The Adventure of the Vanishing Man

by Mike Chinn

While it would be more than unfair to consider my friend Sherlock Holmes an embodiment of a modern Scrooge, I think it reasonable to observe he often appears immune to the Spirit of Christmas. He is not averse to the notion of exchanging gifts. Indeed, each year he presents me with some excellent cigars, whilst it has become customary for me to give him a pound of decent tobacco, in the hope of weaning him from his usual noxious weed. On each occasion Holmes has attempted, quite successfully, to deduce just what the package contains before unwrapping it. Indeed, the exchange has grown into something of an annual contest. For Christmas, my tobacconist had provided me with a mild golden shag from the Lake District which, unlit, had little aroma. I was confident that even Holmes’s skills would be undone on this instance.

On reflection, I suspect it was the anticipated conviviality and all that entails which he found irrelevant and, thus, objectionable. When Mrs. Hudson declared she would be inviting a selection of friends and relatives to a lunchtime Christmas Eve gathering in her parlour, it was only with the greatest of difficulty that I persuaded him to attend. I was feeling rather low at the prospect of spending that Christmas alone, and it was my opinion that both of us would benefit from genial company. As it was, while half-a-dozen of us partook of a rather sprightly punch and exchanged the season’s greetings, Holmes stood in a corner, clutching his cup and looking distinctly unengaged by the proceedings.

“Is the drink not to your taste?” I enquired, joining him.

Holmes gazed at his cup, swirling the contents lazily. After a moment he raised it to his nose and inhaled, working his lips as though he was actually tasting the concoction.

“It is vodka, I think,” he said after a moment.

I resisted an urge to laugh. “You think Mrs. Hudson has included vodka in her punch?”

“Not she.” He indicated the festive bowl where it stood, surrounded by unused cups, on a table by the parlour window. “Our good landlady is a creature of tradition. Clearly there is baked apple and sliced lemon, and judging from the colour, she has used heated cider as a base. The smell alone tells me that it is spiced with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. But there is an overall astringency, a heat, which is entirely due to another ingredient.”

I took another sip of my own drink; I have already remarked upon its vigour. “But vodka?” I said.

“Gin would add to the bouquet, whisky, brandy, or rum to the palate. Vodka, although not entirely tasteless or odourless, may pass unnoticed among more aromatic elements.”

I glanced around the small party of faces familiar as Baker Street neighbours or visiting acquaintances of Mrs. Hudson as Holmes continued.

“And although I normally find it repugnant to theorise with such a paucity of data, I think, on this occasion, I may indulge myself.” He indicated a pale-faced, sulky youth in dark clothing, a cap pulled low across blond curls. “Jerzy Krakowski, the nephew of Mrs. Krakowski whom, so I am informed by Billy, has been staying with his aunt these past seven weeks. I understand the boy has already acquired an admirable reputation for ill-directed high spirits.”

At that moment there was a loud, urgent rapping upon the front door. Mrs. Hudson, fussing loudly, answered it, returning with a distraught figure clutching his hat brim in white fingers, his dark hair uncombed, and eyes staring behind round spectacles which had fogged over in the parlour’s warmth.

“He wishes to speak with you, Mr. Holmes,” spoke our landlady, brusque at the interruption.

My friend instantly put down his cup. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” said he.

“Mr. Holmes!” Our visitor pulled off his spectacles, revealing eyes of a most extraordinarily pale blue. “Oh sir, you must help me - !”

“I shall do what I can.” Holmes paused. “Mr - ?”

“Edwin M’Gurk, sir.”

“But first you must compose yourself, Mr. M’Gurk. Mrs. Hudson. Bring our guest some of your most excellent punch, for I perceive he is in need of a restorative.” He glanced towards me, thin lips quirking as at a private joke. “And some of your mince pies, if you please. Mr. M’Gurk has travelled far and with reckless despatch. I fancy he has not eaten for some time.”

Mrs. Hudson offered the newcomer a plate well laden with seasonal delicacies, along with a brimming cup.

“When you have gathered your wits, Watson and I shall be awaiting you in our rooms.” Holmes took my arm, guiding me towards the parlour door.

