A Christmas Goose

by C.H. Dye

During the earliest years of my friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when he had not yet been recognized by the broader public for his unique genius and I was still dependent upon my wound pension for my needs, there were times when either he or I found ourselves unfortunately light in the pocket - he due of a lack of cases and therefore income, and I because, despite my best intentions, money had a tendency to slip through my fingers. Having failed to recover my health sufficiently for a return to my duties, either as a soldier or as a doctor, my one useful occupation soon became accompanying Holmes upon his investigations and taking notes in the background so as to leave him free to perform without interruption. When he lacked cases, I lacked occupation, and not infrequently his malodorous chemical investigations or silent brooding drove me back to my haunts near the Criterion and the wastrel habits I had tried to forswear. Still, for some time it chanced that our periods of insolvency failed to coincide, and between us we managed to pay Mrs. Hudson for our room and board each quarter, each of us making up the difference as necessary with the certainty that the other would pay him back as soon as either work or wound pension became available.

It was on the 22nd of our second December at Baker Street that the hammer finally fell. Holmes had not had a case since Guy Fawkes Night and I, in a disastrous attempt to recoup my finances, had allowed myself to be inveigled by an acquaintance into a notorious gambling hell, wherein I proceeded to lose the bulk of my meagre savings, my watch, my cufflinks, and my fare to Baker Street. And this with the rent coming due on Christmas Day!

As I trudged home through a freezing rain, I contemplated my options. Holmes, I knew, was low in funds, or he would not have allowed his tobacco pouch to grow so disastrously flat. An appeal to Mrs. Hudson’s better nature was precluded by the cost of the impending coal bill, or so I told myself. I’d had too much to drink, and my pride was as sore as my head. I was not yet so low as to give the river more than a passing thought, and any chance of vanishing into the anonymity of the gutter was precluded by the certainty that Holmes would find me, no matter where in London I might try to hide. Still, I had yet a few possessions which I could pledge until the New Year brought my stipend and I might, by a stricter exercise of economy, redeem them.

Resigned to the loss, however temporary, of my winter coat and my books, I turned the corner onto Baker Street and discovered Holmes outside our door in his dressing gown, wielding a large umbrella, and ushering our landlady into a cab, despite the hour being well past midnight.

“Ah, there you are, Watson!” he called as I approached. “You see, Mrs. Hudson, you can set your mind at rest.”

“Doctor!” Mrs. Hudson cried in a distracted tone, stepping away from the cab to come and take my hands in hers. “You’re sopping wet. And you’re shivering. Whyever didn’t you get a cab home?”

“I... I felt like walking,” I stammered, having made no plan to excuse my condition. Fortunately, our good landlady didn’t press me for a better explanation.

“You must take him upstairs and stir up the fire straightaway, Mr. Holmes,” she ordered my fellow lodger, as imperious as any Duchess. “The water in the kitchen boiler should still be warm. Have Polly... oh, bother,” she interrupted herself. “Polly’s gone off to see her mother.”

“And you must be off to see to your daughter,” Holmes interrupted, steering her once again towards the growler. By a tip of his head, he invited me to assist him in handing her up to the seat, all the while assuring her that he and I would be more than capable of tending ourselves until the maid returned upon the morrow, and reminding her that if she delayed, her first grandchild would be in Croydon before her.

I took up the thread, no longer baffled by this midnight departure. Mrs. Hudson’s daughter had been expecting to deliver on or near Twelfth Night, and in the usual way of things, our good landlady would have departed Baker Street on Boxing Day, leaving us in the care of her cousin, Mrs. Turner. But the child, as children are wont to do, was arriving early, throwing all of Mrs. Hudson’s plans into disarray. Despite the potential for concern that must attach to a premature birth, I felt nothing but relief. Once in Croydon, Mrs. Hudson would no doubt stay for the entire Christmas season, and I might never need explain the gaps in my closet and shelves. “There’s nothing so joyous as a Christmas baby,” I said, settling the rug over Mrs. Hudson’s lap. “You’ll be able to have a nice visit and save your daughter the cooking.”

“Oh, good heavens, the cooking!” It was only my hand upon her sleeve which kept her from leaping up again. “I forgot all about the cooking!”

“Polly can manage for a few days,” Holmes said, with utter confidence. “And if she does not provide the feasts which would have come from your hands, I assure you our suppers will still be a vast improvement upon the meals I suffered when I was at Montague Street.”

“Her cooking is getting better,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, as if mesmerized by Holmes’s assertion. “And she can always consult Mrs. Beeton.”

“There, you see? All will be well. And now I need to get Dr. Watson inside before he shivers himself out of his skin.” Holmes stepped back, drawing me with him. “Give our best to your family!” he called to her and, “Drive on!” to the cabby, who snapped his whip. The horse, glad to move again in the relentless wind, stepped off briskly, and all Mrs. Hudson could do was wave a last farewell before the night and rain obscured her from our view.

“Come inside,” Holmes said, tugging at my arm as if I might be reluctant to obey. “I want to get out of these wet slippers. Did you have any supper in your wanderings tonight?”

“Yes.” Bread and a bit of cheese, to go with the wine still muddling my head, and hours past, but Holmes did not enquire after details. After securing the front door, he merely stopped to light his candle at the gas fixture still burning in the hallway and then led me back to the darkened kitchen. I stumbled after him, wondering why I was shivering all the harder now that I was inside, and tightening my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

“Even with the fire banked, the kitchen is warmer than every other room in the house,” Holmes said, as he reached up to drop a penny in the box for the kitchen gaslight. “And as there’s not a female in the place, you can bathe right next to the stove. Much simpler than carrying the tub and water upstairs to our sitting room, don’t you agree?” He turned in the blossom of light and his manner changed as he cast his suddenly sharpened gaze over me. “Oh, Doctor. You have had a night of it, haven’t you? Even your cab fare?”

