The Case of the Christmas Star

by S.F. Bennett

Glancing through the correspondence I regularly receive concerning my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I find that chief among the requests are those that ask for some account of his investigations which had a festive flavour. I suspect this may be borne of some whimsical notion that the season lends itself to cases involving merry carol-singers, cherubic children, and happy endings all round. Nothing could be further from the truth, I have found, but if I have been reticent, with one notable exception, it is not due to any curmudgeonly reluctance on my part, but rather, to use Holmes’s words, because of a paucity of stimulating material.

It has been my experience that, in general, the professional criminal classes enjoy Christmas as much as the average man, leaving the field open for petty thefts and minor indiscretions by the opportunist, few of which have afforded Holmes with anything but a passing interest. Indeed, it has been the period which follows the festivities that has proved most fruitful, and one day I may gain Holmes’s permission to give an account of the Duelling Debutantes of Doncaster and the wishbone which was pivotal to the solution of the mystery.

I say in general, because there are always exceptions to the rule, and one in particular which I have good reason to recall, as the experience nearly proved fatal to all concerned. But for the timely intervention of a remarkable woman, it is not an exaggeration to say that none of us would be alive to tell the tale, and London would have been prematurely deprived of the talents of the foremost detective of his day.

So it was that on the Christmas Eve of the first year of my marriage, I was obliged to call at Baker Street on an errand. Whilst away with my new bride, I had impetuously purchased a wax anatomical model for three shillings from a pawn shop in Aberdeen, with the intention of having it displayed as a curiosity in my surgery. The shopkeeper had promised to despatch it without delay and, anticipating that it would reach London before I did, I gave my old address. I was to learn later that he was not a man of his word, and many weeks passed before Mrs. Hudson informed me of the arrival of a crate.

It had been my intention to call on Holmes in any case, for I was mindful that several weeks had passed since we had last spoken. Armed with a decent brandy, I thought to spend a few hours at Baker Street in convivial companionship, sharing the memory of old times and hearing of his new cases, before returning to home and hearth.

After a dreary journey in unceasing rain, I arrived at my former lodgings to find that Holmes was absent, having left several days before. Mrs. Hudson, too, was on the point of departure, for she answered the door already clad in coat and gloves. I gathered from the bulging carpet bag at the bottom of the stairs that she was to be gone for some time.

“I’m spending a few days with my niece at Margate,” she explained. “She had a little girl last month. As it is the baby’s first Christmas, I thought I should pay them a visit.”

“A holiday for you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said brightly.

She looked dubious. “I doubt that, Doctor. It’s her first and, between you and me, I think she’s struggling. If she’s anything like her sister when she had her first, I know who’s going to be left doing the cooking and cleaning.”

“Mr. Holmes has made other plans for Christmas, I take it?”

“He told me he would be returning this afternoon, Doctor,” said she, looking in the hall mirror to adjust her hat. “I offered to leave him a cold collation for tomorrow, but he wouldn’t have it. Told me he was perfectly capable of fending for himself for a few days. Well, he’ll have to, that’s all I can say. I let the maid go home to her parents, so he’ll be here on his own.”

“Will he?” That prospect troubled me more than I cared to say. The devil makes work for idle hands, and Holmes, without a case, would be idle enough to turn to other diversions. “You don’t mind if I wait for him upstairs?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly and patted my arm. “You’re always welcome, Dr. Watson. Just remember to take that crate with you when you leave.”

It was rather larger than I had anticipated. Five feet by four, made of sturdy wooden slats, it dominated the narrow hallway and almost blocked the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s heavy too,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “It took two deliverymen to carry it in. I thought the older gentleman was going to pass out. He went a very funny colour.”

“I’ll have removed by tonight,” I promised. “I apologise if it has been an inconvenience.”

“No trouble at all, Doctor. I wouldn’t have bothered you this side of Christmas, except it has a peculiar smell. What is it?”

“A wax model.”

“Flowers?”

“A man’s torso. Here, let me show you.”

She waited patiently with a polite, if puzzled expression on her face while I prised the lid open. The contents had been closely packed with straw and it took me a moment or two to locate the head. It was the face of an older man, realistically rendered, with the skin slightly marbled and the eyelids, with their delicate lashes, closed as if in sleep. There was something unnerving about it when viewed in the gloom of the grey afternoon and flickering gaslight. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I was sure that the hair of the torso I had purchased had been brown, whereas this was iron grey. Some time had lapsed since I had last seen it, however, and I dismissed my uncertainties as mere fancies.