“Really, Holmes,” I said as we climbed the stairs. “Did you have to make it so obvious you wished to be elsewhere? I fear you will have hurt Mrs. Hudson’s feelings.”

He barked a laugh, throwing open the door to our sitting room. “Our esteemed landlady knows me well, my dear fellow. She is more likely to be more amazed that I endured her soirée for the time that I did.” He went straight to the mantelpiece, taking down his pipe and packing it with tobacco. I settled myself in an armchair, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, for a man to leave the comfort of his hearth on such a cold night, in a hurry, and travel no small distance...” He lit his pipe, allowing the words to tail away as he puffed.

“Very well,” said I, rising to the challenge. “I agree he has travelled in haste. His hair is a fright and the buttons of his waistcoat awry. Signs of a man in an all-consuming hurry. But the distance?”

“Did you not observe the recent traces of mud upon his boots, Watson? The cold of the past days has left our streets crisp, but dry. Only in the countryside, where deeply rutted tracks contain water sufficient to remain liquid, might he obtain such contamination.”

The study door swung open and M’Gurk, tailed by Mrs. Hudson, entered. His punch cup was again full and I imagine the landlady had kept him well plied to ward off the cold. Certainly there was a hint of colour returned to his cheeks, although his features remained pinched with worry. Holmes indicated a chair with his pipe stem and the man sat, placing his hat on a side table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

With a final stare at my friend, the good lady retreated, closing the door loudly in her wake.

Holmes fell back into a third chair and fixed M’Gurk with a keen eye, puffing hard on his malodorous pipe. “Now, sir, if you would be so good..?”

M’Gurk took a deep pull on his drink. I offered him a cigarette, which he initially refused with a shake of his untidy head. “As I began to explain downstairs, gentlemen, I am valet to Mr. Wenman Higgins of Corvin House, Norfolk. Mr. Higgins is a wealthy gentleman, with a tidy fortune amassed by prudent investment and part ownership of a small fishing fleet sailing from Cromer-”

Holmes nodded slowly, half-closing his eyes. “Norfolk? No small distance indeed.”

M’Gurk frowned at my friend’s remark. “Indeed not.” He took another drink and cleared his throat. “Mr. Higgins disappeared, sir.”

“He has failed to return home?” I asked. The man shook his head.

“No, sir. He disappeared. Right before my eyes!”

Holmes raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Explain yourself.”

M’Gurk glanced my way. “I’ll have that smoke now, sir, if you don’t mind.”

I passed him my opened case, lighting the cigarette which quivered between his lips.

“Yesterday afternoon, I was up in Mr. Higgins’s room, preparing his suit. He was expecting guests for an early Christmas dinner, for it has always been his habit to spend Christmas Day with his sister and her family near North Walsham.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes sighed, waving a hand.

“My employer was out walking in the grounds at the rear of the house. There is a lawn there and a mature garden. From his room I could clearly see him through a small bay window.” M’Gurk drew shakily on his cigarette. “As he crossed the lawn, he simply vanished. One moment I saw him, striding out with his stick, cigar smoke forming a great cloud about his head. Then, he had gone. Vanished before my eyes.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Intriguing. You had clear sight of him at all times?”

“As clear a view as you have of Baker Street from your window, there.”

“Your eye was not distracted; not for the briefest instant?”

“No, sir.”

“At what time was this?”

“Somewhere between three and four o’clock, I think.”

“That will not do, Mr. M’Gurk!” Holmes barked. “Was it three or was it four? We are not so far removed from the year’s shortest day. A mere fifteen minutes can mean the vital difference between daylight and evening.”

The valet blinked his pale eyes. “I think it must have been closer to four - but the day had been one of exceptional sunshine. The sky a cloudless and steely blue. Visibility was excellent; unusually so for, as you say, the time of year.”

“You have the poetic turn of your Celtic ancestors, Mr. M’Gurk.” Holmes puffed on his pipe a moment longer. “Was there anyone else abroad in the garden?”