“I was winning,” I protested as I felt my cheeks heat with shame. I should have realized how impossible it was to keep my impoverished state from Sherlock Holmes’s notice.

“Yes, and then you were losing.” He made a moue of frustration. “I take it that it would be futile of me to apply to you for assistance in paying my share of this quarter’s rent?”

“I shan’t be able to pay even my share without pawning half my wardrobe,” I admitted. “I shouldn’t have taken my cheque book with me.”

Holmes waved away the consideration with one fine sweep of his hand. “And I shouldn’t have turned down that case from Gregson,” he confessed. He thrust his fists into his pockets and scowled at the floor. “Mrs. Hudson is not going to be pleased with either of us. But it sounded so confoundedly dull.”

For a moment we both sulked like schoolboys waiting to be dressed down by the teacher, but then a stray thought occurred to me and I found myself trying not to laugh.

“What?” Holmes asked, looking up with an answering smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Father Christmas is going to be terribly disappointed.”

Holmes laughed with me and held up one sodden foot. “Father Christmas wouldn’t want to touch these long enough to put in the coal,” he said. “Here, Watson, you stir up the fire in the stove and strip off those wet things, and I’ll fill the tub from the boiler and then fetch down some dry things for you and some dry stockings for me.”

Come morning, the rataplan of rain against the windowpanes had been replaced by the hiss of driven snow and the whistle of the wind down my chimney. A perfect day to stay abed, had not the aches in my head and my wound combined with the harsh jangling of the bell below to drive me out into the sullen grey light. I threw on my dressing gown and slippers and stumbled downstairs, but Holmes had also been roused, and he was sufficiently ahead of me that I heard him answering the door to the messenger boy, even before I reached the first floor landing. A moment later he came bounding up the stairs, the telegram in his hand.

“Word from Mrs. Hudson?”

“A girl child, safely delivered, and weighing six pounds, three ounces,” Holmes said, “and we are to remind Polly that she should do the laundry on Saturday if she wishes to enjoy Christmas Monday.”

I rubbed at my arms, hoping to counter the bitter cold in the hall. “Where is Polly?” I asked. “Shouldn’t she have answered the door?”

“Delayed by the storm, no doubt,” Holmes said. “She’ll turn up. In the meantime, see what you can do about warming up the sitting room while I investigate the larder.”

I fussed with the leavings of the sitting room coal scuttle and the clinkers from the night before, but I am the first to admit it was not my best work. Not that Holmes did much better in the kitchen! He and I breakfasted together next to a sputtering fire, toasting bread cut from the end of the loaf, spooning out the remainder of a jar of plum jam, and drinking tea brewed strong enough for a brave man to walk upon. Holmes sipped at his cupful with a dubious expression, but I had tasted far worse in my time in the Army and was only grateful for the chance to sweeten my drink with a dollop of the jam.

“I think I put in too many leaves,” Holmes decided, after another assay.

“That or we let it steep too long,” I said. Brewing tea seemed sufficiently like making an infusion of medicine that I thought I could diagnose the error. “Haven’t you kept the preparation of a proper pot of tea in your brain attic?”

“Why should I?” Holmes replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs in front of the hearth. “Mrs. Hudson is a mistress of the art. And if Polly proves not to have acquired the skill, then we can find out which of our neighbors is this Mrs. Beeton to supply the deficiency.”

I could not help but laugh. Holmes’s odd gaps in what was otherwise an extensive body of knowledge gave me the advantage upon occasion. “Mrs. Beeton is not a neighbor, Holmes, she’s a book. Or rather an author, who has written a book of cookery and household management.” At his look of inquiry I added, “I’ve often seen it at the bookshop. It’s practically a standard reference on the topic.”

“It must be, for a bachelor like yourself to know of it,” Holmes said. He set aside his teacup, still mostly full, and leaned on his elbows, steepling his fingers before his face as he mused. “Mrs. Hudson must have a copy of it, then, somewhere in the house.”

“Presumably,” I agreed. I drank more tea at a gulp, wanting the stimulation, but having no desire to savour the drink itself.

Holmes eyed his cup with a wry smile. “Cookery book or no, I think we shall find ourselves missing Mrs. Hudson before long. Still, perhaps we should be glad that we’ve been granted a reprieve. I doubt she will come all the way back to Baker Street to collect the rent money before the New Year. You’ll have received your wound pension by then.”

“And you’ll have solved that case for Inspector Gregson,” I said. “But Holmes, shouldn’t we be prepared to pay her on Christmas Day, regardless? She might send her son-in-law, even if she doesn’t come herself.”

He nodded agreement. “Indeed we should. Fortunately, I have made a study of the pawnbrokers of London, and I think, if you’ll entrust the errand to me, I know where we might best pledge those of our belongings we are willing to do without for the most profit.”

“Temporary profit,” I amended. For all that the ache had diminished, my head was still not right and I propped it up with one hand as I doggedly finished my tea.

His plans made, Holmes repaired to his room to dress and to assemble the belongings he meant to pawn. I made a similar foray up to the chill of my bedroom, but found the pickings slender. I have never been a man who bedecks himself with extraneous jewelry, and such tiepins and cufflinks as I owned were rather plain. The curiously carved box in which I kept them - one of my few possessions to survive the siege of Candahar - seemed to me to be more valuable than its contents, even with my compass and military medals to supplement them. My evening wear and heavy winter coat were still waterlogged from the previous night, so I left them on the clothes horse, and drew out my summer linens and the new tweeds I had bought in a burst of profligracy the previous September. I was staring hopelessly at the bookshelves, wondering which volumes might be of interest to anyone but myself, when Holmes came clattering up the stairs with a half-filled valise in one hand. “Here you go, Doctor. If I’m to pawn the case, it can at least do its duty first.”

