The Sleuth of Christmas Past

Barbara Paul

Never had I seen Holmes in so buoyant a mood; he was like a man from whose shoulders an onerous weight had been lifted ... as indeed he was. Only the day before had he concluded his investigation into the affair of the clock that ran backward—a lengthy, strenuous investigation which at times I feared was exacting a toll on my friend's health. But all had been concluded satisfactorily, and discreetly; not only had Holmes been remunerated handsomely, but he was also enjoying the sweet euphoria that only the successful solution of a knotty problem can bring.

"Shall we take a stroll to Manchester Square, Watson?" Holmes asked. "I'm of a mind to listen to the carolers."

"Ah," I said, taken by surprise. "Then you intend to celebrate Christmas this year?"

"I always celebrate Christmas," he replied flatly. "But not always at the same time others do. Christmas is a state of mind, Watson! Come, let us be off. Today is Christmas."

It was, as a matter of fact, only the twenty-first of the month, in the year 1887. But if Holmes was inclined to celebrate the holiday four days early, who was I to say him nay? I wrapped my black wool muffler over my head before donning my hat; I'd been disposed toward the earache lately.

Manchester Square was only three streets away. The crisp December day was invigorating, and I was pleased my companion had suggested an outing. In the past he'd displayed a tendency to stay cooped up in our rooms at Baker Street when he had no case pending; it was heartening to learn that Sherlock Holmes, of all men the most impervious to sentiment, was as susceptible as the rest of us to the joyous appeal of the holiday season.

The carolers were all children. Their dulcet young voices floated through the clear air to bring a smile to the faces of all who passed by. All but one, I noticed. A tall man in a brown greatcoat stood scowling at the children as they sang. "I say, Holmes," I ventured, "isn't that.. . ?"

"Our Mr. Curtis," he agreed. "And looking every inch a man who abominates Christmas or child singers or both. I wonder what dismays him so."

Curtis and Company was a prosperous chemist's shop on Crawford Street, the nearest such to Baker Street; Holmes and I both frequented the establishment on a regular basis. On every occasion of my own visits, Curtis had been quite affable, clearly a man at peace with himself and the world. His present thunderous visage made him almost unrecognizable.

He did not notice our approach. "Are you not enjoying the music, Mr. Curtis?" Holmes asked.

The chemist started and with an effort focused on our faces. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," he said in a distracted manner. "Dr. Watson, good day. The music? Yes, yes, quite nice. Quite nice indeed."

"Yet I fear you may be frightening the children," Holmes persisted in a playful manner, "glowering at them in so fearsome a way."

"Was I glowering?" Curtis looked toward the carolers and smiled and nodded, as if to compensate for any earlier lapse in goodwill. "I was preoccupied, Mr. Holmes. Another matter entirely was demanding my full attention."

"No trouble, I hope?"

He hesitated. "I am uncertain. You know of our Merchants Association's Christmas Charities Fund? Oh, what am I thinking— of course you know. And I want to thank you again for your generous subscriptions, both of you."

"You are most welcome," I said. "Is the Fund not doing well?"

"Exceedingly well, Dr. Watson," Curtis replied. "That is not the problem. It's only that—" He broke off abruptly, apparently changing his mind about telling us. "But I don't want to trouble you about a matter that is undoubtedly only a misunderstanding. Gentlemen, I wish you the joy of the season."

"And to you, sir."

We watched as he hurried off in a direction opposite to that of his place of business. "He suspects someone of stealing from the Fund," Holmes remarked. "Or of planning to."

"From a charitable fund?" I objected. "Surely no man would be so low as to steal from the poor at Christmastime."

Holmes looked at me with a glimmer of amusement. "I fear I cannot share your faith in the essential goodness of mankind, my friend. To many among us, perhaps to most of us—money is money. It does not matter where the money comes from or where it is intended to go. By all means let us hope that Curtis is mistaken and his fund is in no danger of being misappropriated. But at the same time let us not assume that all is well."

I had heard Holmes make similar cynical pronouncements before and knew from past experience that argument was futile. Holmes liked to claim that expecting the best of people was to assure that one lived a life of constant disappointment. To avoid listening to the repetition of a dogma that was distasteful to me, I said the only thing one can say in such a situation. "Tea?" I suggested.

"An excellent idea! Chatterby's, I think."

"Very well." I started walking toward Wigmore Street, where we would be most likely to find a hansom cab for hire.

"No, Watson—this way!" Holmes called. "We walk!"

"But Chatterby's is over two miles distant!" I protested.

"Just enough to get our blood circulating! The tea will taste all the sweeter afterward. Come, Watson. We walk."

We walked.

#        #        #

Upon our return to Baker Street (by hansom cab, I might add), we were met at the door by Mrs. Hudson with the news that a young woman was waiting for us in our rooms.

"I hope you don't mind that I let her in," the housekeeper said. "The poor young thing had been crying, and it's so bitterly cold outside that I didn't have the heart to send her away."

"It's not that cold, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, "but you did right. Thank you."

She looked at him, surprised. "It's turned near freezing, Mr. Holmes."

He returned her look. "No, it hasn't."

"Yes, it has," I interposed. "We don't all have your natural immunity to cold, Holmes."

"Ah." He said no more but led the way upstairs.

Our visitor was very young... not more than eighteen, I would venture. And she had indeed been crying, normally a fact to make Holmes impatient rather than sympathetic. But the holiday season was still upon him; he spoke to her gently and offered refreshment, which she declined.

"I don't know whether you can help me or not, Mr. Holmes," she said in an anguished voice. "But I am in desperate need of advice and I have no one to turn to."

"No father or mother? No other relative?"

"None. My mother died when I was a child, and my poor father met with an unfortunate accident not two months hence. There are no others, except my fiancé, and he ... he is part of the problem for which I seek advice."

I said, "Perhaps you would tell us your name."

"Oh! Forgive me. My name is Amy Stoddard. I still live in my father's house in Bayswater Road."

"Your father was an importer of spices?" Holmes asked. "And you assisted in the business—perhaps in keeping the accounts? Or in sending out the bills?"

Her eyes grew large with astonishment. "How ever did you know that, Mr. Holmes?"

"I detected a slight scent of cinnamon when I first entered the room," he answered in an offhand manner. "And the middle finger of your right hand has a callus at the point where one normally grips a pen—a more pronounced callus than can be accounted for by the writing out of school exercises."

"I copied all my father's correspondence for him, as well as sending out the bills." She smiled sadly. "I was the only one who could read his handwriting."

