CHAPTER 18

O Tannenbaum!

Sherlock Holmes has accused me of overly dramatizing my accounts for the reader by the way I have chosen to reveal his surprising deductions. But Holmes frequently withheld his theories from me, even as we confronted grave danger. For example, he deduced in advance, but did not identify to me, the serious threats we faced in stories I have recounted as ‘The Speckled Band’ and ‘The Red Headed League’.

Whatever his reasons—and his love of the theatrical was part of it—it was not something that he was likely to change.

Therefore, on Christmas Eve, at four in the afternoon, we departed in our finest dress clothes for the Endicotts’ party, with me none the wiser as to his preparations or his plans for this event. All I knew was that he wanted me with him, armed with a gun. As our cab headed south, I sat next to him, that old feeling of excitement coursing through my veins. The thrill of adventure was more piquant than any goose dinner. Thank the heavens I was blessed with a wife who understood me.

At last, we pulled up before the Endicotts’ grand Mayfair house. The overcast sky was dark and a light snow had begun to fall. A row of beribboned lanterns had been set, leading to the entrance, and the door stood open to receive guests, the cheery warm light spilling onto the portico.

My thoughts were churning as we descended from our cab.

Two servants in festive red velvet greeted the arriving guests, checking each name against a list. My tension rose as we awaited our turn, but I knew that questioning Holmes further would lead nowhere. We were soon greeted and sent inside. There seemed to be more footmen on hand than one might expect. Guards of some sort, perhaps?

One more approval was needed, a careful once-over by the formidable butler, Jones. ‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,’ said the man with an icy formality. His sudden reserve was alarming, given his previous enthusiasm towards my friend. ‘That way,’ he said, indicating a long hall to our left, where the cheerful sounds of a small but refined crowd drifted out.

As we approached that room, I wondered at the butler’s chilly response. ‘What was that about?’ I asked.

‘Jones is not happy about this situation. I believe he advised cancelling this party.’

‘Then I conclude you have informed the Endicotts that the man who has threatened them believes himself to be the rightful father.’

‘I have. And I could see by Endicott’s reaction that he knew it. Those letters.’

‘He admitted as much to his wife?’

‘No. I think he is ashamed not to have taken action.’

We were handed glasses of champagne and proceeded down the hall. Holmes put his glass down on a table and nodded for me to do the same.

Lady Endicott approached, beautifully attired in an elegant, forest-green silk dress. But her smile was strained. ‘Gentlemen, we are pleased that you have joined us, though your plan is utterly opaque to me, Mr Holmes.’

‘All will be well, Lady Endicott,’ said Holmes reassuringly.

She smiled stiffly and moved away.

Holmes then glanced at me uneasily. ‘While I expect the best, we must nevertheless be prepared for the worst, Watson. Keep your wits about you.’

‘Why would I not, Holmes?’ I said, setting my own glass down next to his.

We followed Lady Endicott into the Great Room, and there I was astounded. It was something from a storybook. An enormous Christmas tree, the likes of which I had never seen in a private home, filled a quarter of the room. It stood over sixteen feet tall, more than fourteen feet wide at the base and sparkled with glittering glass baubles, candies and small toys. It was adorned with a multitude of blazing wax candles. The heat from these caused the scent of pine to fill the room, overpowering the mulled wine, the ladies’ perfume, the clove-studded oranges resting in silver bowls … overpowering all.

Underneath the tree lay a profusion of wrapped presents and set around these was a kind of barricade of red ribbons strung between several chairs.

Standing just outside these ribbons were a dozen or more children ranging in age from toddler to perhaps eleven or twelve. More scampered in from behind us. All eyes were transfixed upon the pile of gifts and the glittering tree. The children crowded in towards it, pointing and whispering. A tall young woman, perhaps a governess, kept watch and gently admonished one child who leaned into the ribbon.

‘Be patient, Charles,’ said she. ‘Good things come to those who wait.’

‘Pah!’ said Holmes ‘Have you ever noticed, Watson, that for every silly aphorism, there’s an opposing one. “Those who wait”! What about “The early bird catches the worm”?’

‘We might try to catch a bit of the spirit, Holmes. Do you have no childhood Christmas memories?’