Mrs. Hudson glanced down at it, only to shudder and tighten her scarf about her neck. “Why anyone would want that ghastly thing in their home I don’t know. I could understand it if it was Mr. Holmes. He leads you into bad ways, Dr. Watson, I’m sure of it.”

I chuckled at her censure. “I had my wife’s approval.”

“Then she was being diplomatic,” said she. “Don’t be surprised if an accident befalls that monstrosity. Whatever is that dreadful smell?”

With the lid removed, the odour of putrefaction was stifling. “A rat crawled in and died, I suspect.”

“A legion of rats from the smell of it. Put the lid back on, Dr. Watson, before the neighbours start complaining. Now, I must be off or I’ll miss my train. Will you call me a cab?”

I managed to attract the attention of a passing four-wheeler and, after seeing Mrs. Hudson safely installed inside with cases and umbrella, waved her goodbye. Left alone, I investigated my purchase with greater care. Probing further, I had only to touch the skin to realise my mistake. This was no model of wax, but a deceased person of flesh and blood.

I withdrew in horror, colliding with the hallstand in my haste. At that same moment, the bell rang. In my confusion, I opened it, expecting Holmes, only to find a genial policeman on the doorstep with a sprig of holly in his buttonhole and that patient expression that only comes after years of dealing with the foibles of his fellow man.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said he, smiling benignly. “I’m collecting for the Christmas Fund for Police Widows and Orphans. This time of year, we like to look after those less fortunate than ourselves.” He shook the collecting tin he was holding vigorously when I was slow to respond. “All donations gratefully received.”

“By all means,” I said, delving into my pocket and finding a handful of coins.

“Most generous of you, sir,” said the sergeant, as the money rattled into the tin. “You know what they say, it’s better to give than have it taken from you.” He must have seen my agitation, for his smile faded. “Just my little joke, sir.” His eyes narrowed with concern. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, are you all right?”

I assured him, somewhat distractedly, that I was.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He sniffed. “Blocked drain, is it?”

“What?”

“That queer smell. You’ve got a blocked drain.”

“I dare say.”

“I may be able to help you there, sir. My old dad is a plumber. I know a thing or two about pipes.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, I can manage,” I said, pulling the door shut behind me and trapping myself on the doorstep.

A questioning look came into his eye when he saw my reaction. He craned his head to one side and tried to squint through the narrow crack between door and frame into the gloom of the hallway. “Is there something you don’t want me to see in there, sir?”

“Not at all.”

“Then you won’t mind me taking a look, will you?”

He pushed past me and stepped inside, taking in his surroundings with the practised eye of an expert. As I knew he would, he came to the crate and parted the straw to investigate the contents. I saw the colour promptly drain from his face.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” said he, hurrying to join me outside and taking deep, gulping breaths to clear his lungs. A sheen of cold perspiration shone on his face and he took a moment to mop his forehead with his handkerchief. “Is that what I think it is?”

I nodded. “I am afraid so.”

“What’s he doing in there?”

“I couldn’t say. I thought it was a wax model that they use to teach anatomy to medical students.”

“An understandable mistake, sir, under the circumstances. And you have no idea who he is?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Something about his manner changed. The sergeant took out his notebook and licked the end of his stubby pencil. “Then why were you trying to hide him from me, sir?”

“I thought you might jump to the wrong conclusion.”

“What conclusion might that be?”

I laughed nervously. “I was concerned you might think... well, that I had something to do with the poor fellow’s death.”

“Now why would I think that?” he pressed, one eyebrow now raised in accusation. “Let’s start by having your name, sir.”

“Dr. John Watson.”

“And this is your address?”

“No. I live in Paddington, although I am looking for premises to set up my practice.”

The sergeant glanced at me curiously. “Well, you won’t find any here, sir. Or did you think this fellow in the box was a potential patient?”

“I came to visit Mr. Holmes. He lives here.”

“Oh, so it’s his crate, is it? Perhaps this Mr. Holmes did away with this here gent, and you’re his accomplice.” He snapped his notebook shut. “I think you should accompany me to the police station, Dr. Watson. We’ll talk this over with my inspector.”

I envisaged spending Christmas Day locked in a cell with my wife passing beef sandwiches to me through the bars.

“I fear there has been a misunderstanding,” I said. “Do you know Inspector Lestrade?”

“By reputation,” he grunted.

“Could you send for him? He would vouch for me.”

“Known to the police, are you? I thought so. You’ve got that shifty look about you.” He suddenly paused, took a step back and eyed me thoughtfully. “You’re not that Dr. Watson, are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I suppose this Mr. Holmes is..?” He sighed when I nodded in agreement. “I’ll send for the inspector. He can deal with it. I’m off-duty in an hour anyway. You stay here, sir. And try not to touch anything.”