"Well, now. Suppose you tell us the problem for which you seek advice and the part your fiancé plays in it. First, what is his name?"

"Thomas Wickham. He is the youngest son of a viscount who incurred his family's displeasure by going into trade. My father met him through the Paddington Merchants Association. They were to work together on the Christmas Charities Fund until. . . until my father ..."

"So it was your father who introduced you," Holmes interjected quickly, not revealing by so much as a twitch of the eyelid that this was the second mention of the Christmas Charities Fund we'd heard that day.

"Yes. As my husband, Thomas will oversee the operation of my father's business, as soon as certain legal matters are attended to. But it is not about the importing of spices that I consult you, Mr. Holmes. It concerns a totally unrelated matter."

"Proceed."

Miss Stoddard paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "Last week Mr. John Fulham, a friend of my father's, took me to see Sir Henry Irving's new play at the Lyceum Theatre. As we were leaving at the end of the performance, we encountered purely by chance Thomas's business partner, Etienne Piaget. I introduced him to Mr. Fulham, and then Monsieur Piaget said a most remarkable thing. He expressed regrets that I would not be able to spend Christmas with my fiancé.

"I asked him whatever did he mean? I was planning a Christmas Eve dinner for Thomas and some friends, and Thomas had been helping me with the arrangements. Mr. Fulham spoke up and said that was quite true, that he had received his invitation two days earlier." She paused. "Then an expression came over Monsieur Piaget's face that I can describe only as the look a Frenchman gets when he realizes he's committed an inexcusable faux pas."

"Aha!" Holmes exclaimed. "I know that look."

"He was quite embarrassed," the young woman said. "He murmured something about being mistaken, that he only thought he saw a ticket for passage on the Mary Small for the twenty-third of the month. It had to be something else he'd seen lying on Thomas's desk. He started bowing and backing away—the poor man practically fled."

"Tell me, Miss Stoddard," Holmes asked, "what business do Mr. Wickham and Monsieur Piaget pursue?"

"They are wine merchants. Monsieur Piaget buys the wines in France, and Thomas administers the London side of the business."

"I see. Pray continue. You asked your affianced about the ticket for passage on the Mary Small?"

"I did. He was astonished. Thomas said he could not imagine what was on his desk that his partner should mistake for a steamship ticket."

"A simple error, surely," I offered. "Not a cause for concern."

"Ah, but, Watson," Holmes said, "Miss Stoddard has not finished her story—am I correct?"

"You are." She paused. "Earlier today Thomas called at my house. At my request, he has been looking through my father's papers, searching for any unfinished business that should be seen to. He'd come across the draft of a letter that he could not read— I believe I mentioned my father's penmanship did not measure up to normal standards. The letter simply requested a change of shipping dates for a consignment of ginger and other spices, an ordinary commercial transaction.

"Thomas laughed when I finished reading him the letter, amused that I could decipher what no one else could. Then he said, 'You can read a dreadful scrawl that's fully illegible to the rest of us, but can you write it? Have you ever tried imitating such an idiosyncratic hand?'

"I had, in fact, done just that upon several occasions. Once I left a note for my father in 'his' handwriting, to tease him ... and he later complained he couldn't read a word! When Thomas heard that, he wanted to see a demonstration. He took a paper out of his pocket and asked me to copy it in my father's handwriting. I did, and Thomas was so pleased with the result that he took the copy with him to show to Monsieur Piaget. He left the original behind."

Our visitor took out a folded piece of foolscap. "It was only later that I began to wonder about the nature of what I had copied." She handed the paper to Holmes. "Please tell me what you think."

I joined Holmes at the window and we both read the passage Wickham had given his fiancée to copy. It was brief, only two sentences:

// is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them. Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year.

"Your father left a will?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Yes, and I am to inherit all."

Holmes flicked the paper with a long forefinger. "Is this Thomas Wickham's handwriting?"

"No, that writing is unfamiliar to me."

"Quite possibly because a deliberate attempt has been made to disguise it. Look here, Watson." He pointed to the word my. "See the large loop beneath the line of writing for the letter^? And here in the g and the p? Yet twice—here, and here—there is only a straight descending line instead of the large loop. There's a similar inconsistency in the way the letter r is written ... wide and square in most places, but narrow and ill formed in the words during and year. This letter was written by an inexperienced forger, I daresay."

"But. .. but why?" I asked. "This is no legal document." I looked to Amy Stoddard. "Did you sign your father's name to the copy?" She said no. "Then how can this be a threat to her inheritance, Holmes?"

"Yes, how? That is the question we must endeavour to answer. Miss Stoddard, have you told anyone of your suspicions?"

"No, no one."

"Not even Mr. John Fulham?"

"Mr. Fulham was my father's friend. I felt I needed the advice of an impartial listener."

"A wise conclusion. Continue to maintain your silence until I speak to you again." Holmes walked across the room to pick up a small leather writing desk to be held on the lap; he handed it to our visitor. "Beneath the hinged lid you will find pen and paper," he said as he removed the cap of the inkwell. "I want you to write the addresses of yourself, your fiancé, Monsieur Piaget, and Mr. John Fulham. Business addresses as well as residential, if you please."

"I believe Monsieur Piaget stops at a hotel when he is in London," she said, "but I fear I don't know which one."

"Very well, only the business address for him."

I moved over to stand behind Amy Stoddard as she bent to her task. Her handwriting was a graceful, well-formed calligraphy, attaining a level of elegance without resorting to curlicues or other forms of gaudy ornamentation. It was not difficult to understand why her father had wanted her to copy his correspondence.

I could see that Holmes too appreciated the beauty of her penmanship when she handed him her list of addresses. "What should I do, Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "I pray that my suspicions of Thomas are without valid foundation, but the two circumstances of the steamship ticket and the wording of that passage have been some cause of alarm to me. Am I being unjust to Thomas?"

"I hope to have the answer to that before too many more days have passed. Miss Stoddard. For now, I advise you to remain at home with the doors locked. Invent some pretext for not seeing Mr. Wickham until next we speak. And make certain the servants are instructed not to admit him to the house."

Her mouth trembled. "Do you think I am in danger?"

"I think that is quite likely. Return home immediately, and do not leave until I call on you." He noticed how shaken she was and added, "Miss Stoddard, we will get to the bottom of this matter. That I promise you."

Slightly reassured, she bid us a faint-voiced farewell. I accompanied her to the street and secured a cab for her; when I returned, Holmes was standing by the fireplace lighting his pipe. "Well, Holmes, what do you make of that?"

"Tell me your impression," he countered.

