The Ballad of the Carbuncle

by Ashley D. Polasek

Since time unknown I had untouched slumber,

Crystalizing in faraway China.

I awoke to an ecstatic finder;

Thus began troubles of untold number.

I have seen nearly twenty Christmas days-

Murders, suicide, thievery join them.

In truth, to the season I’ve grown quite numb;

I’d lost hope I’d overcome my malaise.

In recent years I’d settled myself

In the care of the Countess of Morcar:

A gift from her lover who’d died afar

A momento mori to sorrow and wealth.

In early December, through frosted air,

I overheard a wicked scheme laid:

A lecherous man and a covetous maid

Planned a most un-Christmas-spirited snare.

A mere three days from the holiday morn-

How I wished I could have made the alarm-

An earnest young plumber came to harm

As on false evidence to jail was bourn.

This I witnessed from James Ryder’s waistcoat,

Where the sweaty-palmed rifler had earlier slipped me.

He called the Yard and named Horner guilty,

Then rushed into the chill, I thought, to gloat.

Instead, we dashed madly down alley and street

As his breathing grew ever more ragged;

He cringed from each face we passed, the blackguard,

And slid wildly on ice under his feet.

The smell of cheap tobacco was acrid,

Mingled with that of impending snow,

While we paced a garden to and fro,

Sweating although the evening grew frigid.

Then, without warning, the villain freed me,

Pried open the bill of a struggling goose,

And though I have suffered much abuse,

Never have I felt such indignity!

With a squawk and a gulp I travelled down,

And with a ghastly, flapping drop,

Came to rest in a mythical crop,

Where, no doubt, he hoped I’d not be found.

To my surprise, he left me behind,

And soon after another came to call,

Took me to his Covent Garden stall,

Where the market bustled as Christmas bells chimed.

My foul new home was near frozen solid

When we moved next I was cosseted within;

At the end I overheard, “Alpha Inn,”

And hoped for a new home rather less squalid.

It had been two days, though felt much later-

The chatter told me it was Christmas Eve-

I hoped for a miracle; I mustered belief;

What I got was a chap called Henry Baker.

“Here,” thought I, “is the fellow I’ve longed to meet,

“Surely he’ll free me from my poultry prison,”

But no sooner had a ruckus arisen,

Than a crash left me, goose and all, in the street.

I lamented that there I would surely rot,

Alone and forgotten, buried in frost,

But, once again, I was not yet lost,

Rather gathered up by another, and off we shot.

A woman’s voice spoke an incantation,

As though its spell could solve every ill,

“Take it to Mr. Holmes,” she said with a thrill,

“Sherlock Holmes!” a man answered with elation.

After bumping and banging up seventeen stairs,

The tale was recounted of fight, flight, and bird,

“Leave the hat, eat the goose,” came the crisp, cool word;

Just like that, I exited with the commissionaire.

That cold Christmas night my last hope had gone

All light had vanished without a trace;

Then my eyes beheld a warm womanly face-

The darkness had fled from my salvation’s dawn!

A full day Peterson spent amazed,

Then back we went to the Baker Street marvel,

A haze of pipe smoke marked our arrival,

“A thousand pounds,” Peterson muttered, dazed.

In Holmes’s strong box, I felt safe and secure

Though still I was lonely and far from home;

I’d never realized how fond I’d grown

Of my Countess - I wished to fly back to her.

Later that evening a familiar voice

Came to collect his own Christmas goose;

I gathered it was part of a ruse

To learn whether he was involved in my heist.

Sent happy and hatted upon his way,

The sharp Mr. Holmes and his kindly friend

Made Baker’s clue their next Christmas errand-

Silence fell as they scurried away.

Three sets of footfalls later entered the room

As soon as he spoke, I knew they’d found him:

The rat-faced weasel - that squirrely villain-

Who’d secreted me out of my lady’s home.

Holmes held me up to Ryder’s greedy eyes;

His tone was as icy as the winter outdoors,

“The game’s up, this gem is clearly not yours,

“Tell the truth - it’s straight to the docks if you lie.”

He recounted to business, and spoke it all true,

Shocked, I heard, “Get out,” spoken tersely,

And warmed in the light of Christmas mercy,

In that moment, I realized that now I knew.

Though I had suffered a wicked trial,

My suffering was a Christmas gift;

A husband still mended his marriage rift;

Another can treat his family in style.

A third, though it was a nasty business,

Is vindicated despite sins of old;

The last man is broken, but retains his soul,

And I understand the season of forgiveness.