I glanced at the contents as I began to add my own belongings. “Your microscope, Holmes?” I asked, frowning. “Surely you can raise sufficient funds for your share of the rent without hobbling your investigations?”

He settled onto the bed and began folding the linen suit. “Any clues Gregson has failed to observe are going to be blazingly obvious or already obliterated by police boots. And I would rather not count on the generosity of his fee being sufficient for our requirements.”

“What shall you do if he’s already solved his case?” I asked, placing some books around the microscope case to add a layer of protection. Scientific instruments, as I knew all too well, were susceptible to damage when being transported from place to another. My time in Afghanistan had seen the demise of my own microscope during a storm much like the one which still raged outside our window. “Gregson won’t pay you at all if he doesn’t need your help.”

“Then I shall find the correct solution,” Holmes said airily. “And save some poor soul the ignominy of being tried for a crime he did not commit in the hopes of a modest reward.” He reached up to lay a hand on my arm. “Don’t fret, Doctor. If by some chance I can’t get a fee from Gregson before Christmas, I’ll borrow the sum required.”

That hardly seemed fair. “And pay some outrageous rate of interest? If it comes to that, I’ll go to the moneylenders myself. After all, it was my foolishness that landed us in these straits.” I could feel myself beginning to tremble at the thought of it. Debts he could not afford to redeem has sent my brother on his downward path, and I had no desire to emulate him.

Holmes frowned and stood, resting one pale hand on my forehead for a moment. “I don’t think you should go out in this weather, Watson,” he said. “You don’t feel feverish, but I think that long walk in the pouring rain did you little good last night. Then again, it’s so cold in this room, I’m not sure you’d feel warm, even if you did have a fever.” He waved at the ice which had formed on my washbasin.

“I’m not sick,” I told him brusquely. After all, I was the one with the medical degree. “I just have a headache. And how else are you to carry this lot to the pawnshops with that going on?” I waved a hand at the window, where the snow was rapidly accumulating on the sill.

“Oh, the Underground should be running,” said he. “And I’ll recruit a few of my Irregulars to help carry. It will make a pleasant change for them from sweeping the snow for pennies.”

“But if you keep them from earning pennies, how will you recompense them?” I asked.

“With a share of our Christmas goose, what else?” His eyes twinkled merrily at the thought.

I stared at him, wondering if I had missed some essential part of the conversation. “We have a goose?”

“We have a goose.” He got to his feet. “Come, Doctor. I’ll show you.”

I followed him down to the larder, where a magnificent fowl dangled in all its wingspread glory from the highest hook.

“Good heavens,” said I, blinking up at it. “Mrs. Hudson must have been planning quite a feast. Or do you think she meant to take it with her to Croydon?”

Holmes made gesture of irritation. “Doubtful. Despite the chill, there’s no reason to believe that the bird will be in any condition to be consumed by the New Year, much less Twelfth Night. No, Watson, it is our own Christmas dinner you see before us, and more than enough to share with any of the lads who might come to our assistance. After all, Mrs. Hudson isn’t here to scandalize. And I doubt Polly will object to their company.”

“Not if young Robinson is among them,” I had to agree. Polly, at that time, had not yet celebrated her sixteenth birthday, and while diligent in her duties and of real assistance to Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, like many another young servant, she was always happier in the company of her peers than in the presence of her employers. I had often heard her in early morning conversation with one or another of Holmes’s street Arabs whilst she beat out the rugs beneath the plane tree outside my window. I should perhaps note that Robinson was not in any way her particular amour, being not yet four feet tall. But he was a cheerful little fellow, and often turned up in a useful way when Polly had work to be done outside, as much because he liked her as for the sake of the ginger biscuits she kept in her apron pocket.

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s settled then. I’ll take our gleanings to McGregor - after that business with the wedding rings he should remember both of us - and see if I can’t get a decent price. And you, old chap, can take a nap by the sitting room fire.”

“I have a perfectly good bed,” I grumbled, having a mulish desire to ignore Holmes’s peremptory advice and take whatever sleep I needed in my own bed, however cold.

In the end, I did sleep in the sitting room. I told myself that it was because my wound ached from the cold, and I didn’t wish to climb another flight of stairs after helping Holmes carry everything we meant to pawn down to the front door. And in the end, it was just as well. I doubt the snowballs that thudded on the windowpane to waken me could have reached much higher.

I stumbled to the window and looked out to find Baker Street deserted but for the coal wagon, its driver muffled to the ears and standing in snow nearly up to his knees. He waved a mitten hopefully, and I threw open the sash. Before I could ask what he meant by attacking our windows, he called up, “Sorry about the snowball, mister, but the bell ain’t working, and I saw the light up there. I’ve got a delivery for Mrs. Hudson, and a bill due, too.”

“She’s not here,” I said. “She’s in Croydon.”

“Croydon?” he echoed. “How’s she’s going to pay me when she’s in Croydon?”

“Wait,” I told him. “I’ll come down to the door.”

I closed the window and fetched my cheque book, stuffing it into my dressing gown pocket with a glance at the clock and hoping Holmes might have already deposited sufficient funds into my account to cover the price of the coal.

The hall outside our sitting room was so cold I could see my breath, and the banister so icy that I made my way down our stairs without its assistance. The doorknob gave me pause, but I pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve to protect my hand from the cold metal. Even so, I had to tug hard to get the door open. There was ice in the gap between the door and the jamb, and ice on the doorbell wire.