I shrugged. "A young, vulnerable heiress, alone in the world ... easy prey for an unscrupulous suitor."

"And yet her father approved the marriage."

"Fathers have made mistakes before." I warmed my hands at the fire. "This Wickham sounds like a rascal of the first order."

"He does indeed. But what a curious course of action he has chosen to pursue." Holmes sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. "The penniless youngest son of a viscount so desirous of obtaining money that he is willing to alienate his family over the issue. He goes into a respectable trade. He courts and wins the hand of an attractive young heiress." Holmes pointed his pipe at me. "Why not stop there? He has what he wants. Why proceed with this deception of the disguised handwriting? And why book passage on the Mary Small?. Unless Piaget truly was mistaken."

I took the other armchair. "Perhaps something happened that forced him to change his plans."

"Quite possibly. But let us proceed with caution, Watson. We know none of these people—a circumstance we set out to rectify early tomorrow morning. We will begin, I think, by inspecting the business premises of Wickham and Piaget, Wine Merchants."

As it turned out, we did not begin with Wickham and Piaget after all. My earache had returned in a most raging intensity; and after a near-sleepless night I arose early and dressed. I had carelessly failed to replace my special mixture of oils and medicinal herbs that I have found to be the most efficacious treatment of otalgia.

"You are going out before we have breakfasted?" Holmes asked in surprise.

"Just to Crawford Street," I replied. "I need to pay our Mr. Curtis a visit."

Holmes understood immediately. "Oh, my dear fellow! The walk to Chatterby's brought back your earache! And I insisted.... I am responsible for your discomfort!"

"Nonsense, Holmes. I could have refused to walk. I did not."

"Sit down, Watson. No, no argument! I will go to Mr. Curtis's establishment and procure your medication myself. Do not protest so, Watson. I am going, and that's the end of the matter." He hurried off to his room to dress.

I sank down gratefully into my chair by the fire. Damned decent of Holmes, when it was my own fault for not refilling my prescription. Physician, heal thyself indeed.

Holmes was gone in a trice, and soon after there came a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Hudson, with a tray.

"Mr. Holmes said he would eat shortly, but I was to bring you your breakfast straightaway," she informed me.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said as she put down the tray. "Bananas and cream? Wherever did you find ripe bananas this time of year?"

"Oh, they ripen on the boat, Dr. Watson. We should be having bananas all year round now, the greengrocer tells me. Some new trade agreement with one of those places in South America."

What excellent news. When she'd gone I poured my first cup of tea of the day and immediately began to feel better. The bananas and cream were a delicious accompaniment to the porridge, the only proper meal with which to begin a cold winter day. Kippers and kidneys are all very well, but they don't coat the stomach lining the way a good bowl of porridge does.

I was just finishing my third cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson once again appeared at the door. "It's one of them," she said with disapproval. "Urgent, he says."

I knew whom she meant. "Send him in."

In came one of the street urchins Holmes frequently employed as errand runners and observers. This one was unfamiliar to me. "Mr. Holmes is not here," I said.

"It was Mr. Holmes wot sent me," the lad replied. "He says you're to come quick like, 'cause Mr. Curtis, the chemist—somebody's done murdered him."

"Good heavens!" I cried, rising hastily. Mr. Curtis, murdered? I found a tuppence piece in my pocket and gave it to the boy. "Run along, now."

"Thankee, gov'nor," he said with a big grin. He started to leave but stopped. "Ow, I'm forgetting." He pulled a small package out from under his jacket. "Mr. Holmes says give you this."

It was my earache medicine. I shooed the boy out and warmed the oil at the fireplace before doctoring myself. I stuffed my ear with a piece of cotton batting, wrapped my muffler over my head, and set out for Mr. Curtis's shop. I was halfway to Crawford Street before it occurred to me to wonder how Holmes was able to have my prescription made up when the chemist lay dead.

The entrance to the shop was barred by a burly peeler until Inspector Lestrade appeared and instructed him to let me in. "How did it happen, Lestrade?" I asked. "Could it have been self-inflicted?"

"He was shot, Doctor. And it can't have been suicide, because there's no gun to be found."

Conclusive. "Who found his body?"

"His clerk, who summoned us. We arrived only a few moments before Mr. Holmes came strolling in."

"Watson," Holmes called from where he was standing by the body, "come take a look, will you?"

Curtis lay on the floor not behind his counter, but sprawled in front of a display of dental hygiene appliances. I knelt beside his body and examined the two bullet wounds, one in his chest and one in his head. "Small-bore pistol," I said. "Someone wanted to make sure he was dead. Either shot was enough to kill him."

"The chest shot?" Holmes asked.

"Without a post-mortem dissection, I can't be positive. But it looks to me as if the bullet penetrated the heart."

Holmes nodded, satisfied. "You've questioned the clerk, Lestrade?"

"As well as I could," the policeman said. "He's too shocked to make much sense. Look at him."

We all looked over to where the clerk stood huddled in the corner, guarded by another peeler. He was shaking, and his mouth was moving soundlessly. His eyes travelled everywhere except to the body on the floor.

"Nevertheless, we must try," Holmes said. The three of us approached the cowering clerk, who shrank even farther into his corner. "What's his name?"

"Grimes," said Lestrade.

"Come, Grimes, you must pull yourself together," Holmes said briskly. 'Tour employer has been murdered this dark day, and we need to ask you questions."

"I didn't kill him!" the clerk blurted out.

"Of course you didn't," Holmes replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Has anyone accused you?"

"Not yet." Grimes glared at Lestrade. "But they will."

Lestrade scowled. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you will find out.... I am telling you now, so you can't say I tried to keep it from you."

"Keep what from us?"

The clerk swallowed hard and muttered, "Four years in Newgate Prison. For thieving. Mr. Curtis was the only one who was willing to give me a chance at an honest job. He said I was quick to learn and I kept myself clean, and if the till ever came up short he'd box my ears for me! But it never did. I never stole from Mr. Curtis, not in all the six years I've been working here. And I didn't kill him! Why would I kill the only man who's ever been decent to me?"

"Why indeed," Holmes murmured. "Now, my good man, no one is going to haul you back to Newgate Prison. But perhaps you can help us find the killer."

Grimes looked puzzled. "How?"

"Tell us first of all if Curtis had any personal enemies."

The clerk shook his head vigorously. "Not Mr. Curtis, no, sir. He was one of them people that everybody likes."

"The very impression I had of him," Holmes remarked. "What about business rivals?"

"None that I know of. We're the only chemist's shop hereabouts."

"And the business itself? Prospering?"