He went on his way and I retreated upstairs to pour myself a drink to steady my nerves. No sooner had I downed the contents of a second glass than I heard Holmes’s key in the door. I descended to find him entering in the guise of an elderly clergyman, complete with grey wig and whiskers, warts and a prominent overbite.

“Watson, this is unexpected,” said he, when he saw me. “Well met, my dear fellow. I was going to call on you this evening to pay you the compliments of the season. One should always observe the usual proprieties, even in these changing times.” He paused, his nose wrinkling. “Dear me, is the sewer gas escaping again?”

“Holmes, I have bad news.”

“So I see. Was it one brandy or two?”

“Two. However did you know?”

“There is a wet stain upon your lapel. As to the substance, I have always known you to recommend brandy in cases of shock. Your hands were shaking then as they are now, and you spilled it.”

“That much is true. As to the rest, something has happened, and I’m expecting Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah, that is bad news,” said he, removing his hat. The wig came away with it and he stowed it in his pocket. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Confound this crate!” He had collided with it and was giving it further inspection. “Is this yours?”

“It is. I ordered it during our trip to Aberdeen and had it sent here. It was not what I was expecting.”

Tentatively, I removed the lid. Holmes caught his breath and drew back.

“I see what you mean, Watson. Most curious. Do we know who he is? No? Then, if would permit me.”

So saying, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, tied it around his head, covering both nose and mouth, and delved into the crate.

“Dead five days, wouldn’t you say?”

“About that,” I agreed.

“And you’ve sent for Lestrade?” he asked, lifting the dead man’s hand for a closer examination. “He is undoubtedly the man to ask, for unless I am mistaken, this fellow died in police custody. As to the cause, we are left with speculation. Further investigation would necessitate removing the body, and that we should reserve for surroundings other than these.”

“That seems unlike you, Holmes.”

“I do live here, Watson,” said he, straightening up and pulling the handkerchief away. “This corpse has not been embalmed. Or perhaps you would care to explain to Mrs. Hudson why we had to discard the hall carpet?” He looked at me with an expression somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “This is hardly the reaction of an old campaigner. It is not the first corpse we have encountered.”

“It is the first sent to me through the post.”

“That is a little out of the ordinary, I grant you.”

“What you said about where he died, Holmes - why police custody?”

He gestured to me to draw nearer. “How often have I told you that a man’s trade may be reflected in his hands? See here, at these new scars overlaying the old. Repeated burns suggest a pattern, in this case of contact with a volatile, unpredictable material. His trade depends upon it. Were it not so, he would have ceased to use it long ago, considering the extent of his injuries. Observe the left hand, two fingers truncated at the second joint. Those he lost in an explosion, I’ll wager.”

“An old soldier, perhaps?”

“A careless one, if so. On the contrary, I should say he was an amateur. Given his age and uneven muscle tone, consistent with someone in the past who has endured hard labour, my first thought is that he was by profession a cracksman. Not a very good one, admittedly; his latest escapade ended in his capture by the police.”

“How do you know he died after being arrested?”

With care, Holmes lifted the head of the corpse and tilted it towards the light. “He was plagued by an ear infection. There is a trace of discharge by the entrance to the ear canal. The same can be seen under his nails, the result of inserting his finger into this ear to scratch the irritation. Note, however, how generally clean the ear is in relation to the rest of his face. After he was arrested, he complained of pain and a doctor was summoned. He died some time after the examination. That is evident from how little new discharge has escaped the ear canal. So much we can ascertain for now. Time and Inspector Lestrade shall tell.”

He gently lowered the man’s head back onto the straw and returned the lid to the box. “Let me rid myself of these vestments and prepare for our visitor. Help yourself to another brandy, Watson.”

“Holmes, why are you dressed like that?” I asked, as I followed him upstairs. “Was it a case?”

“I had a case,” said he, over his shoulder. “A trifling affair in Somerset. But that is not the reason. At this time of year, my garb has a practical purpose. Tradesmen increase their prices depending on the social standing of their customers, but I find there are few who are willing to take advantage of a man of the cloth.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this revelation. “Do you mean to say you impersonated a Vicar to get a discount?”

“To pay a fair price, Watson. There is a difference. I object to paying double simply because it is Christmas. If something was sixpence yesterday, I do not see why I should have to pay three shillings for it today. It is a day like any other. The price should be consistent.”

“The police might not see it that way,” I suggested.

“Then do not tell them,” he called from the depths of his room. He returned a moment later, wiping his face on a towel. He still wore the knee-length clerical frock coat and gaiters, although he had removed the collar. “Are you staying?”