‘An orange.’

‘What?’

‘I received an orange at Christmas. And perhaps a book.’

‘No special meals? No pine boughs, no singing round a piano?’ A sudden image of Holmes and his brother Mycroft as children singing by a piano made me laugh.

‘Watson, do pay attention to the task at hand. Much may yet go wrong. There are too many variables.’

‘Yes, but again, Holmes? What may go wrong? What are the variables?’

‘Human beings are the variables, Watson. Driven by emotion and always unpredictable. Aha, more drinks! Mulled wine, this time.’

A young man served us glasses of the festive drink. We each took one, but Holmes pretended to take a sip then set down that glass on a side table as he had the other. I followed suit and joined him as he moved towards the tall windows that looked out on a row of trees and the carriage-house. I followed his gaze to where several well-dressed coachmen stood huddled around a roaring fire in an outdoor brazier. ‘Holmes, do you think the Findlays will try something tonight?’

‘It is less likely than before.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I arranged for them to spend the last five days in a warm hotel. Five days of restful sleep and enough food. And a doctor, someone trained in helping people afflicted like Clarice Findlay.’

‘And that was your plan? What possible good could a few days of rest and food do for that unfortunate couple?’

‘That is rather the point. Watson. People in their position are undernourished and get little sleep.’

‘You could be describing yourself.’

‘Watson, do not be specious. Robbery and burglary are common where they live, and life is conducted on the edge of the abyss. Imagine never, even for a moment, feeling safe. The noise, the filth, thieves all around you. One cannot reason, one cannot think in such a circumstance.’

‘And you suppose that a few days will have given them enough respite … to see what is best for their child?’ I had heard of doctors helping such as Clarice Findlay, but never in five days. As a doctor I knew that recovery from a laudanum addiction in such short order was wishful thinking.

‘Enough food and a good night’s sleep can work wonders to increase clarity of thought, Watson.’

I looked around nervously. Gaily dressed children. Doting parents. A sudden childish shriek from the next room startled me, but it was followed by laughter.

‘Where are these police, Holmes?’

‘Do you see the man with the red mutton-chops, near the opposite window?’

‘Yes.’

‘Crighton. He is Lestrade’s best man. And two more are at this party. The chance of violence is slim. The chance of emotional upheaval, however … that is another story.’

‘But what if the Findlays try to break in?’

‘They will not.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘Because they are already here.’

‘What? How—?’

Holmes pointed out of the window to one of the drivers. ‘See the man in the navy velvet coat?’ I squinted through the fading light. The man moved so that the bright fire briefly lit up his face. It was Peter Findlay.

‘Hired as an extra groom. And now look into the next room where the food is being laid out.’

I did so and saw three serving maids setting out food. One looked up from her work to glance at someone out of sight. It was Clarice Findlay.

‘Good God, Holmes, Mrs Findlay! She is almost a different person.’

And indeed, a remarkable transformation had come over the young woman. Her previously dirty and careworn face was scrubbed and shining, her hair neatly tied back under a lace cap. Even from this distance I could see by her smooth, deft movement as she went about her work that she was not drugged as she had been at her home. Rather, I was struck at the young woman’s energy and dexterity as she placed the silver in neat rows for the buffet supper which was to come. And by her beauty. Jonathan’s mother was the source of his angelic countenance.

I watched her for a long moment. I wondered at her thoughts, her emotions. If she had been told—and she must have, I reasoned—then she now knew that her own child resided in these rooms, just out of reach.

Seeing the mother in this way brought the pain of her situation to the fore and made me question Holmes’s reasoning. While his brilliance at solving crimes was inarguable, he could occasionally be oblivious to human emotion. Could bringing the Findlays here have been a large miscalculation on his part?

Mrs Findlay glanced frequently towards the tree, and as I watched, she edged nearer to the opening between the dining room and the large room in which we now stood.

‘Holmes!’ I whispered.

‘I see her.’

Suddenly she caught sight of Holmes and me, and with a start, she ducked back into the dining room and returned to her task.

‘I convinced the Endicotts to hire them as extra hands for this party.’

‘Then they know … and they agreed? My God, Holmes. The risk!’

