The Case of the Christmas Trifle

by Wendy C. Fries

It is not difficult to imagine myself to be Sherlock Holmes.

It’s long been a habit of mine to try to put myself inside my friend’s head. When at a loss for where a case is leading, I will sometimes pause to more closely examine footprints and ash, the untouched dust on a mantel, a carelessly placed cushion, as if seeing these things through my friend’s eyes.

I know I’m not the only one who does this, for I’ve watched countless constables, loosely at attention in the corner of a room, tilt their heads as they strain to catch a better view of a vase over which Holmes is leaning, to peer at a chair that has caught his attention or, more often than not, to frown as Sherlock Holmes stares at something that isn’t there.

Even Lestrade will boldly look over Holmes’s shoulder, squinting at scatterings of dirt or a half-peeled orange, and I imagine he too wonders the same things I do. What is there? What’s there that we’re missing?

We always find out later, of course, when Holmes is sure of his solution. As often as not, he unveils it with a bit of theatrical pomp that annoys some, but amuses others, mostly Holmes himself.

Of course, it’s easy to understand what Sherlock Holmes has seen in those moments of explanation afterward, and each time I think the skill of deduction is really quite simple and surely we won’t all be so far behind next time. Then next time comes and behind we are.

I say all of this by way of saying that, though it’s not difficult to imagine myself as Sherlock Holmes, it is impossible for anyone else to actually be Sherlock Holmes. The reality of this came home to me in a case we had near Christmastime a year or so after Holmes returned from his long three years away. It was then I had a chance to be impressed afresh by my friend and what he does: Taking the smallest of trifles and deducing from them revelations. However, my certainty that we would none of us ever learn to be the man himself came when I observed in Holmes a rare trait I think few realise he has: Humility.

It was not quite noon and not quite a week before Christmas when I entered our Baker Street rooms, finding Holmes in his dressing gown, stretched out upon the sitting room sofa, one arm over his eyes while the other conducted a phantom orchestra.

A quick glance around showed no beakers smoking or bubbling, no stack of papers teetering at the edge of a chair, not a single book placed on its belly on the floor. I felt safe in making a deduction. “The Inspector did not come by, and you still have no cases on.”

Holmes uncovered one eye, though he did continue conducting. “After this morning’s post, I have quite a few cases actually, but they’re neither pressing nor interesting.” Holmes sat up but only barely, slouching so that his long legs stuck out across the hearth rug. “The Spanish royal family has another small matter they wish me to look in to, and I still expect Inspector Lestrade by at any time with that case giving Scotland Yard a bit of a fit. Also, I have a chemical puzzle I’m worrying through on paper, but Watson, there isn’t anything of interest.” Holmes fixed me with his keen eyes and slowly leaned forward. “Though I do suspect you’re about to change that.”

I’m no longer surprised when my friend reads me so easily, but I continue to be impressed. “Was it the tilt of my hat or the turn of my cuff that gave me away this time?”

Holmes smiled, “Oh Watson, if you could see your own face, you’d know anyone could deduce you now. You’re practically beaming.”

“Obviously I’ve lost whatever poker face I may have once had, but you’re right.” I rubbed my hands together and took a seat across from him, delighted to have something of interest to share. “I just met a young lady in the same building in which my publisher has his offices-”

“Ah, an enthusiast of your writing.”

“How on earth could you know that?”

Holmes rested his heels on the edge of the sofa and his chin upon his knees. “Watson, you’re a very serious man when you enter your publisher’s establishment. You get a certain no-nonsense air to you. I expect that’s partially my fault for teasing you so much about your stories of our little adventures.

“So it is obvious that, on a mission to deliver your latest manuscript - was this the one about the coffee baron or the one about the horse?” Holmes waved away his own question. “On such an important errand I doubt very much that you’d have spoken to anyone - that is, unless they spoke first to you first. In that case, you would of course reply, if for no other reason than you are a far more courteous man than the world deserves. Now, why would a lady approach you in an office building? In the case of Dr. John Watson, it is most likely one of two things. She is a patient, or she recognised you from your writing, which not unoften includes a likeness alongside your byline. You said you had just met her, so she is not a patient. Therefore she is likely a reader of your work, which she enjoys, and approached to tell you so. That much is clear from your smile, Doctor.”

