The Adventure of the Christmas Tree

William L. DeAndrea

Over the years of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he strove constantly to present himself as the perfect reasoner, divorced from all human failings and concerns. And it is true that his perception and deductive abilities were unparalleled in at least the recorded history of our race; it is also true that Holmes was not devoid of those becoming and manly sentiments which distinguish the true English gentleman.

In perusing my notes, I see that I have already recorded a number of cases that illustrate my point, among them "The Adventure of the Yellow Face" and "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton." There are others, recorded and unrecorded, that point in the same direction. Holmes scoffs, but I believe his ability to feel, albeit tightly controlled, enhances his genius as an investigator.

We were in our rooms at 22 IB Baker Street on the third day of winter of 1889, I reading the Lancet, and Holmes standing in the bow window scratching out tunes on the violin as he looked out at London. The weather had obliged the calendar by delivering at the advent of winter the first important snowstorm of the year.

The downy whiteness had muffled the usual bustle of the metropolis. I found it quite soothing, and it augured for a peaceful Christmas to come.

"I believe we are to have a visitor, Watson," Holmes said. "Two of them, to be precise."

"A case, Holmes?" I inquired.

I looked up to see him smile. "Bill collectors do not travel in the company of young ladies, and the charitably minded, collecting for a worthy cause, would stop at other doors than ours. I think we might safely say that these are potential clients come to see us."

I put away the Lancet and tidied up the area in which I had been reading. Soon Mrs. Hudson knocked to tell us that the visitors were Joseph Camber, and his daughter, Nancy.

Camber was nervous and embarrassed. He kept his hat, an old-fashioned high beaver, in his hands as he sat, and constantly turned it by the brim. He wasn't a tall man, but he was a muscular one, particularly in the arms and shoulders. His hair was brown, shot with gray. He was dressed for church, or for business, but he seemed uncomfortable in city clothes, as evidenced by the times he ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

The daughter was much more self-possessed. She was also brown haired, and she had a softer version of her father's strong features, rendering her handsome, rather than pretty. Still, she had an air of health and confidence about her that was most fetching.

"Good afternoon," said my friend. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. Pray, how may we help you?"

Camber looked at his hat. "I feel a ruddy fool," said he. His accents marked him as a Highland Scot.

His daughter had the same soft burr. She laid a hand on Camber's arm and said, "Now, Father, we've come here. The decision has been taken."

"Ach. I know, but it sounds so daft."

"Perhaps I can help you get started," offered Sherlock Holmes. "You are the forester on the estate of the Duke of Balleshire in Scotland. You are left handed, and a widower, and you have come to consult me on a matter which will leave your mind no peace until you have got to the bottom of it."

The eyes of our younger visitor went wide with surprise; the elder visitor began to sputter. The only intelligible sounds he uttered were, "But how ... ?"

Holmes gave the merest suggestion of a bow. "A trifling matter, really. The callosities on your hands are those of the man who wields the saw and the axe. Since your left hand is more heavily callused on the webbing of the thumb, that is the hand in which you hold the saw. As for being a widower, an outdoorsman will frequently seek the support of a woman in dealing with problems with which he is not familiar. Since your daughter is here with you instead of a wife, I assume that the lady in question is not available. Her having passed from the world was simply the most likely explanation. Am I perchance in error?¹'

"No, my Aggie's been gone these seven years. By gaw, I would have liked to have her advice now. She was never o'er thrifty with the givin' of it when she was alive, ye ken."

"Father!"

Holmes's amusement could be seen only in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Camber," said he, "but you shall have to make do with only my advice."

"How did you know about the Duke?" the daughter demanded. "And about how this has been preying on his mind?"

"Your father is wearing a stickpin in his cravat bearing the Duke's crest. Unless His Grace has developed a hitherto secret passion for woodsmanship, I knew your father must be in the Duke's employ, and that the pin is some sort of gift."

Camber nodded proudly. "Aye, man and boy forty years in the service of the duke and the old duke before him. The pin was given me from His Grace's own two hands Christmas last." His face turned grim. "Christmas in Scotland ye ken, is not the spectacle of it the Sassenach's make. We're more apt to save our celebrations for Hogmanay, when a man can see in the new year and get behind a wee nip or two. But His Grace's mother was from across the border, and he likes to keep the holiday in the ways she preferred. As a good servant, I've always done my best to help him, but this year it's landed me up to my ruddy ears in a mystery.

And as you say, it preys on my mind till I'm sleepless over it."

Holmes's nostrils had flared at the sound of the word mystery. The ineffable scent of that particular phenomenon was the breath of life to him.

"Indeed," said he, "I deduced as much when a member of such as canny race as the Scots would travel to London to consult me in the matter. I adjust my fees according to my interest in a case, Mr. Camber, but I do charge them."

Camber closed his eyes as though enduring great pain. "Ah, know it," he said with a sigh. "But I have no choice. The regular police, both in Scotland and here, laughed in my face. By gaw, we'll see who's laughing at the end."

"Now, please, tell me the details of your mystery. I know from the Times that the duke is keeping Christmas this year at his house in London. Does it have to do with him?"

Camber turned to his daughter. "You tell it, Nancy."