‘Admittedly there is some, but perhaps less so than otherwise. The Findlays are well aware that they are being watched and that any false move will have serious consequences.’

‘But why would the Endicotts agree to this?’

‘Watson, they agreed on the condition that you and I be here … and the police as well. And that Mr Findlay is not allowed into the house.’

‘That did not answer the question.’

‘I forced the Endicotts’ hand, Watson. I told them the courts might easily award Jonathan to the Findlays should the situation come to trial. The child was taken from them illegally.’

‘No! Surely you don’t think any judge would—?’

‘It is possible, Watson. The verdicts in such cases have been inconsistent. I have done my research. This plan may avert disaster.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Watson, nothing is certain. But it is best left in both family’s hands.’

‘And what would be the best in this case, Holmes?’

‘That the two sets of parents, together, will come to an accord.’

But the sound of a bell cut him off, and I was left to ponder this conundrum.

Mr and Mrs Endicott appeared from another room with Jonathan between them. The little boy was radiant in a red velvet Christmas suit, lace cuffs, short breeches and shiny shoes. But of course the child was oblivious to all of this as his eyes took in the tree, the gifts and the crowd of children. He smiled and clapped his hands with pleasure.

Lord Endicott tapped a spoon onto a crystal glass and the room quietened.

‘Jonathan has a surprise for his fellow children today. In honour of his own birthday, and of Christmas, he would like to give each of you a present,’ said he.

Squeals of childish delight pierced the air. Holmes grimaced slightly.

What followed was a theatrical but charming tableau. Lord and Lady Endicott took positions on either side of Jonathan. The gifts were very carefully taken from under the tree, one at a time, by a servant who handed them to the boy. He frowned in concentration at each tag and announced the recipient’s name in his soprano voice, impressively able to read at age four.

The child whose name was called would then step forward from amongst the crowd to receive their gift.

At last, three children were left who had not been called, and Lady Endicott asked each of them their names. I saw a footman behind the tree quickly write on a tag and then bring the gift round to the front, as though it had been hidden back there.

In this way, not one child was left out. I was struck by the thoughtfulness of the Endicotts, and in particular the joyful delight Jonathan showed while giving the gifts. I glanced back to the next room where the food had been laid out. Standing in the wide archway which led to this room were twenty or more staff, including Clarice Findlay, watching the entire procedure.

Tears streamed from Mrs Findlay’s eyes and she blotted them with her apron.

Behind the serving maids were a number of other servants, including, to my surprise, four grooms, one of whom was Peter Findlay! Now both Findlays were in the house, within sight and reach of the son who had been cruelly stolen from them. I felt a shiver of alarm. Holmes noted Findlay at the same time and frowned in anger. I could only presume it was he who specified that Findlay could not enter the house.

Clarice Findlay leaned forward on her toes, barely able to restrain herself. It seemed she might run precipitously into the room in which we now stood. Findlay quickly moved behind his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. In spite of the man’s previous violence, it was Clarice who concerned me more.

I was so distracted by the presence of this dangerous couple, I nearly missed that Lord Endicott had begun addressing the assembled room. ‘… And it is with great pleasure that we welcome you to share in the bounty that God has bestowed on us here, and join us for a Christmas Eve repast that—’

But Jonathan, at his side, tugged at his father’s sleeve.

He looked down at his son and smiled. ‘One moment, son,’ he said kindly.

‘Philip,’ said his wife, who waited near the servants at the dining-room entrance. She held up her hands outlining a small box and indicated their little boy. His present! Of course. Jonathan had not yet received his gift.

‘Oh,’ said Lord Endicott. ‘Jonathan! We have nearly forgotten your present. Hmm … let us see then, where could it be?’ As he turned towards the dining room the little boy leaned down and peered under the tree. He got down on his hands and knees to see better.

A gasp from the dining room drew my attention. Behind Lady Endicott, a servant appeared. Nestled in his arms was a small, wheat-coloured puppy with an enormous red bow attached to his collar. This, of course, was Jonathan’s present! What could be more desired by a child? The servant handed the puppy to Lady Endicott.

