” He responded, looking every inch the guilty man. I smiled, I had found him out.

“I, I err, I ran out of my usual tobacco and you were not around to procure a fresh supply.” “So I had a rummage around your old trunk and found a tin of a little erm, somewhat herbaceous weed.”

“My kit? My service kit from Afghanistan?” Holmes! Sometimes you are insufferable.” “A tin from my trunk? A tin of, ahem tobacco, tobacco from Afghanistan?” I laughed. “Now I understand”

“No wonder we’re hearing things, you’ve stumbled upon my special supply of pain relief I obtained a day or so after I had been shot. I’d forgotten that stuff was in there, it’s pretty strong you know. You’re supposed to mix it with ‘normal’ tobacco, Holmes, not burn it neat; I’m surprised you can still see!”

“I know what I heard, Holmes: I know what I heard.”

“Yes, alright, Holmes. I knew not to argue with the man, it would be pointless until the effects of his neat ‘herbal’ inhalation had worn off, worn off for us both. No wonder I’d thought I had heard voices. Odd, now I think about it, but those voices were rather feeble for Holmes, feminine almost……… Kasztanka? Now where had I heard that before, it sounded Russian; or maybe Polish even? Why on earth would Holmes be dreaming about owning such a horse? His grasp of the foreign tongue was even more limited than my own. A chestnut horse called Kasztanka? Would I ever begin to fathom the random meandering depths of this unique mans mind? I was on the verge of drifting off once more when, with the briefest of knocks on the door, Mrs. Hudson breezed into the room accompanied by the most mouth-watering of freshly baked aromas.

“Hullo, gentlemen,” she beamed, “I’ve just finished baking these pies; I thought we should share them while they’re still hot”

She stood before us with a silver platter over stacked with steaming mince pies. Holmes let out an almighty groan, “Oh no! Not Christmas; again?”

“Oh ignore him” I quipped, “We’d be delighted” “Here, take my seat, and let me relieve you of that tray, it looks heavy” I took the tray in one hand and with my free hand picked up the little card table from behind Holmes and erected it in right under his nose, placing the overburdened tray down with a flourish, ensuring Holmes received the full benefit of the steaming spicy fragrance. Holmes looked down at the tray and groaned again.

“Holmes, look at these delightful Christmas delicacies which Mrs. Hudson has baked for us; won’t you try one while they’re still hot?”

Holmes threw daggers at me with his gaze before turning his attention back to the fire with a scowl.

“Christmas? Delicacies? Oh Watson. Please!”

“Ignore him Mrs Hudson; he’s having one of his…”

“His what?” Holmes retorted, he turned his snarl on me. “I still want to know why you were asking me about a chestnut horse; Watson, I’m serious.”

He caught me in his steely stare, and I knew he meant it. “Just as soon as you tell me why you were enquiring as to my well being” I replied.

“Now, come on, it’s Christmas!” Mrs. Hudson rounded on us. “Let’s have no more of this silly bickering” Holmes pulled his collar up against his face and thrust himself back towards the fire. Mrs. Hudson caught my eye then looked at Holmes. “Aaah, have you two had another one of your tiffs?”

“Look, we’re not a…..” Holmes stiffened his back and cast me a glance.

Oh what was the point, she would only insist that there was nothing to be ashamed of, stranger pairings had run their course beneath her roof. I pulled up a chair from the desk and sat between Mrs. Hudson and Holmes with the fire and the warm mince pies before me.

“These pies look delicious Mrs. Hudson”

“Oh, please, call me Martha, after all it is Christmas,” she sighed

“Hmmmm, they smell wonderful too,” I took a bite into the pastry crust of a pie to find the contents scalding hot, trying desperately not to let on to Mrs Hudson that I was in the process of losing all the skin from off my tongue and from the roof of my mouth.

“Well, I’m surprised you can smell them at all,” she continued “There’s a most peculiar miasma pervading this room. Has Mr Holmes been trying another one of his awful chemistry experiments, Dr Watson? I do hope he’s not been staining the furniture again. Mr Holmes, have you been despoiling my upholstery again?”

“No, it’s alright……….. Martha” Mrs. Hudson gave me an unnecessarily broad smile, “You can leave him be. He has been, errrr, smoking a rather different brand of tobacco”

“Oh, that’s not at all like you Mr Holmes, you’re so particular in your choice of tobacco blend. I should know, I seem to end up collecting it for you every week from Mithias and Jeffersons on the corner”

I wondered when the smoke would begin to affect Mrs. Hudson the way it had Holmes and me. I was beginning to believe we had been sharing imagined conversations, a most peculiar delusional influence of the herbal mix which I’d not noticed before, I assumed it was because Holmes was combusting the shag in neat concentration, rather than blended. Mrs. Hudson continued her rambling as I tried to finish the rest of my mince pie, my mouth now feeling somewhat raw and pained.