"Oh, yes, sir, doing very well. Mr. Curtis, he gave me a rise just last month."

"And was your employer worried about anything these past few weeks?"

Grimes squinted his eyes and stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, thinking back. "If he was, he kept it to hisself. He seemed the same as usual to me."

"No more than I expected," Holmes said with something like a sigh. "Thank you, Grimes ... you've been most helpful."

The three of us left him and stepped outside into the cold sunshine. Lestrade jerked his head back toward the shop. "What about that Grimes, Mr. Holmes? What do you think?"

"Oh, the man is clearly innocent," Holmes replied indifferently. "You would be much better advised to direct your investigations toward the Paddington Merchants Association and, more specifically, to their Christmas Charities Fund."

"I gave to that Fund," Lestrade commented, surprised. "What about it?"

"Curtis suspected that someone was stealing from the Fund, or perhaps was planning to abscond with the entire account. I have no details to give you, but perhaps Curtis confided his suspicions to someone else. Was he married?"

"Eh? Er, yes, he was married."

"Then Mrs. Curtis would seem the logical person to ask first, would she not? Once she has had sufficient opportunity to absorb the shock of her husband's untimely death."

Lestrade was nodding. "That's a good notion, Mr. Holmes. I thank you for pointing out that line of inquiry."

"My pleasure, Lestrade." Holmes took one final look back at the body on the floor. "I am sorry about Curtis." Then he turned on his heel and strode off down the street.

Lestrade and I exchanged a look and I hurried off after Holmes. "Didn't Amy Stoddard say that Thomas Wickham was involved in the administration of the Christmas Charities Fund?" I inquired of my companion. "Could he possibly be the one Curtis suspected?"

"If he is," Holmes replied, "then he is most likely a murderer as well. We cannot allow that young girl to enter into a marriage with a killer. Are you feeling well enough to accompany me to the establishment of Wickham and Piaget? How is your earache?"

"Considerably abated," I said truthfully. "In fact, it is almost gone. I say, Holmes, how were you able to obtain the medicine? That clerk Grimes was in no condition to mix the oils and the herbs."

"Oh, I looked in Curtis's prescription drawer and found the directions you'd written out. I mixed your concoction myself. I must say it has a most pleasing aroma."

I stopped walking in astonishment. "You mixed the prescription?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "A simple matter. Shall we proceed to York Place? There we should find a coachman and a sturdy horse to take us to our destination."

Amy Stoddard's list told us that Wickham and Piaget's business establishment was located in Coldharbor Lane, which we were surprised to learn was in the centre of one of the less desirable sections of London. The streets were narrow and dirty, the cheaply constructed buildings old and shabby. Small groups of presumably unemployed men crowded around metal drums in which they'd built fires. Our coachman was only too happy to discharge his passengers and be on his way.

The rough-looking men warming themselves at the fires eyed Holmes's and my clothing and muttered among themselves. There was not a woman or child in sight anywhere; I could see only groups of hardened men with no money and with time on their hands. I grew uneasy, wondering if we were safe here. Holmes walked confidently ahead down Goldharbor Lane, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings; but I knew his keen eye had taken in every detail.

Our search took us to a heavily padlocked warehouse. "Is this what we're looking for?" I asked. "Did Miss Stoddard not understand we wanted the address of the offices, not the warehouse?"

"One moment." Holmes darted around to the side of the warehouse and a moment later called out, "Here, Watson!"

I followed. He had discovered a narrow door upon which hung a sign proclaiming Wickham & Piaget. Fine Wines.

"Surely these are not the offices!" I exclaimed.

"Let us find out." Holmes tried the door, which opened onto a narrow ascending staircase. Another door at the top of the stair was locked. Holmes knocked.

I'd had in my mind that the suitor Mr. Stoddard had endorsed as his daughter's future husband would be an older man of some substance, with visible signs of his prosperity on display. The bad neighbourhood we found ourselves in had disabused me of my second assumption, and the opening door at the business premises of Wickham & Piaget dispelled the first.

"Yes, gentlemen?" The figure standing in the open doorway was slight, with reddish brown hair, and undeniably an Englishman ... not Piaget. And he was young, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four.

"Mr. Thomas Wickham? My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. May we have a few moments of your time?"

Young Wickham's expression showed he was familiar with Holmes's reputation. "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Please do come in. Is there some way I may assist you?"

The offices were makeshift, occupying an enclosed partial floor with a large window overlooking the warehouse below. I could see crates of wine in neatly stacked rows, plus a few larger wooden crates that appeared not yet to have been opened.

"Do you own a pistol?" Holmes snapped out.

Wickham looked startled by the question but answered willingly enough. "We keep a pistol here in the offices." He smiled wryly. "I'm sure it did not escape your notice that this is not the safest of neighbourhoods."

"Then why do you remain here?"

The young man's eyes showed a flicker of irritation but he retained his courteous manner. "Financial necessity, Mr. Holmes. My partner and I had only a small amount to invest in our new business. We had a choice to make. We could lease elegant offices and present a good face to the world, but then we would be forced to import only cheap wines with the money we had left. We decided instead to build a reputation first as merchants who can be relied upon always to deliver quality wines. The elegant offices can come later. Now, Mr. Holmes, will you please tell me why I am being questioned?"

"First, the pistol. Where is it?"

He looked as if he were about to protest, but he went to a desk and pulled open a desk drawer. He made a sound of surprise and started opening other drawers. "It is not here! I don't understand."

"I think I do," Holmes murmured. "Tell me, you are acquainted with a chemist named Curtis?"

"Yes, indeed. Mr. Curtis is a member of the Merchants Association committee that administers the Christmas Charities Fund."

"A committee of which you are also a member."

"My partner and I both are members."

"Piaget also?"

"Piaget assumed the duties of another member who recently passed away."

"Mr. Stoddard, you mean."

Wickham looked more puzzled than ever. "You are correct. Mr. Holmes, I really must insist upon an explanation."

Holmes's dark eyes bored into his. "Curtis was murdered early this morning. A pistol shot to the heart and another to the head."

Wickham staggered. "Mr. Curtis ... is dead?" After a long moment, he sank into the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands. A minute or so later he raised a tormented face and said hoarsely, "Oh, Mr. Holmes, you don't know what doleful news you bring me! I. .. my father and I are estranged. I have often suffered from the lack of his sage advice." He ran one hand nervously through his reddish brown hair. "But when I first joined the Merchants Association, two older men welcomed me and encouraged me, even directing new business my way. Without even knowing they were doing so, they took the place of the father that is lost to me. And now... now they are both gone!"