“I saw no one, sir.” M’Gurk took a moment of his own to consider. “No - he was alone. The garden is bordered by a tall hedge. If there had been a soul beyond that I cannot say, but the garden was deserted except for Mr. Higgins.”

“Excellent, Mr. M’Gurk. You went outside, of course?”

“Immediately, Mr. Holmes. I called for all the staff to assist me. We searched the entire grounds but found no sign of our employer.”

“How long did it take you,” I asked, “from the moment you saw Mr. Higgins - disappear - to reaching the grounds?”

He thought a moment. “Ten seconds, perhaps. No more than twenty, certainly.”

“Have the local constabulary been informed?” asked Holmes.

M’Gurk looked uncomfortable. “It was agreed that - for the sake of Mr. Higgins’s business associations - news of his disappearance, no matter how literal, should be suppressed for now.”

Holmes’s gimlet eye speared the man. “Who exactly decided this? Not you?”

“It was Mr. Jocelyn Barrington, my employer’s lawyer and closest friend. He was one of the dinner guests and arrived before word could be circulated that the evening was cancelled.”

Holmes sucked on his pipe, brow furrowed in thought. “When did you leave Corvin House?”

“I caught the earliest morning train to London, although Mr. Barrington was very much against my engaging you, Mr. Holmes. He felt that involving another party might encourage news to leak. I had to assure him of your discretion.”

“You were right to do so. I take it the search for Mr. Higgins did not cease overnight?”

“No sir. We searched every inch of the house and grounds I don’t know how many times. Not so much as a hair could be found.”

“Forgive me if I say that is unlikely.” Holmes arose from his seat. “Mr. M’Gurk, you have provided me with the perfect Christmas gift. Although the case is not so difficult as you imagine, there are points of interest. Watson and I will be delighted to investigate.”

“Holmes. Tomorrow is Christmas Day.” I protested.

His response was the briefest flicker of a smile. “And I believe spending Christmas in the country is just the tonic you need, Watson. Away from London’s contaminated air and its associated memories.”

I was struck dumb by my friend’s words. It is all too easy to forget that Holmes’s perceptive intellect can be used to pierce more than just a criminal’s heart. Silently, I nodded agreement.

M’Gurk was also on his feet. “I have taken the liberty of instructing a cab to await me outside, Mr. Holmes. At your convenience it will take us to Liverpool Street Station. I will be happy to accompany you back to Corvin House.”

Holmes and I quickly donned overcoats, scarves and hats - for myself ensuring the tobacco intended for my friend was safely in a pocket - and followed M’Gurk downstairs. We paused only to make our farewells to Mrs. Hudson and her guests, Holmes murmuring something in the good lady’s ear. Through the closing parlour door, the indignant cries more than hinted to me what his words had conveyed. In that moment, I would not care to have been Jerzy Krakowski.

We shared an unheated compartment to Norwich, all of us thankful for our heavy coats and scarves. To warm ourselves, we smoked as Holmes questioned M’Gurk further. The man had been in Higgins’s employ for a little over ten years, during which time he had found him temperate, generous to his staff, and with a robust sense of humour. Higgins had never married, but doted on his nieces and nephews to the point where his sister, Mrs. Whitside, despaired that he would ruin them. The lawyer, Barrington, tended to his investments, whilst the Cromer-based fishing fleet was managed by a local man. At weekends, as his neighbours took to the water and decimated the local wildfowl, Higgins preferred instead to arm himself with sketchpad and pencil. Indeed, he had a local reputation for being an excellent watercolourist, although he was reluctant to exhibit his work.

“And none bore him any ill will?” asked Holmes.

M’Gurk mournfully shook his head. “He was universally loved, Mr. Holmes. But this is all by the by, for he was not abducted, nor assaulted. He vanished into the thin air!”

“So you say. And I have no doubt that you believe wholeheartedly in what you saw. But you must concede that your statement, as it stands, smacks of the impossible.”

“I know... I know...” The wretched man stared out of a fogged window at the speeding countryside.

“People go missing all the time, Holmes,” I interjected, moved by M’Gurk’s obvious misery.