“…………Of course, you’re not the noisiest of tenants I’ve had here,” She continued unabated. “oh no, there was old Mr Olsson, he was a man whose raucous laughter could bring down the roof, sadly, his snoring too had a similar effect.” She frowned at her memory of his night noises, “But at least he did not take to attacking my walls with his revolver,” she gave Holmes a sharp frown.”Ah, now let’s see, the ones I remember most fondly,” Mrs Hudson warmed visibly and settled into her chair, I could sense this was going to be a long tale. “Were Poor Mr Artemis Athanasia, and his devoted daughter Marie”

“What? Not the Moneybags Artemis? The great railway speculator?” I sat back, surprised to hear the name of this once renowned capitalist mentioned as a one time resident of 221B.

“The very one. However, he’d fallen on hard times you see. He came here a broken and penniless man, even his wife had deserted him, and he came here with his only child. Once up here, secure in 221B, he never emerged from his room again; Marie nursed him, cared for him daily. It was she who told me his tale….

‘Mr Artemis Athanasias’ collapse into despair came about immediately after he’d convinced so many new investors that the proposal for the Weston, Cleveland and Portishead Railway was a sure bet, he convinced people who’d never bought shares before in their life to invest their meagre savings in this great venture. Unfortunately after six years of difficulties with funding and construction, when the railway did finally open, it was not even able to cover its day to day running costs. Almost overnight his whole stocks and shares empire collapsed. Investors lost everything, he was devastated, he’d really believed he was going to transform these people’s lives, that he would be heralded a hero of the people. But at the final shareholders Emergency General Meeting an angry crowd told Mr Athanasia literally that he could take himself off and go on the WC & P for the remainder of his miserable existence! He was left friendless, abandoned by even his wife. Only his beloved daughter Marie stood by him. Now, he’d been here, but a few months when he received a most unusual visitor, a young Lieutenant cavalryman, well spoken and most polite, but not of these shores, he was German, or Polish or some such. Anyway, he had come on behalf of his captain, who it seems had invested some considerable sum of money in the Weston, Cleveland and Portishead affair and had been sent to see what could be recovered. Athanasias daughter Marie received the man and was most courteous, but refused to let him ever see her father. Marie was a fair maiden, in her mid to late twenties, of lithe build, maybe a little skinny even, but she had the most beautiful hair, golden red it was, like the light of an autumn sunset falling on a woodland glade, setting all the leaves afire with its colour. I remember her eyes, though she rarely looked at me directly, tending to shy to the ground, her eyes were a deep slate green, like the ocean on a stormy day”‘

This young woman had obviously made quite an impact upon Mrs. Hudson; I’d never before heard her wax so lyrical, maybe the tobacco smoke had now got to her too? Or maybe her eavesdropping upon her guests had informed her so well. I doubted if she’d ever set her eyes upon the ocean any day in her life. Anyway, she continued with her tale even Holmes had turned around to pay attention now. The human side of the story would not touch him, but lost fortunes? Now here was intrigue aplenty for him to apply his mind to….

‘This military man, he cut quite a dash himself, with his clipped foreign accent and his polite but persistent approach. He was a tall man with piercing blue eyes and hair the colour of harvested wheat; he always arrived in his ivory and gold dress uniform complete with gold sash. He came every week to see if he could talk to Artemis, but every week his daughter would stand her ground. In the end I could see that he came not to see her father, but to see Marie herself. I would take them tea and cakes, just to see that the girl was safe you understand.’

“But of course Mrs. Hudson, I would have expected nothing less of you….” I smiled. Mrs. Hudson had always been a nosey busybody and invariably turned up in our drawing room bearing a tray of tea if we were entertaining any guest to whom she’d not hitherto been introduced.

‘Quite a romance blossomed I think, but Marie would never leave her father for long, only ever going out rarely for new clothes. All their regular needs were supplied direct, delivered from Bayleafs’ general stores in Glentworth Street. He would call bearing small gifts, tokens of his feelings, but her devotion was always to her father. And he pursued her without ever gaining further access to either Marie or her father. Then in the December, her father took a turn for the worse and things began to change, Leo began to visit every day. I think he was a great comfort to her. Anyway Artemis Athanasia finally died of his despair on Christmas Eve 1878, Leo was here with Marie and finally he got to meet the man he had sought access to for a whole year. He did not go home that night, but, much to my disapproval, he stayed here to give ‘comfort and support’ to poor Marie” Mrs Hudson snorted at her memory of the night. “And her late father not yet cold either” She shook her head sorrowfully.’