“I think I should.”

“I dare say you have other calls upon your time. The last time you were here, you regaled me with tales of horror concerning the state of your present accommodation.”

“I may have found something permanent. There is a decayed practice a few streets away from my current address.”

“Then it should be ideal. I have never known you to shy away from a challenge.”

“We may have to wait a few months before it becomes available. It has other problems too.”

“Which you shall no doubt overcome,” said Holmes, as he swept past. “Now, forgive me, Watson, I have a dead man in the hall and an inspector of Scotland Yard imminent. Your domestic trifles shall have to wait.”

I did not take offence. It has been my experience, as a rule, that a man’s household arrangements are of little interest to any save himself.

“All the same, I shall stay until Lestrade arrives,” I replied. “I am curious about the man myself.”

“As you wish. If you are hungry, there are biscuits in the tin and walnuts in the bowl. That is the best I can offer. Mrs. Hudson has gone to Kent.”

“You’ll be dining with your brother, I dare say.”

A flurry of papers cascaded to the floor, followed by a glove, a penknife and an ancient candle-snuffer as Holmes rifled through the clutter on the mantelpiece for a cigarette. Lighting it, he threw the spent match into the grate, from where it bounced onto the rug and smouldered into nothingness.

“Mycroft has gone to ground until the New Year,” he explained. “The Diogenes Club has closed its doors on the world until the Lord of Misrule is again in his box. The members shall be fed and watered, secure in the knowledge that they will be protected from the spirit of Christmas for yet another year.”

“Then you will be here alone?”

“Unless a client comes calling.” Veiled by the smoke of his cigarette, his expression was unreadable. “There has been precious little of late, however, so that possibility seems unlikely. There was that business of the theft of the Christmas Star last week, but Scotland Yard seems to have that well in hand.”

“In that case,” I began, sensing that his answer was likely to be a refusal, “would you care to join us tomorrow?”

“I fear I must disappoint you, Watson. I have to leave for Milan on Thursday. Before then, I have two days to learn all I can about the painting techniques of Caravaggio. There is a question of provenance concerning a depiction of St. John the Baptist which may explain the deaths of three art critics, a nun, and a Spanish grandee.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the sudden clatter of the bell. Downstairs, we found Lestrade on the doorstep, looking disgruntled. He cast a critical eye over Holmes’s apparel and his frown deepened.

“What’s this? You off to a fancy ball, Mr. Holmes?”

“If so, Lestrade, it is a Danse Macabre. Come in.”

“I’m not in the mood for your little games,” said the inspector, wearily. “I have to be home by five. The wife is expecting me. Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. I had a message from a Sergeant Shaw, something about you having an unexpected guest.”

“A most irregular one,” said Holmes. With a flourish, he removed the lid from the crate. Lestrade wandered over, took a cursory glance and withdrew sharply, suppressing the urge to vomit.

“I see what you mean,” said he, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Are you missing a body, Lestrade?” asked Holmes.

A look of annoyance flashed in the inspector’s eyes. “How the devil do you know that?”

A fleeting smile lifted the corners of Holmes’s mouth, although he said nothing.

Lestrade stifled a sigh. “It wasn’t meant to be public knowledge, but, yes, the boys of E Division did lose a body a couple of nights ago. It appears the remains in question vanished late in the evening, while the orderlies were out at the local public house. One of them had had a windfall and bought everyone a drink. The next morning, they found they were missing a corpse.”

“Stolen,” Holmes stated.

“I should say so,” said Lestrade with a dry chuckle. “It didn’t get up and walk out on its own.”

“Who would steal a corpse?” I asked.

Our friend looked imperiously down his nose. “Ever heard of Burke and Hare, Dr. Watson?”

“The Anatomy Act of 1832 put paid to that particular practice.”

“I suppose you have some theory, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade enquired grudgingly.

“Several, all of which depend on the identification of this individual. Do you know him?”

Lestrade nodded. “‘Honest’ Harris Henderson, petty villain of this parish. Blowing up safes is his speciality. Almost blown himself to kingdom come a few times too. He’s been in and out of prison more times than you’ve had hot dinners.”

“Hardly honest then,” I said incredulously.

“Ah, that’s just our name for him,” Lestrade explained. “Whenever he’s arrested, the first thing he always says is: ‘It weren’t me, guv’nor, honest it wasn’t’.” His humour faded. “Not that he’ll be saying it any more, poor old devil.”

“How did he die?” asked Holmes.

“From what I was told, he was arrested in Hatton Garden on suspicion of theft. You’ve heard about the disappearance of the Christmas Star, I suppose?”

Holmes nodded, but I shook my head.