The man was waiting on the step, hugging himself and jigging up and down to combat the snow-laden wind. “Come in,” I told him, having no desire to conduct our transaction with the snow piling up on Mrs. Hudson’s carpet.

“Thanks, mister,” he said, and stepped inside. He started to unfold and then wrapped his arms back up. “Cor, it ain’t half cold in here. Looks like I’ve come just in time.”

“Indeed!” I said. It was never warm in the hallway in the winter, but it was seldom this cold. “Polly!” I called, back toward the kitchen. “Polly! The coal man is here!” I called. But there was no answer.

Holmes, still bundled up against the snow, his face white and his lips blue with the cold, found me in the coal cellar that evening, refilling the scuttle. I had stirred up the kitchen fire by then, which had ameliorated conditions somewhat, but the stove was a voracious beast, and it was in need of another feeding. My fellow lodger took the heavy scuttle from me without a word. It wasn’t until we were both settled in the kitchen, and I had supplied Holmes with a portion of brandy, that he thawed sufficiently to speak.

“No sign of Polly then,” he said, and it was not a question. “And no message from her.”

“Not a word,” I agreed, pulling the potatoes I had set to baking out of the oven. Potatoes in the coals and fresh trout on a stick over a fire were the extent of my culinary skills, but Holmes seemed glad enough when I passed his share to him in a bowl and nodded to the salt and pepper.

“If she sent a telegram, it may have gone astray,” Holmes said. “A gas line exploded near the Central Office this morning, and took out many of the wires leading to the main exchange. That’s why I had to do my researches in person.”

“That can’t have been easy in this weather.” I took the blanket I’d been warming by the stove and threw it over my friend’s shoulders, grateful for the chance to return the favour he had done me the evening before. “Perhaps the storm has prevented Polly from returning, and she is unaware that we do not know why.”

“Possibly.” Holmes frowned, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Her surname is Hunter, is it not?”

“As far as I know, yes.” I poured myself half-a-glass of brandy. My shoulder was aching, and I did not need to look at the barometer to know why. The storm seemed to me to be more than enough reason for an intelligent girl to avoid travel.

Holmes put down his fork, and looked at me, “What have I told you about Gregson’s case, Watson?”

“Only that it is dull,” I said. “A series of thefts, I believe.”

Holmes nodded. “And in each case,” he added pointedly, “a disappearing maid. Gregson, and for that matter, I, have assumed that the two are related. But if young girls are disappearing from homes and hotels across London, then there might be something far more sinister afoot than a bit of Faginy.”

“But there has been no theft here,” I objected, despite my alarm. “Surely your case has nothing to do with our maid.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not.” Holmes drew his notebook out from his pocket. “There have been a total of eight thefts, each of them following a celebration, be it an elaborate dinner or a ball. For the most part, the thieves have targeted small jewelry set with exceptionally precious stones. Not every bit of jewelry is stolen, curiously enough, which is what caught Gregson’s eye. The repeated pattern suggests a single mind behind the thefts, even though the servants who have gone missing have little more in common than youth and sex. My investigation suggests that the thieves have somehow gained access to empty jewelry cases and replaced the hinge pins with cheap brass, whilst the gems are bedecking their owners. Later, it is the work of a moment to regain access, even if the case has been locked. The girl who polishes the fire irons, or the boy who refills the scuttle, may both visit a room more than once. But the common method suggests a controlling mind.”

“We’ve had no ball or grand dinner here,” I objected. “Polly doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“No, she doesn’t. But Gregson has not been gathering data concerning the disappearance of young girls, regardless of thefts, and it may be that the two patterns are actually unrelated. And there is this; this afternoon when I visited the St. Pancras Hotel to look into the theft of Lady Waterston’s ruby eardrops yesterday, the concierge told me that three of his maids had failed to appear this morning. Mary Mitchell, Ann Smith, and Elizabeth Hunter.” He tapped the page with his notes. “It’s a common enough name, I grant you. And the storm might be explanation enough. But I’ve heard Polly speak of a sister called ‘Betsy’.”

As had I. “Betsy, who works in a hotel. Robinson would know which one, I expect.” I looked around. As much as it dismayed me to think that Polly might be in difficulties, I was nearly as concerned by the shambles I had made of the kitchen in my attempt to provide a meal. “Holmes, what shall we do? We shouldn’t alarm Mrs. Hudson prematurely. We can’t expect Mrs. Turner to forego her Christmas plans to come early when we don’t know if Polly might turn up at any time. And we can hardly afford to dine in restaurants until Boxing Day.”

“We may end up living on bread and jam like half of London does for a few days - not that it would do us any harm.” Holmes scowled at the prospect. “But I promised the boys a Christmas goose, and I should hate to go back on my word.”

“How many boys?” I asked.

“Four. Wiggins, Robinson, Clarence, and Brown.” Holmes pushed away his plate and got up to warm himself by the stove. “They did a yeoman’s work today. The streets and pavements are icy beneath the snow, and I think the promise of a goose dinner was all that kept them going.”

“You’re the one who promised a goose,” I pointed out. “If Polly doesn’t turn up, you’ll just have to roast the goose and hope for the best.”

“Oh, no,” Holmes said. “You agreed that we should use the goose as payment for the boys.”

“That was when I thought Polly would be doing the cooking!” I protested.

We discussed our quandary for some time, coming to no real agreement except that Mrs. Hudson should not be disturbed unnecessarily. At last Holmes exploded with frustration. “This is ridiculous, Watson. We’re two intelligent men, fully grown, and experienced. One of us ought to be able to roast a fowl without feminine assistance.”

That struck a chord. “Feminine assistance!” I said, with a snap of my fingers, and “Mrs. Beeton!” we both said together.