I turned back towards the tree to see the little boy’s reaction … but Jonathan had disappeared. My first thought was … the Findlays! But there they were, still in the open doorway to the dining room, along with the other staff. I turned back. Where was the boy? Suddenly there was a slight sway to the tree, and I caught a glimpse of Jonathan’s legs underneath it.

‘He’s under the tree!’ one child shouted, laughing.

Next to me Holmes stiffened in alarm.

‘Come out from there,’ cried Lady Endicott. ‘It is dangerous, Jonathan.’

‘Listen to your mother,’ said Lord Endicott sternly. ‘Come out at once!’

The tree swayed slightly.

‘Oh, my God, the candles!’ said a woman near me.

Several candles had toppled from the upper branches. Up high, a small flame appeared.

A servant was at the tree in an instant with a pail of water that had been positioned nearby, for just such emergencies. Two candles that had fallen were retrieved by another man, but smoke emerged from where the third had ignited a branch. The servant flung the water, and it quickly doused the small flame. What a dangerous and foolish custom. But … disaster was averted.

Suddenly a child’s cry came from beneath the tree. Perhaps Jonathan had been rained upon by this sudden deluge, I thought. But as we watched in horror, a glow emerged from under the tree.

‘Fire!’ shouted a man.

Lady Endicott and Clarice Findlay shrieked in unison, and before anyone could stop her, the younger woman broke free from her husband’s arms and dashed across the room.

What happened next appeared to me in that moment to be moving slowly, as in a terrible waking dream.

‘Christopher!’ cried Clarice Findlay. She flung herself to the floor and barrelled clumsily under the tree on her hands and knees, knocking heavily into two branches. More candles fell, some landing on the girl herself. Her skirts ignited, and she screamed.

Several of us leaped towards the tree. But Holmes had beaten us all, thrusting his long, thin frame underneath the branches with the speed of a mongoose snaking up to a cobra. Flames licked the interior of the tree.

‘Holmes!’

‘More water!’ shouted Lord Endicott and servants raced from the room to retrieve it. What had they been thinking? Two pails of water for the entire tree and its many candles!

I heard more shrieks from the crowd. Lady Endicott was restrained by two maids from rushing to the flames.

Holmes had crawled in out of reach, and Clarice flailed in panic, further knocking into the tree as Lord Endicott and I tried to pull her from it. Her skirts aflame, the woman writhed hysterically, sending the entire tree into motion. Another orange flare of fire burst from the branches. We extricated the screaming woman and Peter Findlay tore off his coat and used it to smother the flame on his young wife’s skirts as she continued to shriek. Another servant tossed water on the girl.

The tree was now half aflame.

Holmes and the boy had not yet emerged. ‘Holmes!’ I cried.

Suddenly I heard a strained voice call out. ‘I have him! Pull!’ It was Holmes. His boots became visible at the edge of the collapsing tree as he attempted to back out from under it.

Lord Endicott and I leaped as one, each grabbed a foot and pulled my friend out from under the tree.

Cradled in his arms was the little boy, protected from the flames by Holmes’s own body. The back of my friend’s evening jacket was smoking and his left sleeve was afire.

Servants extinguished it in seconds with the water that had been rushed into the room and I took Jonathan from his arms. I looked over the boy quickly. He was white with fear and shaking, but unharmed.

‘Mummy!’ he whimpered. Lord and Lady Endicott took him from me, and he fell into his mother’s arms.

Smoke emanated now from the nearby drapery. ‘Everyone out!’ cried the butler. I became aware that in the distance, the clang of an approaching fire truck sounded. Holmes staggered to his feet.

A footman and I helped him outside. The snow was welcome after the intense heat we had all just endured.

‘I am fine,’ he said, shaking us off.

Nevertheless, I sat him on a stone bench and rubbed wet snow on the sleeve that had caught fire. It had burned clean away, but I could not see the damage due to the blackened shirtsleeve beneath it. Firemen raced past us into the house.

Holmes looked up at me. ‘The boy?’

‘Jonathan is fine,’ I said. ‘Not a hair was harmed. Thanks to you.’

Holmes closed his eyes and smiled.

‘But you,’ I said, ‘need a doctor. Fortunately one is here. Bring scissors,’ I commanded a nearby servant.