I executed a small bow from my chair. “Just so. However, though Miss Sarah Bartram was indeed very complimentary of my stories, she had more than praise to offer. She has a little problem I thought might interest you.”

Before I said another word, Holmes popped up from his chair and flew toward his bedroom.

“Where are you going? You haven’t heard the problem yet!”

Holmes paused in his doorway. “It’s two minutes to twelve, Watson, or can’t you hear Mrs. Hudson rattling up the stairs with a tray laden with tea things? Being as she only brings noon-time tea when one of us requests it, I presume we’ve a client coming and that you’ve made an appointment for Miss Sarah Bartram to meet us here in just under a minute!”

With that Holmes began to shed his dressing gown, and I again wondered why I try to tell Holmes anything, as he seems already to know everything. Still, I called after him, “Indeed!” as I let in our landlady. “Mrs. Hudson, it seems a man could set his watch by you!”

Our landlady smiled, but before she could reply, the bell went and she hastened to answer it.

By the time I’d set the tea out, Holmes was standing by the sitting room window, neat as a pin and hands clasped behind his back as if he’d been standing there all afternoon.

Mrs. Hudson showed in Miss Sarah Bartram. She was a fresh-faced woman and quite petite, which made her look even younger than her years. Though old enough she was, she hastened to assure me when we first met. “I am of age, Dr. Watson, and so is my fiancé. Have no doubt that this is a matter between adults, do you understand?”

I had assured the young lady that I did, and though Miss Bartram was not yet twenty, her serious demeanour, straight-backed posture, and intensity made her seem a woman twice her age. I gestured to Holmes. “Sarah Bartram, may I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Our guest nodded at Holmes, who bowed and invited her to take a seat. As she settled, the young lady removed hat and gloves but kept her exceedingly serious expression.

“First, thank you for your time, Dr. Watson, and thank you, Mr. Holmes, for considering my case.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair, finger steepled, ankles crossed, and said, “And what pray tell is your case, Miss Bartram?”

She sighed, sat straighter still, and said, “I have had a letter from my fiancé saying that he doesn’t wish to marry me.”

I glanced at Holmes, but he said and did nothing. I was curious, having at my publisher’s received only the briefest of sketches from Miss Bartram. “So this is a romantic matter then?”

I knew of Holmes’s fondness for small cases, the minutiae of which he far prefers. As a matter of fact, if given the choice of solving the problems of a potentate or those of a peat farmer, I knew my friend would be far more interested in the humbler case. International intrigue held no fascination for Holmes, and yet neither was he fond of a wholly domestic sphere.

Sarah Bartram turned to me and said, “Not at all, Dr. Watson. This is a case of kidnapping.”

It was then Holmes became quite lively, leaning forward until his elbows were on his knees. “Very interesting. Now start from the beginning, Miss Bartram, and understand that there is no bit of information too small, no trifle worth withholding.”

Our client looked to me with a smile, “Ah yes, just as in your stories, Dr. Watson.”

Though Holmes had perhaps ruefully admitted to teasing me about my tales, he was disinclined to encourage praise just now, and so, with a dismissive wave, he said, “Yes, yes, now please set out the particulars.”

With a confidence that her case might intrigue, our client began.

“I am rich, sir, and always have been. All my life, I’ve been the doted-upon child of a self-made man who, after mother died in childbed, wanted nothing more than to ensure my happiness. For all of my life, he did exactly that. That is, until six months ago, when I lost him to a lingering heart complaint. He left me everything, Mr. Holmes, and his building interests were extensive. It’s why I was in the City today, speaking to his solicitors. Even father’s hobbies brought income, though I know few would classify a copse of trees as particularly entertaining. My father did, however, and in the last few years he’d began buying up old growth here, there, everywhere. To be honest, it seemed more the pastime of a child hording toys.”