Mrs. Beeton, upon consultation (we found her in the pantry cupboard) took scarcely a page to describe the process of transforming a raw goose into our dinner. Holmes and I both took heart from that, and our discussion, which had consisted of reasons from each of us why the other should undertake to prepare the goose, became a discussion of why each of us thought that he had a likelier chance of succeeding. At last we agreed that each of us would do our best to provide a meal or two in Polly’s absence from the contents of the larder. Whichever one of us best succeeded would be the cook on Christmas Day and the other would play scullion.

“Mind you,” Holmes said. “I shall have to concentrate my efforts more on finding the girl than on attempting to take up her duties. Not to mention Gregson’s case!”

“If my shoulder is right,” I said, rubbing at the ache, “you shall have more than enough time to experiment in the morning. I doubt anyone in London shall be venturing far.”

There is an art to even so simple a thing as cracking an egg, as I discovered the next morning, and, as Holmes demonstrated, a certain amount of time and attention which cannot be scanted even in so minor a procedure as restoring dried peas to an edible state. But hunger is a powerful motivator, and neither pea soup nor shirred eggs are so difficult to contrive. By the time the storm finally began to abate, it is fair to say that we stood in no danger of starvation.

By then, it was but a scant hour past noon. We had spent the morning in near isolation; between the howling of the wind and the thick veil of snow, the streets were all but empty. Holmes had spent the idle hours adding to his commonplace books and attempting to construct a pipeful of tobacco out of the dried dottles and plugs he had lined up upon the mantelpiece, whilst I took notes out of Mrs. Beeton, and hoped for a clarification as to precisely which organs constituted “giblets” when it came to making gravy. Our only visitor had been a dutiful postman, carrying letters and cards for Mrs. Hudson, which we duly forwarded on to Croyden before retreating once more to the comfort of our sitting room. But with the faint glow of sunlight fighting through the thinning clouds, the sturdiest of London’s denizens took heart, and we soon heard voices and the scrape of shovels and brooms from without.

“I think I shall go over to the telegraph office,” Holmes said, after observing the street from our bay window. “And perhaps fetch a few groceries before returning to my case. I am certain we will have a few shillings to spare once Gregson has paid my fee.”

“Does this mean you concede the role of cook tomorrow?” I asked, surprised. “Because you know the scullion is going to have to peel the vegetables and pluck the goose, as well as clean up after the meal.”

“I thought we might get the boys to help us,” Holmes said. “They’d be much warmer here than trying to find a corner at St. Cyprian’s. And we’ve plenty of oatmeal in the bin if they want a bite of breakfast.” He stripped off his dressing gown and went into his room to dress more warmly.

“And what will you be doing, if the boys and I are preparing Christmas dinner?” I called.

“Oh, I expect you’ll still need my assistance,” Holmes said blithely, returning a moment later with his scarf hung round his neck and his eyes alight with mischief. “But it is clear that you have read more of that cookery book than I, and therefore I shall be at your command.”

“And when does this felicity begin?” I asked, for the occasions when Holmes was willing to let anyone else take charge of his affairs were vanishingly rare.

“Whenever you begin to require my services,” he said, buttoning up his coat. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it so happens that I have a list,” I said, producing the fruit of my efforts with book and larder. Holmes stared at it for a moment, and then drew himself up to attention and threw me a parade ground salute.

“Reporting for duty, sir!” he said, as straight-faced as a man can be who has just struck himself in the forehead with his gloves. “I’m ready to run up the sails!”

“Here are your orders, Private,” I said, playing the game as best I could with a grin wishing to break out on my face. Holmes was not the only one who could mix a metaphor! “And when you’ve come back, you can raise the deck and swab the yardarm.”

He saluted elaborately again, and then took a look at the page I handed him and sobered. “What, no pudding?”

“I can’t see how we can afford one,” I replied. “I’m not even certain you can purchase everything on the list. Start at the top and work down, and when you’ve run out of money, stop.”

“Bread, onions, sage... no oysters either, I see.”

“We have neither the lemon rind nor the pinch of mace for that recipe.” Holmes was not the only one to regret that we could not try Mrs. Beeton’s receipt for a “savoury oyster stuffing”. I had every intention of pointing out the page to Mrs. Hudson someday soon, and a number of other recipes as well.

“Butter. Only half-a-pound?”

“That should be sufficient, if we’re careful.”

“Apples, potatoes. This will be a feast, Doctor, if you intend to give us apple sauce and mashed potatoes with our goose. A quarter-of-a-pound of currants and four oranges?” At the last two items on my list, Holmes drew his eyebrows together. “Oranges for the boys, yes. Children should get oranges at Christmastide. But currants?” He looked a question at me.

“Something to set afire in lieu of a Christmas pudding,” I said. “I have a gill of brandy left for Snap Dragon.”

Holmes tucked the list into his pocket with a nod to me. “That should be interesting,” he said. “I’ve never played it, and I doubt the boys have either.”

It was my turn to be surprised. Snap Dragon had been a regular feature of my family’s Christmas celebrations, and the taste of hot brandied currants, as well as the glee of knowing that one had snatched the treat from the fire without having burned a finger, were as much a part of Christmas to me as holly and mistletoe. Not that we had holly or mistletoe. Our mantel was quite bare. I thought for a moment about asking Holmes to find some evergreens for decoration, but discarded the notion. I had a better idea. “I may take a short turn around the park,” I told Holmes, as he reached for his hat. “I’d like to enjoy the sun while it lasts.”

“Be careful, then,” Holmes ordered, in his usual commanding way, and then paused on the doorsill to bow. “Be careful then, sir,” he repeated, his obeisance undone by the amused tilt of his eyebrows. “And if you don’t wish to get caught, I suggest that you cut your branches from the cedar behind the bandstand.”