Stoddard and Curtis. I moved over next to him. "I am sorry, Mr. Wickham."

He acknowledged my sympathy with a nod. "Was it a burglary?" he asked.

"Nothing was taken," Holmes replied, watching Wickham narrowly. "It was a heartless, deliberate murder."

"But why?" Wickham cried, rising shakily from his chair. "Mr. Curtis was the kindest-hearted of men! Who would want him dead?"

"The man who was stealing from the Christmas Charities Fund," Holmes answered with a cold deliberation.

Wickham looked dumbfounded. "Stealing? From the Christmas Fund? Who?"

"Do you not know?"

"I? No! Are you certain there has been a theft of funds?"

"Not I," Holmes replied. "But Curtis suspected someone of chicanery. And that seems to be the only reason for removing him from the scene. Our Mr. Curtis was a threat to someone's continuing safety."

"Oh, dear God!"

I asked, "Curtis said nothing of this to you?"

"Nothing! Oh, the poor man!"

Holmes changed his tack. "Monsieur Piaget is not present, I see. Where may we find him?"

Wickham had to force himself to concentrate on the question. "He is presently stopping at the Red Lion near Piccadilly Circus. But he sails to Bordeaux tomorrow."

"Aboard the Mary Small"

Wickham was beyond further surprise. "If you already know the answer, why do you ask the question? Yes, he has passage on the Mary Small. Is there something ominous in that?"

"Well," I began, "he did say he saw—"

"Watson." Holmes's voice cut me off. "Mr. Wickham, I daresay we will meet again. But we will leave you now." Without further ado he opened the door and started down the stairway. I cast a glance at the stricken young man whose peace of mind we had disturbed, murmured something, and closed the door behind me as I left.

Holmes was waiting for me in Coldharbor Lane. "Well," he said with an air of exasperation, "that is the most likable young murderer I have ever encountered. Ethical, industrious, respectful. Did you notice his hands, Watson? Heavily callused. Our wine merchants cannot afford to pay warehouse workers. Young Mr. Wickham has been doing the heavy labour of loading and unloading crates himself."

"Do you still think he is a murderer?" I asked. "Surely his grief over Curtis's death was genuine."

"Either that, or that young man more properly belongs in the Lyceum as a member of Sir Henry Irving's company of players."

"Do you think he was acting?"

Holmes did not answer immediately. "Curious," he finally said. "I knew instantly this morning that Curtis's clerk Grimes was not acting. Yet with Wickham, I could not be certain. He seemed truly distressed—yet we cannot ignore what we know about him. The Mary Small, the passage he had Miss Stoddard copy in her father's handwriting."

"Holmes, why did you stop me from mentioning that Piaget said he'd seen a steamship ticket lying on Wickham's desk?"

"Ah, my friend, because the only way we would know about that was if we'd heard it from Miss Amy Stoddard. And we don't want Wickham knowing we'd visited him on her behalf, do we? Not so long as there is the slightest chance that she is in danger from him."

"Oh. Of course. You're right."

"Now, where are we?" We'd left Coldharbor Lane, but there was not a hansom cab in sight. "Let's try down this way." He strode off at a brisk pace. "Watson, we must divide our efforts at this point. Do you think you could learn from Inspector Lestrade whether Curtis had told his wife whom he suspected of pilfering from the Christmas Fund?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Good. When you have done that, return to Baker Street and dose your ear with more of that sweet-smelling oil. I shall be along later and we can share what we have learned."

"Where are you going?"

"To the Red Lion in Piccadilly. Monsieur Piaget and I are due for a little chat."

I returned to Baker Street in a state of nervous excitement. Lestrade had related to me that Curtis had not told his wife the name of the man he suspected, but had instead referred to him only as a wine merchant. Ah! Wickham or Piaget? There was no real question. I was convinced that Wickham's grief over Curtis's death was authentic and not simply a performance staged for our benefit. Piaget was the villain we were seeking.

It was teatime before Holmes made his appearance. When I told him what I had learned from Lestrade, he nodded thoughtfully. "I myself have discovered a matter that would support your somewhat emotional declaration of Wickham's innocence."

"Indeed? What did Piaget have to say?"

"I did not speak to him. Monsieur Piaget is no longer stopping at the Red Lion. He settled his account this morning and told the innkeeper he was returning to France."

I frowned. "But Wickham said Piaget was sailing tomorrow, on the twenty-third."

"And Piaget said the steamship ticket he saw on Wickham's desk was made out for the twenty-third."

I shook my head in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Nor did I," Holmes admitted. "One of the two men was clearly lying. That there is a ticket for passage aboard the Mary Small on the twenty-third of December, there is no doubt. But which one of them bought it? It was essential to find out. So I paid a visit to the steamship ticket offices."

"Excellent, Holmes!"

"There I had a stroke of luck. The Kerward line, which owns the Mary Small, is not a large company, as steamship lines go, and only one ticket-seller is employed for the entire line. He is a most agreeable fellow who told me straightaway that yes, he had sold a ticket for December twenty-third on the Mary Small... to one Thomas Wickham."

"What?" I was so startled that I spilled my tea.

Holmes handed me a napkin. "I questioned him closely, but he showed me the passenger list and Wickham's name was right there. That seemed to settle the matter, but then the good man said, ' 'Oi remember 'im all roight, Mr. 'Olmes. Oi couldn't hardly maike out wot 'e was saiyin', with that frog accent an' all.' "

I put down my cup. "A French accent?"

"Indeed. So I asked him if Wickham was thin, clean-shaven, and with hair that was a reddish brown. He answered no, he was average-sized and had black hair and a mustache."

"It must have been Piaget," I gasped. "He bought the ticket in Wickham's name!"

"Exactly, Watson. And now we have a rough description of what Monsieur Piaget looks like. But where is he? There are dark enterprises afoot, Watson, of which we have caught only glimpses. I fear Miss Stoddard may be in even graver danger than first I anticipated."

"But not from Wickham," I insisted. "It's clear Piaget's purpose was to make Miss Stoddard suspicious of her fiancé. First he buys the steamship ticket in Wickham's name, and then he tells her a lie about seeing the ticket on Wickham's desk. Surely Wickham is exonerated?"

"Only half-exonerated. There is still the curious passage that Wickham had Miss Stoddard copy in her father's hand."

I poured us both another cup of tea. "Yes, alas, there is still that."