“So they do, Watson - but rarely in sight of an observer.” He leaned back, closing his eyes. “In 1763 one Owen Parfitt - a man paralyzed to immobility by a stroke - disappeared from outside his sister’s Shepton Mallet home on a warm June evening. In 1809, British diplomat Benjamin Bathurst was said to have vanished in sight of his companion after stopping for dinner in the town of Perelberg.”

M’Gurk took his eyes from the fogged window. “There was an observer in that case,” said he.

“Indeed,” agreed Holmes. “But I caution against accepting these accounts at face value. When committed to newsprint, vital details are frequently omitted, all the better to spice the anecdote. And it is not unknown for a newspaper editor with column inches to fill, or a travelling salesman with nothing better to occupy his time, to concoct the most lurid flights of fancy.”

M’Gurk sank back into staring glumly.

“However, I accept that sometimes there is a genuinely mystery,” said Holmes. “Four years ago, the pioneering French photographer Louis LePrince boarded a train in Dijon and retired to his compartment. There were no noises from LePrince’s cabin; the door was locked and window tightly closed. Yet when the train arrived at Paris, not only was LePrince entirely absent, but his baggage - kept in a separate compartment - was also missing.”

I confess I laughed. “I was unaware you took an interest in the colourful fictions to be found within The Illustrated Police News, Holmes.”

“A scientific mind must be open to all possibilities, Watson, no matter how ridiculous they may initially appear. I have no personal belief in ghosts, yet I concede that there have been many reported sightings, and by sober witnesses. It is my assertion that every case may be easily explained by taking each on its own merits and weighing the evidence. And if not now, then at some future date when the Laws of the Universe are better understood. The LePrince disappearance, for instance: I have been conducting my own research for many months, and hope to soon present my conclusions. Ones that will not invoke the supernatural.”

“I look forward to reading them.”

Holmes inclined his head at my enthusiasm. “My point is, M’Gurk, that I do not accept that people disappear willy-nilly into the ether. Although you believe whole-heartedly in what you saw, I hope you will take no offense when I say that you almost certainly did not see it-”

“Mr. Holmes!” M’Gurk bristled.

My friend held up a calming hand. “You observed precisely what you were meant to observe. Nothing more.”

“You have solved it already?” I said.

“Although I am far from a satisfactory explanation, let us say I have constructed a yet untested hypothesis which goes some way towards a solution. I am satisfied that we may find all our answers at Corvin House”

“I am cheered to hear you say it, Mr. Holmes,” said M’Gurk, “for we are minutes away from Norwich Station.”

Evening was upon us when we stepped from the train. M’Gurk was well known to the station staff and lost no time securing a horse and trap for the final leg of our journey. Snow fell in a desultory manner as we left the town and plunged into an unlit countryside. Neither of my companions spoke as we clattered along the uneven roads, Holmes no doubt mentally examining and evaluating his hypothesis, M’Gurk sunk in a deep study from which he did not rouse until Corvin House was in view. In the darkness, it was little more than a forbidding black hulk with soft lights glowing from three first floor windows, and above the main door. Never has a single lamp been so inviting.

M’Gurk paid the driver as Holmes and I made our way towards the front door. It was opened while we were still some distance away by a young girl in a maid’s uniform. Her fair hair tumbled in disarray from beneath her cap, and bright, feverish spots burned high on her cheeks. She curtsied to us both, although it was our companion she addressed.

“I’m so glad you’re returned, Mr. M’Gurk. Mr. Barrington has had word sent to Mrs. Whitside, and I feared she would arrive before you.”

M’Gurk touched the girl on the arm with an intimacy I could not fail to notice. “I’m here now, Connie,” said he. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson of London. They will soon have the master back with us.”

Holmes arched his brows at such a wild claim. “I cannot promise anything so definite,” said he stiffly. “But I shall do everything that I can.”

We were ushered indoors out of the cold. The maid, Connie, took our overcoats, asking if we required warming drinks. I would have agreed, but Holmes insisted that he examine Wenman Higgins’s room without further delay. M’Gurk led us upstairs, whilst the girl was sent to prepare a pot of coffee.