“We’re talking about twelve diamonds, cut from a single stone,” Lestrade explained. “They were to be mounted in a setting surrounding a blue diamond. The shape suggested the name, as you can imagine. It was to be presented to Her Majesty on Christmas Day as a gift from certain of her loyal subjects.”

“Henderson was suspected of stealing the diamonds from the jeweller’s workshop,” said Holmes.

“He was there. They caught him red-handed. He had a housebreaker’s kit in his pocket and a jemmy down his trouser leg.”

“But no diamonds.”

“The theory was he had hidden them somewhere before he was arrested. They tried the usual tactics - said they would have a word with the judge, the promise of a lighter sentence, and such like - but he wasn’t telling. Then he starts complaining of pain, first in his ear and then in his stomach. The next thing they knew, he was dead.”

Holmes started abruptly. “When was this?”

“Thursday.”

“And the body went missing?”

“Four days ago.”

“When did the crate arrive?”

“Mrs. Hudson sent word this morning,” I told him.

“They are hours ahead of us!” he exclaimed. “We should take precautions. To delay would be foolish in the extreme.”

“We can’t abandon the body,” Lestrade protested.

“Inspector, this crate was intended for somebody. That person will know by now that there has been a mistake. Looking at the way the name and address has been chalked on the lid, I should say the error occurred at a railway station.”

“That is probably true,” I said. “It was sent from Aberdeen.”

“Envisage a situation where the labels came off two boxes which were almost identical,” Holmes continued. “A porter, trying to be helpful, attempts to match names to crates, with the resulting confusion. Whoever was expecting the body of Henderson now has Dr. Watson’s box. In his place, I should ask the deliverymen if they had any crates of a similar dimension. Ah,” he breathed; “but it may already be too late.”

I followed his gaze to the open doorway to where two men had appeared. The elder was a stern, hard-faced man of impressive stature with receding hair and dark, restless eyes burning beneath shaggy grey brows. His companion, an ugly, misshapen individual, with a nose as bent and twisted as a wind-blown tree, was short and stocky, his mouth curled in a perpetual grin that revealed sharp, pointed teeth.

The sight of them was enough to make Lestrade catch his breath. Tension rolled across his shoulders, and he moved to put himself between us and the newcomers.

“Well, well, gentleman,” said the older man, strolling in with the casual air of someone doing nothing more remarkable than taking a walk in the park. “It seems you’ve got something of ours. And look who’s here, Lestrade of the Yard.”

“Now, Georgie, there’s no need to be hasty-”

“That’s Mr. Fowler to you,” he snapped. “Respect, Inspector. I always demand it.”

“Stuffing a dead man in crate doesn’t sound like respect to me,” Lestrade retorted.

A smooth smile creased the lines about his mouth. “Everyone ends up in a box sooner or later,” said Fowler. “Ain’t that the truth, Vicar?” He glanced at Holmes. “Shouldn’t you be in church? This is your busiest time of year, ain’t it?”

The ruffians chuckled before Fowler’s gaze turned to me.

“You must be Dr. John Watson. We’ve got your... what would you call it, Bailey?”

“A wax doll, Mr. Fowler,” said the younger man.

“A wax doll, yes. Imagine our surprise. Gave us quite a turn, didn’t it, Bailey?”

“Yes, guv’nor, quite a turn.”

“There’s us expecting old Harris and all we got was a glorified candle with a bad wig. Now, I don’t say it was your fault, Doctor. There was a mix-up at King’s Cross. You got ours and we got yours.”

“Take him and go,” said Lestrade.

“Now wait a minute,” I protested, only to feel Holmes’s hand close about my arm in warning.

“Yes, don’t be hasty, Inspector,” said Fowler. “That’s not very hospitable, what with it being Christmas. No room at the inn, eh, Vicar?”

Holmes managed a weak smile. “All the same, the inspector has a point. Convey the gentleman to his final resting place, with our blessings.”

“I would, Vicar, but you see, this delay has caused me problems. It’s a good thing we’ve a doctor on hand. Happy coincidence, you might say. You’re going to help us, Dr. Watson.”

“The devil I am.”

“Reconsider.”

The revolver that had appeared in his hand was persuasive.

“What’s through there?” said he, gesturing down the hallway.

“The kitchen,” I replied.

“Good, then that’s where we’ll go. Now don’t try anything, Vicar. I know the Lord helps them what helps themselves, but getting shot won’t help you none unless you feel like getting closer to your maker. And just to be sure...”

He grabbed Lestrade around the neck and pressed the muzzle to the side of his head.

“Try something,” he hissed in his ear.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Oh, you will, Inspector. Believe me, you will.”