Holmes rose, looked around the room curiously for a moment, then went to the small table beside my desk. In its little drawer he found a pile of newspaper clippings, which he shuffled through impatiently. “I’ve meant to file these,” he said, collapsing again in his chair and waving a half-dozen pieces of paper in the air. “One never knows what will come of what, and when I noticed in the business columns that one man was purchasing extensive acreage in Kent, I rather thought something might come of this particular something.”

Holmes tossed the papers to the floor, as if they now meant nothing. “Of course, you’ll have something more relevant for our investigation?”

As if waiting for just this question, our visitor pulled a piece of paper from her purse, and read to us its contents.

Dear Miss S,

When you get this note my father and I will have taken our leisurely leave of London. I can not quite bring myself to apologise for departing without saying goodbye as I feel this leave-taking is for the best. That is because I think you may have misunderstood my intentions toward you and, had I stayed any longer, I believe things would have only turned for the worse. Despite what I may have said on several occasions, in fits of unreasoned passion, I do not wish to marry you. After I complete my longed-for studies, I will happily be joining my father in business.

This, then, is to be our very final contact Miss S and under no circumstances are you to attempt to find me.

Alas, I can not sign myself yours.

Mr. Stephen Hessian, Jr.

Sarah Bartram looked from one of us to the other, her gaze keen. “This note was written to me by my fiancé, Mr. Holmes. When I went to see him today, the landlord told me that he and his father had left the premises. Then he handed me this letter. When I asked to see what I could not believe, the man was kind enough to let me into the apartment.”

Miss Bartram seemed to wilt, but didn’t remain so for long. “Everything was gone, Mr. Holmes. Everything. I may have overstated when I said Stephen was kidnapped, but not by much. Though he is a few months my junior, he is every bit as focused, as mature. I believe he was coerced into leaving London, and it’s this letter that tells me I’m right. It also tells me that he wants to be found.” Again she fixed us with her sharp eyes. “It’s quite unusual, this note, don’t you think? Please be honest.”

I waited for Holmes, who seemed to wait for me. With hesitancy I said, “Well, it is a touch... over-written.”

Miss Bartram smiled, and at that Holmes let loose with a laugh. “Thank heavens the writer said it and the prospective bride agrees!” Holmes clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “A melodramatic missive, it’s at once rude, self-aggrandizing, and vague. I trust there’s something in its vagaries that is entirely clear to you, Miss Bartram?”

Our client’s young face lit with admiration as she handed Holmes the letter. He scanned it quickly, passed it to me. I read it through then returned it to its owner, feeling no more the wiser.

“Stephen Hessian and I met almost two years ago, soon after our fathers became acquainted through business. Stephen’s father was in timber and it was, for him, a very serious work. Though he and my father had a grudgingly respectful acquaintance, there was no love lost. I think Mr. Hessian resented both my father’s wealth and his carefree ways.

“What they thought of each other didn’t matter to Stephen and I. We fell in love and swore ourselves to each other just months after we met. However, we agreed it made sense to delay getting married until Stephen finished his law studies.

“Well, I’m afraid recently our will got the better of our resolve. Knowing there would still be more than a year to wait, we made plans to marry sooner. Next Friday as a matter of fact.”

“Christmas Day.”

“Yes, we both thought it a fitting day to marry. It pleased Stephen that every anniversary it would feel like the whole city was celebrating with us.”

“A sentimental sort, your Stephen.”

“He is kind and quiet and sentimental, yes, but he’s also strong-willed and he means what he says.”

“And yet, you know that he does not mean what he says in this letter,” said I.

“On the contrary, Dr. Watson, he means every word of it.”

“Do explain,” said Holmes.

Our client stood, gathering the hem of her jacket as she gathered her thoughts. She gazed at the mantel, looked idly at Holmes’s pipes, a scattering of tobacco, a willy-nilly stack of papers. I wondered that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been tutting at the mess.

“We’ve always had a bit of a game, Stephen and I, and it started as a result of Mr. Hessian, Stephen’s father.