Higgins’s room was in a rearward-facing corner of the house. It was plain but comfortable, with a large bed, wardrobe, dresser, and stand for water jug and bowl. Several watercolours hung upon the panelled walls and, if from the brush of Wenman Higgins, he was indeed a talented man. There were two windows, a wide picture window along the side, and a small three-sided bay - the one through which M’Gurk had observed his master. Both contained diamond-paned leadlight glass. The bay formed a curtained alcove, with a window seat running inside its circumference. It was too dark to see the garden of which M’Gurk had spoken.

Holmes sat himself on the window seat, pulling a small lens from his waistcoat, and examined the bay windows thoroughly. As he bent closely over the wooden window ledge, he murmured, “Have shutters ever been fitted?”

M’Gurk shook his head. “Perhaps in earlier times - this house is almost two hundred years old - but never in my recollection.”

Holmes drew back and glanced at the patterned drapes. “And these curtains? How were they positioned?”

“They were partially drawn, much as you see them now, leaving the alcove itself in shadow. But not enough to obscure the view through the windows.”

“Excellent!” Holmes pocketed his lens. “Well, we may do no more until daylight, so I suggest we partake of that coffee you mentioned. Friend Watson here looks positively grey with cold!”

Corvin House was blessed with more rooms than the small household would ever need. The staff of valet, cook and maid was, unconventionally, given rooms on the first floor, rather than within the spacious attic. That area, I was given to understand, stood unused except for storage. Only the gardener slept elsewhere, in a small brick lodge adjoining the garden. I could see why Higgins’s staff loved him so - such egalitarianism is rare.

I awoke and dressed early. It was still dark outside, with an hour or more to go before any decent examination of the grounds could begin, so I decided to ensure myself of a decent breakfast. When I entered the dining room, there was no sign of Holmes, but a tall, saturnine fellow sat at the table enjoying kippers and scrambled eggs. He arose at my entrance, offering his hand.

“Jocelyn Barrington,” said he in a jolly voice, quite at odds with his gloomy appearance.

“Dr. Watson.” I took his hand.

“Ah yes, companion to the redoubtable Sherlock Holmes.” His dour expression flickered with what I interpreted as mild annoyance. “Join me, Doctor, please. Wenman has always provided a good table.”

I thanked him, filling my plate from an admirable selection laid out on the sideboard as he once more sat. I took a seat to his left.

“I would offer the compliments of the season,” I said, “but under the circumstances...”

“Ah yes, Christmas Day. Never has it felt less so.” He took a sip of coffee. “I am sure M’Gurk has passed on my misgivings about Mr. Holmes becoming involved.”

I nodded.

“It’s just that I feel, at this point, such as step is unnecessary...” Barrington leaned back, his glum features growing more morose. “Wenman has always demonstrated a keen - if sometimes individual - sense of humour. He may reappear at any moment, laden with a sack of gifts, and laughing ‘Merry Christmas!’ at us all.”

“His valet does not share your optimism.”

Barrington sighed. “M’Gurk, if you will forgive my saying so, occasionally embodies all the superstitions of his forefathers. Vanishing before his eyes, indeed. He has quite infected the household with his mania. I had to send for Laura, of course. She arrived late last night, quite beside herself.”

“Laura?”

“Mrs. Whitside - Wenman’s sister. Thanks to M’Gurk, she is convinced her brother has been abducted.”

I ate a final morsel of spiced sausage. “And you do not, Mr. Barrington?”

“As I have indicated, Doctor, I believe Wenman is playing another of his strange jokes-”

“I hope that will prove to be the case.” We both looked up to see Holmes entering the room, brushing from his coat what resembled lengths of cobweb. “Although I suspect events have taken a darker turn than a simple joke.”

Barrington stood, offering a reluctant hand. He seemed unnerved by the effluvia still flowing from Holmes’s arms. My friend squeezed the proffered fingers in the most perfunctory manner before sitting himself across the table, facing me.

“Have you breakfasted, Holmes?” I enquired, already certain that he had not.