With Bailey leading the way, we were marched down the corridor and into Mrs. Hudson’s domain. The kitchen, as always, was clean and tidy, a perfume of lavender in the air tempered with undertones of carbolic. In the centre of the room was the table with its fresh white cloth and striking red poinsettia, and around it, four wooden chairs, smelling strongly of beeswax.

“Sit down, Vicar,” Fowler ordered. “Bailey, tie him to the chair.”

“Is this really necessary?” said Holmes, assuming a placative tone of voice. “Violence is never the answer, my son. It is the season of forgiveness.”

“You think the inspector here’ll be so forgiving with his brains spread across the wall? I said, sit down!”

Holmes was obliged to do as he was told. Bailey produced a length of twine from his pocket and expertly bound his hands behind his back. The procedure was repeated on me and then finally on Lestrade. Satisfied we were in no position to cause trouble, the pair returned to the hall.

“It’s always a pleasure coming here,” said Lestrade gruffly.

I could not blame him for the bitterness in his voice.

“I take it you know these ruffians?” I asked.

“Yes, I know them,” he grunted. “Georgie Fowler is a nasty piece of work. Born rotten, if you ask me. He’s the worst sort, a villain with ambition.”

“Then why is he still at large?”

Lestrade’s eyes flashed with irritation. “It’s not through want of trying, Dr. Watson. ‘Innocent until proven guilty’, that’s the law of the land. It’s a question of proof. There’s always someone else to take the blame.”

“You have proof now.”

“Much good it’ll do me.” Lestrade spared me a pitying glance. “Why do you imagine he isn’t behind bars? Fowler doesn’t like policeman.”

“How does he feel about doctors?”

“The same way he feels about clergymen, I imagine. And private detectives. You’re lucky he doesn’t know how to read, Mr. Holmes.”

“I fear our ‘luck’ is in short supply, Lestrade.” Holmes had been fidgeting in his chair and now paused, his breath coming quickly. “It may be possible to break these bonds. A sharp implement would be better, but as you see, Mrs. Hudson is tidy to a fault. Failing that, the uprights of this chair may go some way to fraying the twine. Unfortunately, it is of excellent quality. Our visitors came prepared.”

“A pity we weren’t,” Lestrade grumbled.

“You can hardly lay the blame at our door,” said Holmes. “From the moment Henderson died, it should have been obvious what had happened.”

“It was not my case!”

“And yet here we are.”

“I don’t understand,” I spoke up. “What does Fowler want with me?”

Holmes managed a tight smile. “Very soon, Watson, Fowler is going to ask you to do something. Whether you comply or not is entirely up to you. Both Lestrade and I would prefer that you did, for you may buy us some time. Whatever you choose, however, know that the end result may be the same. Do not blame yourself.”

“Whatever I can do, I will, Holmes, you know you can rely on me. What is this task?”

“He is going to ask you to perform an autopsy, my dear fellow. Here, on the kitchen table, I shouldn’t wonder.”

I stared at him. “But that’s monstrous! Why?”

“Because Henderson had the diamonds all along. He swallowed them. A hard object may pass through the digestive system without causing damage. I dare say you will discover, however, that the diamonds of the Christmas Star have sharp edges. They would have ripped through his gut like a knife through paper, causing catastrophic internal bleeding. A terrible death.”

“Save your sympathy for us, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “We’re going to need it.”

“But surely,” I said; “once Fowler has what he wants-”

“He’ll kill all of us. He never leaves witnesses. I was hoping he’d take the body and leave. I don’t think much of our chances once he tells us about the diamonds.”

It was a sobering thought. We sat there in silence, Holmes still struggling with his bonds and Lestrade in grim acceptance of what was about to happen. From the hall came the sounds of activity, the scraping of wood across the floor and grunts of exertion.

“Some Christmas this is turning out to be,” said the inspector dolefully. “This was meant to be my day off. I only came in today because the wife’s parents are staying. Her father’s a good sort, a bit too fond of his drink, but her mother has a tongue like a whiplash. It’s bad enough without her lecturing me about Frederick.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Her other son-in-law. An accountant, doing well for himself. Got his own business and employs fourteen people. And then there’s me. She wants to know why I’m not a superintendent.”

So saying, Lestrade glanced up at the clock. The hands stood at five minutes to five.

“Right about now, the children will be dressing the tree. I said I’d be home to help them.” He gave me a rueful smile. “The wife’s nagging mother suddenly doesn’t seem so bad, after all. How are you getting on with that twine, Mr. Holmes?”

“I believe I am almost free,” came his breathless reply.

“Try harder. They’re coming back.”