I made one other stop besides the park, at Bradley’s, where my frequent patronage was sufficient to persuade that excellent tobacconist into extending me the courtesy of providing a pouch of Holmes’s favorite shag pipe tobacco on the promise that I would bring the funds in the New Year. That delicate negotiation delayed me sufficiently so that, by the time I returned to Baker Street, Holmes had come and gone. I found the small pile of groceries in the kitchen, along with a note from Holmes and sixpence.

“Watson,” it read, “I have dispatched Wiggins to Aldgate to discover if Polly’s family knows her whereabouts. I was able to reach Scotland Yard by police telegraph, and have learned that the Christmas Eve ball at the Langham Hotel will be held as planned at eight this evening. Gregson has arranged for both of us to attend. Supper will be provided at seven. Use my obsidian cufflinks. Holmes.”

I groaned, thinking of the condition of my evening clothes, still draped over the clothes horse in my room, and reached for Mrs. Beeton. Ironing, I suspected, was as much a skill as cooking, and I had very little time to learn the art.

The sun was long gone when I reached my destination, but the light streaming from every window of the magnificent facade of the Langham rewarded my diligence. Londoners of every age and description were out and about, bundled up against the cold and enjoying the crisp clean air, temporarily free of its usual burden of soot. Every shop I had passed was open, and the pavements were mostly clear. The streets, of course, were still packed in snow, and it was an enterprising sleigh owner who received my sixpence and thanks as I stepped down.

Inspector Gregson was directing his forces from a small alcove set in back of the lobby, his expression dour. His fair hair was slicked back and his attire as formal as my own. “Thank you for coming, Doctor,” he said, when I reported to him. “Have you seen Mr. Holmes about?”

“I thought I would meet him here,” I said.

“And so you have,” came Holmes’s soft voice from behind me, and I turned to discover a lanky footman in the hotel’s livery, his now-auburn hair and freckled face quite altered from their usual appearance. He touched a gloved finger to his lips to prevent me from exclaiming. “I’ve a message for you, sir,” he said at normal volume, and offered Gregson a note on a salver.

Gregson took the note with a grunt of thanks, but as he read it his face cleared. “That seems feasible,” he admitted, and then glanced at me. “I hope you weren’t looking forward to the dancing, Doctor Watson.”

“Only the supper,” I confessed cheerfully. It had been a very long time since luncheon, and given the state of the kitchen, my “tea” had been two digestive biscuits taken with water. Holmes coughed behind his hand, hiding a smile.

The corner of Gregson’s mouth tugged upwards too, and he waved a hand at Holmes. “This fellow can no doubt show you what to do. I’ll be along as soon as I’ve spoken to Lord Lindsay about our arrangements.”

I followed Holmes, who led me through the spacious lobby and the glittering celebrants to a discreet green baize door, and on into the kitchens, where servants in half-a-dozen liveries darted to-and-fro under the direction of an imperious cook. Holmes didn’t even glance at her, but went on until he came to a small chamber, where a tureen of stew and a plate of buttered bread awaited. Holmes ushered me in, and then checked to be sure no one was paying him attention before joining me and closing the door. “You look festive, Watson,” he said, cheerfully, slinging himself to the chair opposite me as I sat down to my meal.

“You said we were invited to a ball,” I reminded him. “If I’d known the hotel would provide my attire, I would have saved myself the ironing. Have you had any word of Polly?”

Holmes smiled, “Wiggins reported back to me not an hour ago. Polly and her family are on the Atlas.”

“The Atlas?” I exclaimed, surprised by his air of content. The quarantine ship anchored downstream from London was the last place I would hope to find an acquaintance. “They have the smallpox?”

“It is a precautionary quarantine only,” Holmes said, producing a newspaper from the pocket in his coattails. He placed the story before me. “A sailor visited the Cathedral of St. Paul shortly before his symptoms appeared, and as a consequence, the boys of the choir school were possibly exposed. They had scattered to visit their families before the holiday services commenced, and as it turns out, one of their number is called Peter Hunter, brother to both Polly and Betsy Hunter. The authorities were alerted just as the storm worsened, and are indeed thanking their lucky stars that none of the boys dawdled on their ways home during the rain.”

“So we will be without her services for another ten days,” I calculated. “Longer if the disease takes hold, but at least we can tell Mrs. Hudson where she is now.”

“I’ve sent a note to the Atlas,” Holmes said. “They should send confirmation tomorrow. Then, if we manage to solve our case tonight, we can visit Mrs. Hudson in Croydon with both the news and our rent.”

“Do we stand a good chance of solving it then,” I asked.

“Well, if nothing else, we may prevent the theft of Lady Lindsay’s diamond brooch. His Lordship is likely to reward us on that account alone.” Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “Now, eat your supper while I explain the plan.”

My role, as it turned out, was to position myself to observe which servants used the back stairs during the dancing. Holmes had scouted out a corner window with a seat where I could be stationed, with a little rouge on my cheeks and nose and a half-empty bottle of whisky as a prop to provide me an excuse to linger there. “You can even have your pen and notebook in hand. Tell anyone who asks that you are contemplating rhymes for ‘Aurelia’,” he suggested, standing back to consider his handiwork. “Just try not to wipe at your nose.”

It was not a lonely vigil. Holmes passed me now and then, as well as a stolid fellow whose boots below his livery betrayed him as a constable. I saw Gregson once, although he passed by without speaking to me. And the maids. Tall, short, thin, stout, a few older, but most young enough, carrying clean linen upwards and dirty linen down, or armed with brush and pan, rag and polish. Never in my life have I been so aware of the work required to provide us cleanliness and comfort, or the women and girls who see that it is daily done.