He waved a hand. “I will take some coffee when you refill your own cup.” He glanced at our companion. “Mr. Barrington, friend and lawyer to the disappeared Higgins. Am I correct in assuming the police are still to be informed?”

“I did not-”

“Did not wish the news to be broadcast and so damage your friend’s business interests. Quite so. Thank you, Watson.” He took a sip from the coffee I placed before him. “The predictable actions of a lawyer, but far from those of a close friend.”

“Mr. Holmes - !”

My friend was unperturbed by Barrington’s outburst. He took another sip of coffee. “Never fear. I have despatched M’Gurk to the closest constabulary with a message from myself. I do not anticipate him returning soon. The police take it very ill when a personage such as Wenman Higgins disappears and no one seeks to notify them.”

“I have already explained to your colleague-”

“You may offer explanation upon explanation, Mr. Barrington; it will not make them true. Please - no more bluster. This case is, at its heart, quite simple, once the gaudy theatrics are put aside. That you continue to obfuscate rather than assist suggests you know more than you admit - if you are indeed not actively involved in the disappearance of your friend and client.”

For a moment I imagined Barrington would erupt into a violent rage. Then his dour face collapsed. His entire body seemed to shrink and sag in his seat.

“Bring your police, Mr. Holmes. I will answer any question.”

“Naturally. But first, kindly confirm for me that Mr. Higgins’s finances are not at all what both you and he have led everyone to believe.”

The lawyer nodded silently.

“Excellent. Come, Watson. Daylight is finally upon us!”

The morning was dull, the sky filled with low, threatening cloud. Our condensing breaths hung listlessly, unperturbed by air which held not a trace of breeze. Holmes and I repaired to the rear garden and stood directly in sight of the small bay window in Higgins’s room. It would certainly have afforded a wide view of the tiny estate, even to someone standing well inside the room as M’Gurk had. The garden was not large - a square lawn running the width of the house - but it was artfully laid out with paths running between four small plots which, during the growing season, would undoubtedly have been filled with flowering plants. The space was bounded to the sides and rear with a box hedge.

“What do you expect to see out here?” I asked. “The staff will have been walking back and forth in their search for Higgins. Their tracks will have destroyed any trace of his steps.”

“Your reasoning is faultless, Watson. No, I am in search of other evidence, if the perpetrator has not already destroyed it-” He straightened abruptly with a cry, pointing towards the demarcating rear hedge. “There! Do you smell it, Watson?”

“A bonfire?”

“Quite, and at this time of year. All of autumn’s fallen leaves are already swept up and destroyed. What else might the gardener be burning? Make haste, Watson, make haste!”

We fairly sprinted across the lawn, circling around squares of black soil where only the hardiest of plants stood skeletal in the cold earth. Beyond the box hedge was a stretch of bare ground, upon which stood a simple two-storey brick cottage, flanked by greenhouses and cold frames. The gardener’s home and workplace. A small fire burned sullenly on the ground, but it was neither leaves nor twigs which smouldered there. Rather, it was what appeared to be a pile of rags.

Holmes rushed forward, kicking at the fire, impulsively dragging the burning pieces of cloth from the flames with his boot tip. I found a length of dead branch and joined him, raking the bonfire apart and stamping out the surly flames. Someone cried out - the gardener, emerging from his cottage. For a moment he stood, imploring us to cease, before taking to his heels and racing - I was surprised to note - away from Corvin House and not towards it.

“Leave him, Watson,” said Holmes, crouching over the smoking rags. “He cannot run far, and the countryside affords few hiding places.”

Once the last glowing embers were extinguished, we took up the rags and carried them to the house. We were met at the door by Barrington and a young woman whom I guessed to be Higgins’s sister, Mrs. Whitside. Chestnut hair framed a heart-shaped face that was presently a ghastly white. When she saw what Holmes and I bore, one hand flew to her mouth and she clutched at the lawyer with the other. She groaned piteously.

“I beg you, madam,” spoke Holmes, “do not leap to any conclusion. Give us five minutes before coming to your brother’s room. The truth is not as grave as you imagine, but nevertheless, prepare yourself.”