The door was kicked open, and Bailey entered, walking backwards and carrying the feet of the unfortunate Harris Henderson, with Fowler holding his shoulders. With effort, they heaved the naked body onto the table, knocking the plant onto the floor, where it spilled earth and scarlet petals across the polished tiles.

Decay was well advanced. The body was marbled and bloated, with the abdomen grotesquely distended. In the confines of the kitchen, the smell was suffocating.

“Now, Doctor,” said Fowler, gesturing to his accomplice to untie my hands. “I’m in need of your professional services. You see, Mr. Henderson here has something of mine and I want it back. I had a doctor waiting to open him up back home, but since he’s here and not getting any fresher, I want you to do it. Thirteen diamonds, that’s what he’s got in there.”

“What you are asking me to do is barbaric,” I retorted.

Fowler’s eyes held a hard gleam of spite. A jerk of his head caused Bailey to rummage through the kitchen drawers. Finding a large knife, he grabbed Holmes by the hair, pulled back his head and held the blade to his exposed throat.

“What do you say, Vicar?” said Fowler, almost conversationally. “Do you find it barbaric?”

“I’ll tell you what’s barbaric,” spoke up Lestrade. “Killing a man for a handful of diamonds.”

Bailey released Holmes, and we all breathed again. Fowler turned his cold gaze on the inspector.

“Who says I killed him?”

“You had him so scared he would have died rather than hand those gems over to us.”

A slow smile spread across Fowler’s face. “You couldn’t be further from the truth. He came to me, Henderson did, a few weeks ago. His lungs were rotten, he told me. Said he had weeks to live. Asked me if I could help him, one last job, he said. Well, I didn’t like to refuse. When I told him what I had in mind, he jumped at the idea. He wanted his daughter to get his share of the money. You didn’t know he had a daughter, did you, Lestrade?”

“No, I did not,” he answered.

“And didn’t care none, either,” Fowler spat. “Well, he wasn’t much of a father. He knew that. He’d left her and her mother when she was a babe in arms. Hadn’t given them a thought since, so he said. But when a man knows his time is up, his thoughts turn to family. He had a conscience, and he knew the girl was in need. She’s got a young ‘un of her own. I’ll see she gets her share.”

“Are you saying he swallowed the diamonds on purpose? I don’t believe it.”

“And broken glass too, just to be sure it killed him. There was no other way to get the diamonds out of the workshop. He knew he would be caught. The plan was that once he was dead, we would get his body and retrieve the goods.” Fowler sneered at the inspector. “You’re a family man, Lestrade. What would you do for your children? Shall we find out?”

“Fowler,” I called to him. “I’ll do what you want.”

“Good. Hold that thought, Inspector.” He patted Lestrade’s shoulder before wandering over to me. “If it’s any consolation, Dr. Watson, he died a happy man.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“He was adamant he wanted to go this way. Said he didn’t want to die alone in some hovel where he wouldn’t be discovered for weeks. No one cared about him, you see. No friends, no family, no one to notice when he wasn’t around any more. So he got his wish. I dare say the police looked after him at the end. They even cleaned out his dirty ears. Now, get on with it.”

“I do not have a scalpel.”

Fowler grabbed another knife from the drawer and slapped it down hard on the dead man’s chest. “Improvise.”

I had no choice. My soul revolted at what I had to do. Against that, I had to weigh the lives of Holmes and Lestrade. I picked up the knife and tested it. Mrs. Hudson was meticulous about keeping a keen edge on her blades, and I was not disappointed. I thought for a moment about trying to turn the tables. Fowler must have seen my hesitation, for again he gestured to Bailey to place the knife at Holmes’s throat.

“Just in case, Doctor. Don’t you go getting any clever ideas.”

I steeled myself and took a deep breath. Before I could make the first incision, from the hallway came the sound of a key in the front door. Fowler took a step back, his finger to his lips, warning us to stay silent. I could hear Mrs. Hudson muttering to herself about the state of the carpet before the footsteps started determinedly in our direction. The door opened and Fowler started forward with the revolver.

“Stay where you are,” he growled.

Mrs. Hudson was momentarily taken aback, and then, with a deft move that took us all by surprise, hit him over the head with her umbrella. He reeled back, stunned, and in that moment, Holmes pulled his hands free of his bonds and grabbed Bailey’s arm. While they struggled, with the knife inches from his face, I hurried to help Mrs. Hudson, but she had proved to be more than capable of fending off the villain. She picked up the gun that he had dropped and, pointing it at the ceiling, pulled the trigger. The shot made us all pause.

“You, young man, put down that knife and leave Mr. Holmes alone,” she ordered.