The music of the ball had been drifting upwards for an hour, and my bottle was growing emptier as I attempted to keep the chill from the window from seeping into my bones, when there was a shout from the flight of stairs above me. “Watson! Stop him!”

I stumbled to my feet, stiff from the sitting and clumsy with the whisky, and raised my fists, but the first person to come pelting down the stairs was a maid, the tall fair one who had passed me twice before. I hesitated, and she picked up a fist, driving it into my chin with all the force at her command. Or his command, I should say, for as I fell I grabbed for my assailant and to my dismay the crown of yellow braids came away in my hand!

Astonishment prevented me from retaining my grasp, and the boy scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the stairwell, followed a moment later by Holmes, his face bloody from a blow. I followed as soon as I found my feet, and reached the kitchen in time to watch as the chase dodged around the tables, the cries of “Thief!” and “Stop him!” coming from every side. The young criminal dodged skillfully, throwing aside platters and cutlery and lobbing vegetables at his pursuers. He wasn’t stopped until the scullion, sitting near the larder with a table of plucked turkeys by her side, overturned the buckets which were sitting at her feet. The slippery deluged tripped him up at last, and Holmes reached him a moment before the constable.

A burst of applause from the far doorway heralded the arrival of Gregson and several of the guests from the party who had been attracted by the shouts. Holmes, ever the showman, gave them a bow, and released his captive into the custody of the disguised constable. “You shall find the pins in his pocket,” he told Gregson, “and a prybar in his sleeve, which should be sufficient to hold him on a charge of burglary. I caught him coming from Lady Lindsay’s room, and if you examine her jewel case, it will no doubt be altered.”

“We’ll have her ladyship check for damage,” Gregson said, looking over the prisoner with a contented eye. Even with cropped dark hair, the lad’s clean cheeks and delicate colouring lent him a feminine air. “However did you spot this scoundrel, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes swept off his own wig. “I know something of disguise,” he said simply, and earned himself another round of applause.

It was nearing midnight when we returned to Baker Street, with Gregson’s fee safely tucked into Holmes’s pocket and a five pound block of paraffin from the hotel cook, which my friend had requested after a short discussion with the heroic scullery maid. My medical skills had come into play, not only for the cut over Holmes’s eye, but also for other small injuries to the hotel staff, although I had been saved the trouble of making the sort of lengthy statement which delayed Holmes. But we were content. The case was solved, our rent assured, the fate of our maid in other hands, and nothing remained of our difficulties but our Christmas goose.

The sun had risen by the time I descended to the sitting room to find Holmes kneeling on the hearth, blowing the fire back to life. He had our Christmas breakfast, a simple matter of bread and jam to tide us over, already set out upon the table. Quickly, I drew his Christmas present out of my dressing gown pocket and set it by his plate while he was still occupied. “Good morning, Holmes,” I called. “Happy Christmas to you.”

“And a Happy Christmas to you, Watson,” he said, rising and dusting his hands against his trousers. Far from donning “gay attire” as the old song says, he was dressed in a disreputable suit that was mostly useful as a disguise, although it quite matched the bruises on his face. “You’re up early.” He waved at the window, where the grey light of dawn was just showing.

“You’re earlier,” I pointed out, pulling out my chair. I discovered a package sitting on it, brown paper tied with a blue ribbon. “What’s this?”

“The fruit of my labors yesterday afternoon,” Holmes said. “And the boys. You shall have to thank them. They’re much better carolers, than I.” He came to the table and picked up the packet I had left for him.

We unwrapped our presents and then had a good laugh, because he had gone to Bradley’s too, and purchased for me a tin of Ship’s. Our after-breakfast pipes were much appreciated!

By nine o’clock, we were in the kitchen. Holmes was making his preparations for plucking the goose, and I was distributing my pilfered evergreen branches around the room when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it and found all six of the Baker Street Irregulars, who burst into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” the moment I opened the door. Holmes came to listen too, watching from over my shoulder. When the boys finished the first song, they went on to “The Holly and the Ivy”, and Wiggins pulled out a berryless branch of holly from behind his back and presented it to me when the song ended.

“Here, Doctor. Mr. Holmes said you didn’t have no holly this year, so we brung you some. And we was wondering if we could share our dinners like with Jimmy and Billy, even if they didn’t help carryin’, acos they were sweeping snow for toffs that day, and we don’t mind them eating some off’n our plates if you don’t.”

I glanced at Holmes, but he shook his head just a bit, to indicate that he bore no responsibility for the boys’ request. “You’re in charge, my dear fellow,” he murmured. “It’s up to you.”

I looked at young Smith and even younger Jones and knew that I could never be so hard hearted as to turn them away. “Very well, boys,” I said, and then raised an admonishing finger before their celebrations could begin. “But, there’s one condition. You must all, every one of you, wash.”

It says much about the conditions under which our poor live that the boys had to confer before agreeing to remove the layer of dirt that they thought of as protective. And it undoubtedly complicated the process of preparing our Christmas dinner to have those six rapscallions dancing around the kitchen in Holmes’s shirts while their own clothes hung from ropes we’d strung up as clotheslines. (It was hardly worth washing the boys if we didn’t wash their clothes.) But many hands make light work, and they all pitched in with a will.

Holmes, true to our agreement, took his direction from me for the most part, but could no more resist taking center stage for demonstrating the paraffin method of removing pinfeathers than he could fly. I was as interested as the boys, however, and we all applauded when the paraffin, cooled by a dip into a pot of cold water, cracked away, leaving the goose’s body clean and bare.