Although I had questions of my own, I followed Holmes silently up to Higgins’s room, where we laid out the smoky remains upon the bed. Like a charred jigsaw, they came together after a few moments’ pondering. Although significant areas had been consumed by the bonfire, the remaining pieces were clearly from a tweed jacket, heavy trousers, and the peak of a flat cap.

“Higgins’s clothing?” said I.

Holmes had turned away and was looking intently towards the small bay window. “Mrs. Whitside must confirm it but, yes, I believe so. And unless I am much mistaken, that is her tread upon the stair.”

I opened the door to allow in both Mrs. Whitside and Barrington. The woman’s eyes strayed to the clothing upon the bed and again she reacted with shock. The lawyer led her to the room’s only chair, where she sat, ashen faced, gaze still locked upon the charred rags.

“From your response, I see you believe these to be your brother’s clothes,” said Holmes.

She nodded, her eyes glistening with the onset of tears. “Does this mean..? Is he murdered, Mr. Holmes?”

“Far from it.” He glanced towards the lawyer. “Barrington, might I ask that you favour us with a short walk across the garden, there. Within sight of the bay window, if you please.”

Wordlessly, Barrington left the room.

“Mrs. Whitside, may I crave your indulgence for a moment?” Holmes held out a hand. She took it and came to her feet. All three of us stood near the foot of the bed and looked out upon the garden through the bay window. The partly drawn curtains cast the alcove into shadow, further emphasising the cold, grey light coming through the leaded panes.

“Ah - here he comes!” exclaimed Holmes.

I glanced aside. Through the picture window, I saw Barrington walking alongside the house and turning the corner. Returning my attention to the bay, I watched as the lawyer appeared in the left window, treading morosely. As he came parallel to the central pane he glanced up, although it is impossible for him to have seen us. Then he reached the right side of the bay - and promptly vanished.

Mrs. Whitside gasped. I am certain that I exclaimed in surprise. Holmes simply clapped his hands. A moment later, Barrington reappeared just as magically, retracing his steps.

“How is this possible?” cried Mrs. Whitside. A brief smile tugged at Holmes’s lips and he stepped into the alcove, reaching for the right hand side of the bay. It came away in his hands and he spun to face us, holding a faultless replica of the window: the diamond panes, the portion of garden beyond.

“Is this not perfection, Watson?” he laughed. “Wenman Higgins is not only a consummate watercolourist, but an illusionist superior to many a tawdry music hall magician!”

It was certainly a wonderful piece of stage craft. Close up it became an oblong of painted wood, but at a distance of two feet or more the deception reasserted itself.

“Remarkable,” I agreed. “Where did you find it?”

“In one of the attic rooms, carelessly hidden. You will have noticed my disreputable appearance earlier this morning. Those rooms have not enjoyed a duster’s flick for many a month. I imagine the plan was to eventually destroy it, but events ran too quickly for the perpetrator. When the excitable M’Gurk told us back in Baker Street that he had seen Higgins simply disappear, it was obvious that a device such as this must have been employed. And where best to quickly hide it than in the one area of the house so seldom visited?”

“Ingenious,” said I.

“Quite, and yet not without inherent risks.” Holmes placed the false window upon the bed just as Barrington returned to the room. “Viewed from the wrong angle, the illusion fails; the horizon skews. Yet Higgins knew his man. I’ll wager that M’Gurk has long made a habit of standing in the light of both windows to brush down his master’s dinner suit, even in the darker winter hours. Even so, if it had snowed or was raining heavily, the artifice would be instantly revealed.”

“M’Gurk indicated that on the day the weather was fine and bright.”

“Exactly, Watson! Perfect conditions for the illusion. Higgins was either exceptionally lucky, or he was experienced enough to be able to predict the local weather in advance. Such a talent would serve him well in his artistic strolls.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Whitside was returned to her seat, her nerves almost certainly near breaking point. “Are you saying that Wenman arranged his own disappearance?”

“Just as Barrington has asserted, although for the wrong reasons. He was, of course, party to the whole deception, and keen to delay any form of investigation until his client should be far enough away.”