A chill ran round the room and I fancied I saw the flames of the candles upon the mantelpiece gutter and weave for a moment. Inexplicably I felt a tingle run up my neck and onto my scalp.

“Hmmm, it’s turning chilly” I got up, moved the table and tray of untouched mince pies aside and busied myself with the coal tongs, placing a few choice pieces into the grate. They crackled and spat excitedly and flames quickly rose afresh from their hitherto glowing slumbers sending shadows dancing merrily around the room. I shivered, it still felt cold. Holmes had sat forward in his chair, alert now his elbows upon his knees and his fingers steepled beneath his chin, intent upon Mrs. Hudson’s every word; he was oblivious to the cold, to the shadows and to the mince pies.

“A mince pie, Holmes?” I offered

“Shush man! Let the good Mrs Hudson here finish her piece” Mrs. Hudson, smiled at Holmes, clearly pleased with the attention she was now receiving from her favourite resident, the mince pies, her excuse to enter our rooms, now forgotten. Holmes reached for his pipe without for one moment taking his attention away from Mrs. Hudson.

“Watson, my dear chap, do you have some more of this ahem, tobacco? This tin here is empty”

“Holmes? The whole tin!”

I got up, collecting one of the candles from the mantelpiece on the way and went into my room. I opened the trunk to see what, if anything I could offer Holmes for his pipe. After removing a few neatly folded items of uniform, I found the tin of ‘herbal’ weed which I had assumed Holmes had been smoking. So, just what had he actually found in my trunk? Suddenly it came to me, of course! He had found my tin of dried herbs, dried herbs which we used out in Afghanistan to flavour the stews of sometimes rancid meat we’d been forced to cook in order to survive. Holmes had been smoking herbal tobacco and not just any herbal tobacco, but the dried and shredded leaves of mint, and coriander and tarragon! Ha ha! As I picked up the tin which I had earlier assumed Holmes had been smoking, a sobering thought struck me. So, if we were not imagining voices ‘under the influence’ then what were those voices we’d heard earlier? As I mused, I turned back to the drawing room where Mrs. Hudson was about to resume her tale.

“The next morning, I was on the landing; dusting the balustrade…”

The following morning, it would have been Christmas Day. I suspect Mrs. Hudson was probably checking that the keyhole was clear, dusting? I enquired of myself with a wry smile.

“….dusting the balustrade” She looked me in the eye as though she read my mind. “The door suddenly burst open and Leo, looking most dishevelled, leapt from the room, nearly knocking me backwards over the balustrade, before running down the stairs, flinging open the front door and running into the street, to, it transpires, never to be seen again…..Men…. I ask you! I knocked gingerly upon the door to check upon Marie, to see if she is safe and to offer any help with the arrangements for her father and I find her strangely happy, busying herself sorting her fathers’ papers and tidying his bedroom to await the arrival of the undertakers”

“How was she?” I enquired, “In herself?”

“Oh, she seemed quite bright, relieved I think, that the inevitable end had finally come about in the close of her father’s miserable life and I think happy too that she was free to follow her heart with her young beau, the Cavalry lieutenant Leo Milano. I believe it was the only day of happiness she ever really knew.” She paused over dramatically and to take a breath. “You see, Leo never came back.. She waited day after day, it was pitiful to watch, at first Marie was angry, and then she began to pine. By Easter it was clear she was a girl in trouble. She was with child you see. Now her father had a small account with the London Bank which had lasted up until his death, the funeral using up the last few guineas of that, but he had also cleverly secreted a small investment which had supported Marie over the previous year and maybe it was this which the cavalryman had first set out to uncover, but anyway whilst it might be enough to support Marie on her own, it would not be enough to support a mother and child. Marie’s pining had deteriorated once it was clear she was to become a mother, she was inconsolable and would cry night after night. Each day she would ask if anyone had called at the house, she was sure her man would return, she could not accept that he was gone, could not accept that he had only ever been after one thing, her fathers’ money, or failing that, her father’s truly most valued and only remaining asset, his daughter. I called the doctor out to Marie, but there was nothing he could do, except monitor her physical well being, you see her mind was clearly increasingly elsewhere. She would sit on the floor before the fire with her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking to and fro, having conversations with Leo, conversations about his horse, the lands he had visited, about his home. Sometimes she would just cry, sometimes she would sing little songs in German which Leo had taught her in their times shared together the previous summer”

Mrs. Hudson paused to remove a kerchief from her sleeve and briefly blow her nose with a most unladylike ‘parp!’ before resuming her tale.