Bailey quailed and did what he was told. Holmes rounded on him and knocked him to the ground, while I freed the inspector from his bonds. Lestrade took the revolver from Mrs. Hudson and trained it on Fowler.

“Your turn to sit down, Mr. Fowler,” said he. “Keep your hands where I can see them. That’s right. Dr. Watson, tie him up, and his friend too.”

“Mr. Holmes, what has been going on here?” Mrs. Hudson said with evident displeasure. “Look at my plant. And my best tablecloth too. Cover that poor man up. Let him have some dignity.”

“Mrs. Hudson, we are indebted to you,” said Holmes, removing his coat and placing over the corpse Mr. Henderson. “Your assistance has proved invaluable.”

“Yes, indeed,” I agreed. “Where did you learn to use a revolver?”

She blushed a little. “Before I met my late husband, I was a nurse at a Seamen’s Hospital, Doctor. They all kept mementoes of their travels; I’ve seen more guns in my time than I care to say. And I’ve had plenty of experience of dealing with troublesome men, too,” she added, with a sideways glance at Fowler.

I laughed. “Then we are most fortunate that you returned. But why are you here? I thought you’d gone to Margate.”

“I got all the way to the station and I realised I’d forgotten the bonnet I’d knitted for the baby.” She opened a drawer and took out a parcel neatly tied with string. “I’ll be going on my way now, gentlemen. My train leaves in half-an-hour.” She nodded to the covered mound of the dead man. “I shall expect a new tablecloth, Mr. Holmes. And that table will need scrubbing with carbolic.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

“Remarkable woman, your Mrs. Hudson” said Lestrade with something approaching awe. “Well, I’d better send word to the local constabulary. These two will be spending Christmas in the cells.”

“I should have killed you,” muttered Fowler.

“You won’t get the chance again. Nor you, Bailey. As for Mr. Henderson here, I’ll have the mortuary send the cart. Keep an eye on them.”

The inspector left, and shortly thereafter we were overwhelmed with policemen. Fowler and Bailey were taken away, and a stretcher was brought in to remove the body. Several constables set to work with scrubbing brushes, and soon it was as though the drama of the afternoon had never occurred.

“I’ll be going home now, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade when the last of the constables had departed. His gaze was drawn back to the table. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? What would we do for our children if we were in his shoes?”

“Pray that we never have to find out,” I said.

He nodded. “Good evening to you both. Merry Christmas.”

“Lestrade,” Holmes called after him. “What of the daughter? I understand there was a reward for the return of the diamonds.”

“Seeing as how it was her father that took them, I can’t see any money being forthcoming.”

“And yet he has returned them.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else?”

“Your wife’s mother may praise her other son-in-law, yet she chooses to spend Christmas with you and your family. What are we to make of that?”

The inspector stared at him for a long moment before departing with a thoughtful expression. We followed him to the front door and watched him stride away down the darkened street, collar turned up against the penetrating drizzle. Suddenly devoid of people, the house felt cold and echoing.

“Holmes, about tomorrow,” I began. “Will you not reconsider?”

“I do not share Mr. Henderson’s fears about solitude, if that is your concern,” said he firmly. “Nor have I been seized by any maudlin sentiment because of the events of earlier. It was not without certain features of interest.”

I failed to suppress a shudder. “You may call it that. I thought the whole business was thoroughly disturbing.”

“That is because you are focusing on the method of the man’s death and not the motive. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done’ may be applied as equally to Harris Henderson as to Sydney Carton. The concept of noble sacrifice,” he added; “may take many forms.”

He laid his hand consolingly on my shoulder.

“There is nothing like a brush with death to sharpen the intellect. We are none the worse for our ordeal. As for you, my dear fellow, you should return to your home. Your wife will wonder what has happened to you. Merry Christmas, Watson.”

“You too, Holmes.”

I left, feeling somewhat reassured. Events and the demands of a new practice would conspire to keep us apart, and it was to be some time before I saw Holmes again.

I did, however, learn a little more of the case from accounts in the press. Lestrade naturally took the credit for the recovery of the Christmas Star diamonds, although I was to discover later that a portion of the reward money had been paid to Mr. Henderson’s daughter as a gesture of goodwill. My wax bust was found at the Fowler residence and sent to me. It resided in my surgery for a number of years, and I could never look upon it without counting my blessings and remembering the events of that Christmas Eve. Then one day, while we were moving to our new home in Kensington, the model suffered a mysterious accident and was damaged beyond repair. How Mrs. Hudson predicted this I cannot say, but it would not surprise me at all if she was able to list foresight among her many and considerable talents.