Mrs. Whitside raised her pale features. “Jocelyn, is this true?”

The doleful lawyer nodded. “I cannot say I was happy with the arrangement, but you know how damnably persuasive Wenman can be. He would have contacted you presently, to assure you that all was well.”

“But why?” Anger was returning colour to her cheeks, and her eyes sparked.

“Because he was destitute,” Holmes answered the question. “There are few reasons a man will stage his own disappearance. When I heard of how profligate your brother could be, I reasoned that he had, ultimately, outspent himself. Barrington confirmed my suspicions. Higgins did not have the strength of character to admit his circumstances, either to you or your family, so he chose to vanish. To spirit himself away like a character in a seasonal ghost story. The plan was that while Barrington prevaricated, and the excitable M’Gurk sowed alarm in the household, Wenman Higgins would flee to Europe.”

“That is monstrous!” cried the lady. “To subject his own family to such distress, merely so that he might escape!”

“Do not judge him too harshly,” said Holmes. “Many men in such straits, who can see nothing but ruin ahead, have chosen a far more permanent route from their woes.”

“But how did he get away?” I wondered. “M’Gurk said it was less than twenty seconds between him witnessing the vanishing, alerting the household and rushing outside. Higgins could not have fled too far a distance in that time - particularly as he appears to have changed his clothes.”

“The figure M’Gurk observed walking across the garden was obviously not his master. I would dearly love to meet and talk with your brother, Mrs. Whitside. He has an excellent brain. Every aspect of the plan relied on the single witness seeing only what was expected of him. A window instead of artfully painted wood, his employer instead of the disguised gardener.”

Mrs. Whitside and I expressed our incredulity at that, while Barrington maintained a brooding silence. Holmes indicated the charred remains on the bed.

“It was afternoon, the light starting to fail. M’Gurk sees a figure dressed in these clothes. Who would he think it to be except his employer? When the alarm is raised, the gardener quickly rids himself of the disguise, most likely stashing in under a hedge, and races to join the search. We were fortunate in catching him before he could burn the evidence, Watson.”

“And my brother?” asked Mrs. Whitside.

“Already gone that morning. Fled to Cromer, his fleet of fishing boats, and a crew no doubt as loyal as Corvin House’s staff. From there it is a short trip to the continent.”

“Then Wenman is gone...”

“Not at all, madam.” Holmes fairly glowed with satisfaction. “The message that M’Gurk bore to the local police in my name was for them to immediately contact their colleagues in Cromer. No fisherman will be risking the seas on Christmas Day when they have families and warm hearths. If Higgins is not already in custody, he will by the day’s end.”

“And what will become of him?”

Holmes glanced towards Barrington. “That is for the courts to decide. His crimes are small. With an eloquent lawyer, it is quite likely he may avoid a custodial sentence.”

Barrington nodded.

“And we shall stand by him.” Mrs. Whitside came to her feet, stiff with resolve. “Mr. Whitside is far from rich, but he has contacts in the City. If my foolish brother had but asked, I am certain we might have averted all of this. With the help of those who love him, we shall come through.”

I was warmed by her words and gladdened that, even though Wenman Higgins had lately been foolish, the goodwill he had engendered in those around him might save him yet.

Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Capital. Then we may return to Baker Street, Watson-”

“I will not hear of it, Mr. Holmes!” said Mrs. Whitside. “It is Christmas Day. You and Dr. Watson must dine with us at North Walsham. You too, Jocelyn. Wenman may not be with us this year, but he will be present in our hearts.”

And so it was that Sherlock Holmes and I celebrated Christmas with the Whitsides. It should have been a sad affair, but the family would only look forward to better times. And as evening fell, the Cromer police delivered an extraordinary Christmas gift: Wenman Higgins, bailed into his sister’s care until the New Year.

Holmes - after reminding me of the tobacco I had so signally failed to smuggle undetected in my overcoat pocket - once more correctly deduced its origins, before presenting me with a box of first-rate Principe de Gales. In all, Christmas that year unfolded into an exceptionally happy and a reassuringly traditional one.