“He is a bumptious man, Mr. Holmes, and seems always to be talking out both sides of his mouth. His truths sound like lies, his lies like truths and, well, somehow Stephen and I, to hide the depths of our feelings and even our plans from him, we began saying the very opposite of what we mean.”

Our client laughed. “It seemed so logical to us, but as I tell it to you, it sounds silly. Nevertheless, ‘I’m very sorry I’ll be missing that dance, Miss Bartram’, of course meant that Stephen would meet me at the dance. ‘I would like to complete my schooling’, meant that Stephen was anxious to keep to our plans to elope. I’m aware this all sounds confusing and open to misunderstanding but Mr. Holmes, I know Stephen.”

Sarah Bartram took the small piece of paper from her pocket, spread it on the mantel, and was silent so long she could only have been reading the note again and again. Eventually she folded it, tucked it away, and turned to us. “I know this note is as straightforward a love-letter as he could write to me under his father’s watchful eye. He wants to marry me, Mr. Holmes, he wants me to find him. Will you help?”

Though I, like half of Scotland Yard, may fail to think like Sherlock Holmes, I believe that I have learned a bit how to read Sherlock Holmes. Though he didn’t answer our client’s question for long moments, I saw his shrewd gaze. I knew he’d take this curious case, and that he likely already had a strong idea as to its solution.

He stood. “We will, Miss Bartram, but I have three questions that need answering. The first: Did Stephen’s father knew of your plan to elope?”

“I believe he learned it somehow. Perhaps he overheard us talking.”

“My second question: How did you and Stephen signal to one another when you were, for all intents and purposes, lying?”

“Quite simply. He would call me Miss S and I would call him Mr. S.”

Holmes nodded as if he’d suspected just this. “My final question will be answered at the offices of The London Sentinel Times.”

My friend showed our client to the door. “I would like to see that empty apartment today, Miss Bartram. Would three p.m. suit you?”

It did. and shortly our client left. “Will you meet us at Barons Court at three, Watson?”

I reached for my coat as Holmes did for his. “I wouldn’t miss it. In the meantime, I promised a friend I’d come by so he could show off his new surgery.”

We left the flat together, but before we went our separate ways, I asked Holmes if he had an idea about where Miss Bartram’s fiancé might be.

“Not a one, but I’m confident we’ll find something of use in that flat. The young lovers seem quite adept at their odd form of communication, so I have faith the young man found a way to make matters clear for his fiancée.”

At my doubtful face Holmes clapped me on the back. “Have a little faith, Watson,” he said gently. Then he climbed into a cab and was gone.

Having sold my own medical practice, I found myself keen to have a look into the newer surgeries of my acquaintances. Which meant I thoroughly enjoyed spending a few hours in my friend’s fancy West Kensington digs.

As he showed me around, we talked over the newest tools and the oldest maladies, and by the time I left I was in high spirits. I walked with a jaunty step the short distance to Barons Court.

I arrived early and found that so had our client, though within a few moments Holmes’s cab arrived as well. Shortly the landlord let us into the Hessian’s apartment and indeed, the place was stripped bare, as one would expect when lodgers leave.

To be sure there were a few scattered items, paper ephemera, a crumpled Christmas stocking amidst a few business cards.

Holmes prowled the flat silently, collecting all of this detritus and, when he was done, he joined Miss Bartram and myself in the sitting room. He tossed his pickings onto the bare table, then began to look over each item carefully, peering into the empty little stocking, flicking through the newspapers, going so far as to take out his magnifier to peer at the business cards and a tattered college prospectus.

Finally he sighed. “These are useless.”

Sarah Bartram worried the hem of her jacket. “Oh no! I had hoped there was something I wasn’t seeing.”

“This is entirely too much evidence.” Holmes picked up the half dozen newspapers in one sweep. “All of them are from Glasgow. All of them have an advertisement for lodging circled. This card is for a Glaswegian solicitor. The prospectus for a Scottish college. Mr. Hessian Senior does not want to be found, so I find it hard to believe he would have left so much information behind. This is meant to confuse us. There must be something else.”

“Did you find nothing useful at the newspaper office?” I asked.