Holmes ignored the tea and began to pace. "Doesn't anything strike you as peculiar about that passage, Watson? 'It is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them,' " he quoted from memory. 'A simple declaration of intent, followed by: 'Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year.' A statement of what he has done toward realizing that intent. But where is the conclusion? He names no one, he specifies no instructions for how his wishes are to be carried out. Don't you see it, Watson? What Miss Stoddard copied was merely an excerpt from a longer document!"

I failed to see his point. "But to what purpose?"

"A test, Watson! It was a test! To see if she could indeed reproduce her father's eccentric writing!" Holmes pulled up a chair close to mine and perched on the edge. "The plan is to come up with a document, perhaps a will, that was written after the will that leaves Mr. Stoddard's entire estate to his daughter. It is a plot to disinherit Amy Stoddard! But how ironic! The villain is thwarted in his plan by a species of penmanship that no one can either read or reproduce—except the very person he is trying to rob of her inheritance!"

I looked him directly in the eye. "Are we speaking of Piaget or Wickham?"

"Aha! That's the puzzle, isn't it! Since Piaget tried to discredit Wickham with his lie about the steamship ticket, perhaps he had designs on Miss Stoddard himself and was trying to eliminate the competition? Yet it was Wickham who asked Miss Stoddard to copy the excerpt from the new will, not Piaget."

"But Wickham has no need to disinherit the young lady. She has promised to marry him."

"Perhaps he fears she will change her mind. Piaget may be nothing more than an underhanded suitor who is now crawling back home, defeated, having lost the lady to his partner and rival. I was careless, Watson. I should have recognized Piaget's story about the steamship ticket as a lie the moment I heard it."

"How so?"

Holmes leaned forward from the edge of his chair. "Put yourself into a real situation similar to that fabricated by Piaget. Say you make a social gaffe by mentioning to Miss Stoddard that you saw Wickham's steamship ticket. She is astounded! 'Why, what do you mean?' she cries. 'He is spending Christmas Eve with me!'" Holmes's eye gleamed. "Now, W⁷atson—what do you say?"

I raised my eyebrows at him. "I say I must be mistaken."

"And? What else?"

What else? "That I'm sorry."

"And?"

The man really could be exasperating. "And ... nothing else! I was mistaken and I'm sorry. That's all."

"Exactly!" Holmes cried in triumph. "You say nothing else. You do not, for example, name the ship. Nor do you casually let slip the day of the month on which that ship is scheduled to weigh anchor. Piaget wanted to plant a doubt in Miss Stoddard's mind. He wanted her to know the ship and the date... in the hope that she would check at the ticket office and find young Wickham's name on the passenger list!"

"Ah, I see!" What a wicked thing for Piaget to have done. "But instead of going to the ticket office, she came to you."

He sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. "Precisely. Piaget may have had some additional depraved plan in mind, to culminate before the twenty-third of the month—in addition to pilfering from the Christmas Fund. But if all his plotting were to fail, he has ready and waiting a steamship ticket through which he can effect his escape."

Now it was I who leaned forward in my chair. "So you do believe in Wickham's innocence?"

"It would appear that Wickham has been more the victim of a deception than the perpetrator of it—except for that one unexplained detail. It was Wickham who had Miss Stoddard copy the excerpt from what has every appearance of being a fraudulent will. Piaget did not do that, Watson."

Nor did he. There was no explaining that away.

It was almost dark when we left shortly after for Grosvenor Square, where Mr. John Fulham maintained a residence. "Mr. Fulham is in a position to verify or refute one detail of Thomas Wickham's story," Holmes said as we rode in the brougham we had hired for the evening. "He will know whether his good friend Stoddard stood in loco parentis for the young man or not."

John Fulham was a handsome man in his mid-fifties who welcomed us cordially. When Holmes said he had been consulted by Miss Amy Stoddard, Fulham was immediately concerned.

"Is she having difficulties?" he asked worriedly. "I have been trying to watch out for her as well as I can, for her dear father's sake as well as her own."

"You and Stoddard were close friends?"

"Yes, quite close. We knew each other for near to thirty years. But why did Amy consult you, Mr. Holmes?"

"She was experiencing a few last-minute doubts about her fiancé," Holmes answered glibly. Not a total untruth. "That is why I am here, Mr. Fulham. You are, of course, acquainted with Mr. Thomas Wickham."

"I am." Was there a note of disapproval in his voice?

We were seated in an attractive drawing room, drinking the best glass of sherry I had tasted in many a month. Mr. Fulham wore his success easily, a man used to living well.

Holmes said, "Mr. Wickham claims that Mr. Stoddard took him under his wing when the former joined the Merchants Association. Is that true?"

"Yes, he and Curtis both became his mentors." Fulham suddenly frowned. "That is a terrible business about poor Curtis. The Times claims the police are baffled as to who could have killed him and why."

"For the moment," Holmes said. "That will soon change, I warrant. But you say both Stoddard and Curtis did help young Wickham to establish himself in business."

"That they did." Our host sighed deeply. "I'll confess, Mr.

Holmes, that they saw something in Wickham that I could never see. Do you know where he maintains his offices? In a neighbourhood I would not venture into even in broad daylight!"

I coughed.

"A young merchant just starting out cannot be expected to maintain fully appointed offices, surely," Holmes said mildly.

"No, of course not. But there are certain standards to be maintained, standards that are endorsed by the Merchants Association, I might add. But Wickham struck me as merely a well-mannered opportunist willing to take advantage of two soft-hearted men in a position to be of assistance to him." He shook his head. "I don't know, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps I do the young man an injustice. I have nothing to go on except my own instincts."

"And your instincts tell you ... ?"

"That young Wickham is not to be trusted. As you may imagine, I was not overjoyed when Stoddard informed me that Amy and Wickham were to be wed."

"Did you attempt to dissuade him from permitting the union?"

"Only once. Stoddard made it quite clear that such argument was unwelcome, and I never repeated the attempt."

There was something I had to ask. "Do you know, Mr. Fulham, if Wickham's partner was equally interested in marrying Miss Stoddard?"

"Piaget?" Fulham smiled. "That's not very likely, Dr. Watson, not with a wife waiting for him in Bordeaux. Why do you ask?"

I felt my face redden. "I didn't know Piaget was married."

"For some years. It's my impression that he and Amy barely know each other."

Holmes asked if Fulham had anything to do with the administering of the Christmas Charities Fund; Fulham said no. "One final question, Mr. Fulham, if you don't mind, and then we'll leave you in peace. If Amy Stoddard were your daughter, would you forbid her to marry Thomas Wickham?"