“Well, the spring and summer came and went without change and without news of Leo. It was in the September that Marie gave birth, the twenty-sixth to be precise, and not just to a child, but to twins! One girl, one boy, born right here in 221B Ah, I was up and down the stairs with tray of tea, with towels, with blankets, with hot water, I can tell you my feet were fair burning with all the ups and downs on these stairs. The doctor and I had both hoped that the arrival of the twins would lift Marie’s spirit and for a while she did rally round, but by November she was worse than ever. You see, she could see Leo in her son, and had begun to berate him for abandoning her. Things deteriorated to the point where it was not safe for the children to be left with their mother and so the doctor arranged for them to be taken into the orphanage at St Cyprian’s at the end of Chagford Street. Marie never asked after her babies, and she never saw them again, you see she died on Christmas day 1879, a year and a day after the death of her father. Died of a broken heart, the doctor said, died of a broken heart.” Mrs. Hudson fell silent and looked into the glowing coals in the grate.

“Watson, the papers, the old papers in your room which you were using to light the fire with earlier… Do you still have them?”

“I believe so”, I replied. “Good, bring them here, this Leo chap, I do believe we have an answer to the mystery of his disappearance”

I handed him the pile of old newspapers I had dug out from under the stairs whilst looking for kindling and firelighters with which to get the fire started when autumns chills first made themselves known. Old papers dating back some eighteen to twenty years. Holmes took them and began going through page by page, just as he had when I first brought them up to our apartments a few weeks ago. After a while spent rummaging, Holmes found what he had been seeking.

“Watson, if you’ll be so good as to read out the second article on this page?”

I took the old paper from Holmes’s hand, it was dated 5th January 1879, the twelfth day of Christmas and just thirteen days after the death of Artemis Athanasia! I turned to the page to which Holmes was referring to and began to recite…. “Polish born Leo Milano of the West Prussian 5th Kurassier Regiment” The candle flames momentarily flickered at the mention of his name, “….was executed today for desertion of position on Christmas Eve last whilst posted in London on most special duties.” The candles on the mantelpiece were instantly extinguished by a sudden snatch of bitterly cold wind.

“No!”

“Ahem, quite so, Mrs. Hudson. Quite so….” Holmes spoke out, but whether it was in agreement with the darkness, or to comfort Mrs. Hudson’s wail, I could not tell. I stepped towards the hearth and lit a taper in the glowing embers and quickly relit the two candles.

“Oh my! Oh my! Her cavalryman did not come back because he could not. The poor man, he had been executed. Oh poor Marie, she never knew”

“I think you will find that she does know now Mrs. Hudson, she does now,” Holmes stood with a sparkle in his eyes “I believe we have visitors my friends; come…….” He leapt from his chair and headed for the stairs, pausing briefly to snatch his long scarf from the back of the door. There was a loud ‘KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Resounding up the stairs from the hall, Holmes was already there opening the front door to a wondrous scene. I can’t explain why, but I picked up the tray of mince pies as we left the room and proceeded to follow Holmes. As Mrs. Hudson and I walked down the stairs we were greeted by a group of children standing in a group on the pavement outside huddled around a lantern in the softly falling snow. They were about to embark upon the singing of a carol.

“Ah, the dear children from the orphanage” Mrs. Hudson declared “Oh, they are so sweet” She beamed at them; they took a collective deep breath and in unison began….

 

“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Wie treu sind deine Blätter!

Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,

Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Wie treu sind deine Blätter!

 

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!

Wie oft hat schon zur Winterzeit

Ein Baum von dir mich hoch erfreut!

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!

 

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Dein Kleid will mich was lehren:

Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit

Gibt Mut und Kraft zu jeder Zeit!

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Dein Kleid will mich was lehren!”

 

We stood spellbound, Mrs. Hudson and I. as the voices subsided Sherlock Holmes stepped forwards into the midst of the children where there, at the back of the group, stood two children slightly taller than the rest, one was a girl with beautiful golden red hair, bright like the light of an autumn sunset, next to her stood a lad with piercing blue eyes and hair the colour of harvested wheat.

Holmes bent down towards them and wrapped his scarf over both their shoulders before embracing them, saying “Frohe Weihnachten meine lieben Freunde, frohe Weihnachten....” Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged a brief look of astonishment before I stepped forward and offered around the tray of mince pies to a flurry of eager fingers.

“Merry Christmas my dear friends; Merry Christmas”