“Not enough. I suspected Mr. Hessian and Mr. Bartram might have overlapping interests, that perhaps the root of this was literally... roots. Trees, forests, a clash of some sort. But while they shared a profound interest in purchasing land, the business columns for the last year show that neither bought in the same places and certainly neither bought in Glasgow.”

Never even entertaining that this could be the end of the case, I was as surprised as our client when Holmes said, “Miss Bartram, there is nothing more I can do.”

Holmes busied himself with experiments the rest of that day, though I could tell his mind was not on what he was doing. He muttered occasionally and tutted twice. When I asked what was wrong, he mumbled something about acids and improperly mounted specimens.

I knew he was worrying over the particulars of Miss Bartram’s case as he paused during supper to wave his fork, on which was speared a roast potato. “There’s more to this Watson, I’m sure of it. That letter was particular. Young Mr. Hessian left some other clue.”

With nothing more to go on, Holmes spent the rest of the night smoking his pipe and conducting his unseen orchestra. Eventually he retired in silence.

The next morning he was in better spirits.

“Ah, you’re finally up, Watson! I expect we’ll be seeing Inspector Lestrade sometime soon. That case that’s got Scotland Yard in an uproar?” Holmes waved the morning paper at me. “It’s gone a bit darker with last night’s passing of the duke. If London’s best and brightest were up to their necks before, they’re surely in over their heads now!”

While my friend crowed, I reached for the tea and one of our many daily papers. I had just settled in to enjoy the morning when the post arrived, and with it a small package addressed to Holmes. It bulged a bit in the middle, and as soon as Holmes noted Miss Bartram’s return address he hooted, “This is it!”

He upended the envelope and the “it” turned out to be a small lump of coal, barely as big as a lady’s thumbnail. Holmes snatched it up and went right to his desk, hunting for a magnifying glass. I picked up the card that had fallen out with the coal.

“Dear Mr. Holmes,” I read, “It occurs to me that there was one more thing in that empty flat and though I can’t imagine what it could tell you, I know what it tells me. This small item, found in an abandoned Christmas stocking, is a diamond. I know that is what Stephen meant for me to see. I hope that you see in it something that only you can see.”

By the time I had finished reading, Holmes was grinning by the window, peering at the new bit of evidence.

“As you know, Watson, I make a point of studying my surroundings, no less so than when we travel for some of our little cases. While I only dabble in geology, it is in itself a fascinating field of study. Just as mud on a shoe can tell you from which part of London a man has come, a bit of coal can also betray its origins. I recognise this particular coal, Watson, because I’ve studied this particular coal! Do you remember that case we had in Kent awhile back, the one with the lady and her pigeons? No matter. The thing is, this inclusion here tells me exactly from whence this nugget comes.”

Holmes strode over, handing me the magnifying glass and the small black lump. “Do you see?”

The bell chimed downstairs as I looked at the coal. I rose, brought it to the window, and had a question, but it was then that Mrs. Hudson showed in Sarah Bartram and, right behind her, came Inspector Lestrade.

“Ah, two birds and one stone. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes said gleefully. “Come in, Inspector. Please, Miss Bartram. Watson, do we have more tea?”

Only after everyone was situated did Holmes finally settle, long legs crossed and a sly smile on his face.

“I presume you come about the business with the pearl earrings, Inspector?”

Hat on one knee, teacup on the other, Lestrade nodded. “I know we should’ve been by sooner, Mr. Holmes, but it really did seem as if we had him.”

“Well, you did have him, didn’t you? Just the wrong him. No matter, we’ll find your man, and I have a few ideas on exactly where.”

Holmes turned to our other guest. “Just as I have a quite certain idea as to where we shall find yours, Miss Bartram.”

Our client pressed steepled fingers to her lips, her relief obvious and extreme. “Oh Mr. Holmes! Was it the coal?”

Holmes pulled the small lump from his waistcoat pocket, held it high. “It was indeed.” He turned the coal a bit, until there was a brief and brightly metallic flash.

“I was just telling Watson that I have made a small study of coal and the various other minerals sometimes found within it. That small shine you can just barely see is pyrite, a mineral found in abundance in Kent. Pyrite has a far more common name, did you know? It’s called ‘fool’s gold’.”