Then it was my turn to be observed as I dismembered and gutted the goose. One or two of the boys were surprisingly knowledgeable about the viscera, having taken work now and then as scullions at the mission or workhouse, and I set them to cleaning the gizzard and digestive organs while I named the other organs for the curious. I made certain to dispose of the gall bladder, after letting young Robinson taste a tiny bit of the bile when he protested my wastefulness.

Holmes, in the meanwhile, had assembled the stuffing, in consultation with Mrs. Beeton. He read aloud the directions for beating the breastbone and skewering the bird whilst I did the work, and soon our goose was ready to be roasted. The boys raised a cheer as I set it into the oven, and I felt like cheering myself.

That was not the end of my work, of course, as I had still the gravy, the applesauce, and the potatoes to prepare, but now I could get the boys out from underfoot. I set them small tasks of peeling or chopping, which they could do at the table, and told Holmes to find something to keep their hands and minds occupied once those tasks were complete. He chose to fetch down needles and thread to repair the worst of the rents in their clothing. By the time I had the last pot on the stove, they were sufficiently absorbed to have fallen quiet. Young Clarence, usually the quietest of the lot, was handier with his needle with the rest, and as I sat down to pour myself a well-earned cup of tea, he began to sing “I Saw Three Ships”, and the rest of us joined in.

Despite his deprecations, Holmes had a pleasant tenor that blended well with the boys’ high voices. My own baritone was rusty. I had not sung a Christmas carol since Afghanistan, had not sung at all since Maiwand, and I kept my contributions soft as we sang carol after carol. It wasn’t until “We Three Kings” that I found myself singing alone. Wiggins had sung about gold, and Holmes about frankincense, which left me myrrh, and although I got through the verse without stumbling, I found myself overwhelmed with memories that seemed to me to have no place at a Christmas celebration. As soon as the song was done, I excused myself to go and stir my pots and turn and baste the goose.

The giblets needed additional water, the apple sauce as well, and the potatoes were nearly soft enough to mash. But when I opened the oven door, it was clear that the dripping pan I had chosen was going to be far too small for the amount of grease coming off the goose. I wrapped my hands in towels and began to lift it out, calling to Holmes to fetch me a substitute pan.

I had underestimated the boys’ restlessness, for three of them jumped up from their seats, volunteering to bring the pan in Holmes’s stead. Robinson, left alone on the end of a bench, suddenly had it tip up from his weight, and he gave a yell and fell off of it, rolling into my feet. I managed to avoid spilling hot grease all over him, but only by dint of letting it slop over my covered hand and past him onto the middle of the floor. The other boys, still barefoot, jumped up onto the table to avoid the grease, and would have tipped it too if Holmes hadn’t flung his weight onto it as counterbalance. His chair, abandoned, fell, and struck the buckets nearby, spilling the larger goose feathers into the air and paraffined pinfeather lumps across the greasy floor.

Perhaps a quarter of the grease was still in the pan, and I hastily set it down on the stovetop so that I could unwrap the hot greasy towel from my hand. Robinson was squealing like a stuck pig at my feet, so I hauled him up and carried him over to the sink, where I doused us both with cold water, all the while shouting for everyone to stop making noise and sit down in terms that I blush to recall. For right in the middle of my diatribe, the door to the front passage opened up, and there stood Mrs. Hudson in her coat and hat, holding a Christmas pudding, still in its bag.

I think, if the Irregulars had been wearing their clothes, they would have run for it. I would have run for it myself, if I hadn’t just drenched half my side in cold water. Robinson, writhing with the pain of a grease-splashed shoulder, was still making a noise, but the rest of us swallowed our shouts and held still as Mrs. Hudson advanced into the room.

“Doctor,” she said, as she paused at the edge of the puddle of grease. “Is the child badly hurt?”

“No,” I said, for there wasn’t any blistering I could see. “He’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Her regal gaze turned upon my fellow lodger. Between the stitches on his face, the roughness of his knuckles, and the disheveled condition of his attire, he was not a prepossessing sight. I found myself wishing I could spare a hand to conceal the bruise upon my own chin. “Mr. Holmes?” If she had been shouting, she would have seemed far less dangerous.

But Holmes collected himself and addressed her with as much aplomb as if he weren’t being used as a hiding place by two small boys. “Mrs. Hudson. What an unexpected pleasure. We thought you would be in Croydon celebrating Christmastide with your family.”

“So I surmise,” she intoned. She drew an envelope out of her pocket, which I recognised as one of the letters we had forwarded the previous day. “And at what juncture were you planning to inform me that Polly was in quarantine, Doctor?”

I did not carry off my turn at being interrogated with nearly the same insouciance as my friend. “We didn’t know where she was ourselves until yesterday evening,” I said. And then, knowing it disastrous to elaborate, went on, “Given the storm and all, however, we thought it best not to worry you.”

“After all,” Holmes leapt into the fray. “We are two grown men, and perfectly capable.” He smiled his most charming of smiles.

Mrs. Hudson let her eyes turn up deliberately to the hanging clothes, and then down to the grease and flour bedecked floor.

“And we had Mrs. Beeton,” I said, pointing to the book, having only just then realising that when Holmes had sat down to keep the boys amused, he had been too busy to keep up with the detritus of my cooking efforts. This was far from being the neat kitchen which Mrs. Hudson had left in our care!

“A most useful volume.” Holmes carefully made his way to the stove, so as to lift the roasting pan’s cover and display the bird inside. “And as you can see, our goose is nearly cooked.”

“No, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said, signalling for Brown to bring her a chair. She settled into it and began to unpin her hat. “Your goose is, I assure you, entirely cooked. But since I am here to give you your pudding, I shall see that you may get the chance to eat it as well.”