"Forbid?" He thought about it. "No, she is of age. But what I would do is find a way to persuade her to postpone the wedding until I had consulted you, Mr. Holmes—to discover everything about the young man that you possibly could."

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement. True to his word, he asked no more questions. We bade Fulham good night and took our leave.

Back in our hired brougham, I said, "That was a curious interview. Fulham both cast doubts upon Wickham's character and verified his claim that Stoddard and Curtis had acted as his mentors."

"I am interested only in Fulham's facts," Holmes replied, "and they say that Wickham told the truth about Stoddard and Curtis. Mr. Fulham's opinions, on the other hand, we need not treat as of equal import. Now we shall pay a brief visit to Miss Stoddard, to inform her of what we have learned. And then our day's work will be done."

But when we reached the Stoddard house in Bayswater Road, we found something of a ruckus at the door. Thomas Wickham was pounding at the door, red-faced, agitated, the very picture of the frustrated lover. "Why will you not let me in, Amy?" he cried.

"She will not let you in, Mr. Wickham," Holmes said, stepping out of the brougham, "because I instructed her not to."

Wickham whirled around. "Mr. Holmes! Why are you here?"

"All in good time." He stepped up to the door. "Miss Stoddard! Are you there?"

"Mr. Holmes?" came her voice through the door. "Is that you?"

"It is I, and Dr. Watson is with me. You may open the door now."

We heard the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door opened slightly and Amy Stoddard's worried young face peered out at us. "Is Thomas still there?"

"Amy!" he cried, and tried to push his way in.

I held him back. "All in good time," I admonished.

"You have nothing to fear, Miss Stoddard," Holmes reassured her. "I have one question to ask Mr. Wickham—to which I think I know the answer—and much should be made clear. May we come in?"

She stepped back from the doorway and permitted us to enter. Wickham was the very picture of misery; when he tried to approach his fiancée, she stepped back from him, uncertain how to react. She led us into a drawing room even more elegant than the one in Grosvenor Square that we had just left.

When the young people and I were seated, Holmes stood in front of Wickham. "Now, sir. Recently you gave Miss Stoddard a brief passage to copy in her father's handwriting."

"Yes." He glanced fondly at the young woman. "And she did so perfectly."

"Why did you give her that particular passage?"

With an effort, Wickham tore his gaze from Miss Stoddard to look at Holmes. "Why, what was it? It was just something Piaget handed me. I didn't even read it."

"Aha! As I thought. And whose idea was it to discover whether Miss Stoddard could imitate her father's handwriting?"

Wickham frowned. "I believe Piaget first suggested it... but I thought it a splendid game. I had abandoned any hope of deciphering the draft of a letter Mr. Stoddard had left among his papers and announced my intention of asking Amy to read it for me. Piaget wondered if she could reproduce Mr. Stoddard's penmanship. He handed me a piece of paper and said to see if she could copy that. I slipped the paper into a pocket without looking at it."

"And that completes the picture!" Holmes said with a touch of smugness. "Now I pray you both listen very carefully. I have a great deal to tell you." He began with Curtis's murder and proceeded step by step through what we had learned that day. When it became clear that Wickham was the victim of a plot to discredit him in her eyes, Miss Stoddard gave a little cry and rushed to the side of her fiancé\ "So I am happy to say," Holmes concluded, "that your father's judgement of Mr. Wickham was entirely correct."

I am not certain the two young people even heard him, so deeply were they involved in their reconciliation. Holmes gestured to me, and we left the house quietly.

I could not resist. "Are you quite certain that it is safe to leave her alone with him?"

"Oh, no doubt of it, Watson! Mr. Wickham is an admirable young man, and I have every confidence their union will be a long and happy one." He pretended not to see me smiling at him.

We had one more call to make that night. We informed Inspector Lestrade that a Frenchman named Etienne Piaget had shot and killed Mr. Curtis with a pistol taken from the business premises of Wickham & Piaget, wine merchants, and that he could most likely be apprehended aboard the Mary Small before it sailed the next day.

We were sitting down to our midday meal on the day of the twenty-third when an enormous clamour erupted outside our door; we could hear a frenzied voice calling out Holmes's name. Holmes opened the door to a wild-eyed Wickham and an upset Mrs. Hudson pleading with him to desist. Holmes reassured the housekeeper and drew the young man inside.

"She is gone, Mr. Holmes! Taken from her room during the night! Amy has been abducted!"

"Calm yourself, Wickham. Did the servants summon the police?"

His eyes darted back and forth between us. "They did not even know she was missing until I arrived—they assumed she was still sleeping since she had not left her room! Mr. Holmes, what are we to do?"

Holmes slumped down disconsolately on a chair. "And I was arrogant enough to think this affair was concluded! How did her abductors get into the house?"

"I don't know!"

"Think back. In what condition was her room?"

"In disarray. A chair was overturned, a vase was broken—Amy fought them." He choked back a sob. "Glass! There was window glass on the floor!"

"So they knew which room was hers. At least one of the blackguards was familiar with the house." He rose and began to pace. "I blame myself. I should never have left her there as long as Piaget is at large. But this latest escapade is senseless! What could he hope to gain? A forced marriage is out of the question, since he already has a—" Suddenly he broke off and stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

"Holmes?" I said.

"I am a fool!" he shouted. He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. "An utter fool!" He whirled toward Wickham. "Go immediately to the police and ask for Inspector Lestrade. Tell him Amy Stoddard is being held prisoner in the house of John Fulham in Grosvenor Square."

"Fulham!"

"Go now! Not a moment is to be wasted!"

Wickham left at a run. "Fulham abducted her?" I said incredulously.

"Or had her abducted. Watson, bring your pistol. We must make all haste."

Snow had begun to fall. Unfortunately, we had discharged our hired brougham the night before and thus wasted precious minutes finding a hansom cab. Holmes urged the driver to utmost speed.

"But why Fulham?" I asked as the horse did its best through the snowy streets. "Why do you conclude he is Miss Stoddard's abductor?"

"Watson, do you remember the young lady's words in her narration of the chance encounter with Piaget at the Lyceum Theatre? She said: 'I introduced him to Mr. Fulham.' If the two men were meeting for the first time ... then how did Fulham know Piaget has a wife in Bordeaux?"

"Good God!" I exclaimed. "You are right!"

"That was no chance meeting," Holmes continued. "It was arranged by the two men, so Piaget could make his gaffe about the steamship ticket. Don't you see, Watson? It's not Piaget who wanted to marry our young heiress—it was Fulham! Piaget is merely his henchman." Holmes's mouth was bitter. "Her father's 'friend.' "

"But Piaget did kill Curtis?"