And with just those two words, the elder Hessian’s circumspection became clear. “Stephen Hessian’s father thinks he’s discovered a gold mine!” I exclaimed.

Holmes tossed the rock into the air, caught it, then leaned over to drop the little nugget into Miss Bartram’s palm. “Mr. Hessian can’t have much knowledge of geology if he mistakes that deceptive flash for the real thing. I think everything’s becomes clear now, however, and your search quite narrow Miss Bartram. Your beau is in or quite close to Canterbury.”

“Mr. Holmes, why would he have gone to all this trouble? Neither Stephen or I care one whit for his business dealings.”

“Plainly put, he didn’t trust his own son to keep his interests quiet, and he did not trust you, Miss Bartram. I expect he thought that if you got wind of this, you would carry on with your father’s buying spree in that area. Mr. Hessian believed the only thing he could do until his land deal was done was separate his son from his prospective bride.” Holmes laughed without mirth. “Clearly, he’s doubly a fool, or else he’d have known that such endeavours have historically proven quite impossible.”

Sarah Bartram lifted her chin. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I must apologise. You said that no fact was too trifling, and still I didn’t think something as trifling as this-” She held out her clutched fist, inside which her gem nestled. “-mattered. I’m so sorry.”

Here is the moment in my tale for which I’ve written these several thousand words. While Holmes could have agreed with Sarah Bartram just then, making her an object lesson before the captive audience of the often-doubting inspector, Holmes did not. Instead he reached for a pipe and said, “Faith in your own judgment is what rightly led you to seek help to begin with.” Holmes leaned toward me for a light, and as I struck a match, he finished. “Sometimes we must learn to have the same faith in others that we have in ourselves.”

It had been more than two years since Holmes’s resurrection and return, and it had been only a little less since I had said to him petulant words about faith and trust. At the time, I thought he hadn’t heard me, but as Holmes inclined his head in thanks for the match, he smiled and said, “Me most of all, I expect.”

Then, with a flourish of his pipe Holmes asked, “Inspector, Miss Bartram, more tea?”

Our client clutched her “diamond” tight. “I think I have a trip to Canterbury, Mr. Holmes, and I want to leave before the last train. Thank you so much.” She looked to me. “And thank you Dr. Watson. Perhaps Stephen’s and my story might be worthy of a few pages in one of your magazines some day.”

With that, we saw the last of Miss Sarah Bartram. Though it was not the last we heard from her.

It was the day after Christmas that Holmes came upstairs with the post, all of which he threw onto a table as was his careless way, excepting one slim envelope which was addressed to us both. This he handed to me, and when I opened it I found a cheque.

“One thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “From Miss Bartram. And there’s a note.” I read the letter aloud.

Dear Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes,

I wish I could thank you for your aid in that trifling matter of which we so recently spoke. Alas, I can not. Christmas Day was a shambles.

Miss S

I handed the cheque and the note to Holmes. “I trust she means the opposite of what she says?”

My friend pocketed the cheque and tucked the letter into a drawer; he has a habit of keeping an item or two from most cases. “So the signature tells us.” With that, Holmes marched energetically across the room, threw open our door, and shouted down the stairs.

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, where in London might a man order a nice Christmas trifle? The good Doctor and I know a newly married couple who would very much enjoy one!”

Holmes once said that a bit of selection and discretion must needs be used in producing a realistic effect and, though he was endeavouring to teach the police the art of deduction, his words are also true from a writer’s point of view.

In truth, I’ve failed to report half the fantastic things Sherlock Holmes has done, for the certainty that no one would believe me. I’ve had readers question how a bloody fingerprint could tell Holmes that a man thought dead was quite amongst the living, so how can I tell them that a lump of coal - a mere trifle - when peered at through his magnifier could tell a woman where to find her one true love?

The answer, of course, is that I can’t. It’s all a matter of selection and discretion, and the knowledge that, while we may each of us occasionally imagine ourselves to be Sherlock Holmes, there is certainly only the one.