"Oh, yes. Piaget is a scurrilous fellow who can pass up no opportunity to line his pockets, and Curtis was getting too close to the truth. Fulham must have been furious with his accomplice. To risk the larger reward to gain a lesser? Inexcusable. But Fulham evidently concluded that his plan to separate the two young lovers had less chance of success than he'd anticipated, so he abandoned it in favour of another plan. Compel Amy Stoddard to forge a new will in her father's handwriting, naming Fulham administrator of Stoddard's estate. It would be a license to steal."

We were both silent a moment, thinking our separate thoughts. I said, "After Amy Stoddard does what Fulham wants, what happens to her then?"

Holmes's face was grim. "Yes, what happens to her then? Fulham can hardly leave her alive to bear witness against him. I only hope we are not too late."

At last we reached Grosvenor Square. We dismissed the hansom cab and approached Fulham's house cautiously. "A ladder was needed to reach Miss Stoddard's room," Holmes said. "Let us see if we can find it." We made our way to the rear, looking through the half-open drapes into the ground floor of the building; no one was in sight.

The ladder was there. Fulham's house had an attic, but the ladder reached only to the first story. Holmes chose a window at random and we put the ladder in place. It was unnerving, climbing that slippery ladder with the wind and the snow blowing in our faces, but we reached the top without mishap. Holmes turned his face away and used his elbow to break the glass.

Inside, we found ourselves in what appeared to be a guest bedchamber. We paused a moment, long enough to ascertain that the sound of breaking glass had not been heard elsewhere in the house. Then we began a systematic search of the rooms on that floor. Once a servant appeared carrying bed linens, but we stepped quickly into one of the rooms and avoided detection.

Holmes silently pointed upward. We located the backstairs leading to the attic. We tested each step before putting our weight on it. At the top was a door that Holmes opened cautiously; it led to an attic room like any other attic room, full of trunks and boxes and semi-discarded items. At the far end was another door. I drew my pistol.

Just as we reached the second door, we heard a scream. "Never!" cried Amy Stoddard's muffled voice from the other side of the door. "I'll never do it!"

Holmes threw open the door. "Unhand her, you blackguards!" he cried.

Amy Stoddard lay huddled on the floor, with John Fulham and a black-haired man with a full mustache bending over her. Upon our entry, the latter immediately pulled a pistol from his pocket— but with a bound, Holmes was upon him before he could fire.

I pointed my own pistol at John Fulham. "If you value your life, Fulham," I said, "you will not move." He stood motionless, shock and disbelief written on his handsome face.

I risked a glance toward the two struggling men. At last Holmes succeeded in disarming his opponent.

"Chien d'un chien!" his adversary spat.

"And to you as well, Monsieur Piaget," Holmes replied, panting slightly from his exertions. Pointing Piaget's own pistol at him, Holmes knelt by the recumbent girl. "Miss Stoddard! Are you able to stand?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "Never have I been so happy to see someone!" With Holmes's assistance, she struggled to her feet. "He" she declared, pointing an accusing finger at John Fulham, "was trying to force me to write a new will in my father's hand!"

"But you resisted," Holmes said, "giving us the time to learn of your abduction and to take action. You have much courage, Miss Stoddard. You, Piaget! Go stand by your... master."

The Frenchman muttered under his breath but took his place at Fulham's side.

"And you, John Fulham, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Fulham had had time to think of a defence. "It was what Stoddard wanted," he said with a tremor in his voice. "He told me so. But he died before he could write the new will."

"Oh, that's to be your excuse, is it?" Holmes said with a sneer. He stepped up close to the other man. "Fulham, you are a truly despicable example of humanity. To betray a friendship of nearly thirty years' standing because your greed knows no bounds? Unthinkable! And to do so in such a loathsome way, by persecuting the innocent! It is our duty to protect our young, not exploit them. John Fulham, you are little more than a brute. I cannot begin to express my contempt for you!"

Personally, I thought he'd done quite well at expressing his contempt; but before I could say anything, an uproar broke out below-stairs. Leaving me to guard the two villains, Holmes went to the top of the stairs and shouted down to come to the attic.

In a trice Lestrade and Wickham were crowding into the attic room where Amy Stoddard had been held against her will; Lestrade had brought a number of peelers with him, who wasted no time in hauling Fulham and Piaget away. Wickham had an arm wrapped about Miss Stoddard, furious at what had been done to her but simultaneously relieved that she was unharmed.

Lestrade asked, "Did they torture you, miss?"

"I was struck two or three times," she said, "but not tortured. They told me I would receive no food or drink until I complied with John Fulham's wishes."

The inspector shook his head. "You're fortunate Mr. Holmes was able to deduce where you'd been taken."

She looked at Holmes. "I owe him a debt I will never be able to repay." Her face clouded. "My father trusted John Fulham. He considered him an honourable man."

"Well, miss," Lestrade said. "Men of goodwill can be deceived by those who aren't."

"Why, Lestrade," Holmes said with a laugh, "you're a philosopher now?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I'm just a policeman trying to do his job. Mr. Wickham here told me something of what's been happening, but details are missing. I take it you would not be averse to accompanying me and relating the whole story?"

"The pleasure," Holmes said expansively, "is truly all mine."

Many young ladies would take to their beds following so harrowing an experience; but Miss Amy Stoddard was planning a Christmas Eve dinner, and a Christmas Eve dinner she would have. She invited—nay, urged—Holmes and me to attend; we were happy to accept.

Ours was not a large party, only ten of us. The company was congenial, the food was good, and the wines were excellent— Wickham had seen to that. After we'd dined, we gathered in the vicinity of the open front door to listen to the carolers in the street.

Amy Stoddard placed a hand on Holmes's arm. "You made all this possible, Mr. Holmes. You gave me my life as a Christmas present."

Holmes tut-tutted. "You look happy, Miss Stoddard."

She laughed softly. "How could I not be happy? I'm with the man I am to marry, surrounded by old friends and new friends as well. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson—you are always welcome in this house. I will be grateful to both of you until my dying day." With a smile she glided away to join Wickham.

A servant moved among us with a tray filled with glasses of port.

"Well, Watson," Holmes said, taking a glass, "this is one of the most satisfying conclusions to our adventures within recent memory, would you not agree?"

"Most assuredly. You realize, do you not, that you yourself have acted in loco parentis for Miss Stoddard?"

"I? How so?"

"You gave her the protection her father was unable to provide."

Holmes smiled and lifted his glass. "Happy Christmas, my friend."