"Very well, father." She turned to us. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. We believe it does have to do with the duke. You see, His Grace spends alternate Christmases in London, and when in London, he follows the practice so many have adopted in emulation of the late prince consort. He erects in the hall of the building a Christmas tree. He supervises the hanging of the decorations and presents, and lights the candles himself."

"Yes. An invitation to the destruction of the house by fire, but I suppose it has its charm. How do you know of this?"

"I have the honour of being the personal maid to Lady Caroline, His Grace's eldest daughter."

"I see. Pray go on."

"In those years when His Grace celebrates in London, it is his pleasure to cause a tree from his own estate to be shipped up to town for decoration. A week or so before Christmas, my father selects the most robust and symmetrically formed tree of the proper size from among the large stand of Scotch pines on the grounds of the estate. He then makes preparations for the preservation of the tree in transit—something I do not understand, I'm afraid."

The outdoorsman shook his head in a gesture of dismissal.

"Earth and ice in alternating layers, with burlap between and canvas outside. It's really elementary."

I cleared my throat. "The workings of the expert mind," said I, "while perhaps seeming elementary to the experts themselves, do not always appear so to those who lack that expertise."

I had been wanting to say that for years.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Nancy Camber, "that expresses a thought I've never been able to articulate. In any event, my father made the usual trip out to the woods, marked the tree for cutting, then went to the railway station to make arrangements for a crate to ship the tree in."

"Upright and braced," said Joseph Camber decisively. "So that the branches might not be marred."

"But the next day, when he went with the horse and sledge to cut it and bring it away—"

"It wasn't there!" interjected Camber. "The ruddy thing was gone. I mean, I've heard of poachin', but I've never heard of anyone daft enough to poach a tree."

"Is there any reason someone might want to do that, in any case?"

Camber shook his head. "I've been bruisin' my brain on just that question, Mr. Holmes. Pine is no good for firewood; too much resin, gums up the flue. Ye can make decent, rough-hewn furniture from it, but not from a tree small enough to keep in a house."

"You say you marked the tree. In what manner did you do this?"

"I just put a wee nick in the bark at eye level. It's easy to spot if you know what to look for, but it doesn't mar its decorative properties, ye ken."

"What did you do when you discovered the tree missing?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Holmes, I spent quite a while goin' back and forth between scratchin' my head and cursin'. When I left off doin' that, I did the only thing I could do. I found the next-best tree, and cut that and sent it to be shipped."

Holmes rubbed his chin. "Hmmm," said he. "Mr. Camber, your case presents certain elements of interest, and I think—"

"Oh!" said Nancy Camber. "Please, Mr. Holmes, forgive me for interrupting you, but we haven't got to the mysterious part yet."

"Oh," said Holmes in his turn. He began to fill his pipe. "I shall smoke if you've no objection. Pray continue."

"You see, sir, I prevailed upon my father to travel to London to keep Christmas with me. He is great friends with MacBurney, the duke's valet, and His Grace is rather fond of Father himself, so there was no problem about Father's staying with MacBurney in his room, and sharing our servants' Christmas fare."

"Then I took a notion," Camber said. For years, I'd been cutting the trees, but I'd never seen one in place. I reckoned this'd be my one chance to do it, so Nancy and MacBurney ganged up on the butler, a Sassenach named Havering, and he let me into the hall where the tree was."

"The hall is closed off before Christmas Eve," Nancy explained. "And no fire is lit there until then, to aid in keeping the tree fresh. Father went in and—"

"It was the missing tree! The very one that had been stolen in Scotland!"

"How can you be sure of that, Mr. Camber?" I inquired. "Your mark might have been copied after all."

"Dr. Watson," said he. "A medical man?"

I nodded assent.

"Do you deliver bairns, then?"

"Frequently," said I.

"Do you ever deliver more than one bairn in a day?"

"Of course."

"And if, at the end of that day, someone showed you one of the bairns, could you tell which one it was?"

"Of course."

"Well, Dr. Watson, trees are my bairns. I plant 'em when that's needed, and cut them down when that's needed. I watch 'em and take care of 'em, and spend my life around 'em. I made a study of that tree before I picked it. I'll take my oath that that is the same tree."

Holmes drew deeply of the aromatic shag in his pipe. "We'll take that established, then, Mr. Camber. Do you have any idea of what happened to the tree you cut and shipped?"

"Not a glimmer."

"Miss Camber?"

She looked surprised. "I? No, I have no idea at all. I am simply worried that someone is playing some sort of nasty joke on my father, seeking to spoil the fine relationship he and His Grace's family have always enjoyed.¹'

Camber thumbed the top of his beaver hat. "Ah think this is summat much worse than a joke. It's mighty expensive for a joke, even for people of quality. Ah think it's some kind of evil plot, aimed at His Grace. He's quite an important figger in diplomatic circles, ye ken."

"Yes," Holmes said dryly. "I was aware of that." Holmes jumped to his feet. "Yes!" cried he. "The outré nature of this puzzle is quite refreshing. I shall investigate, Mr. Camber, and report to you at the earliest opportunity. You both remain at the duke's residence in Ounslow Square? Good."

"Well, now, Mr. Holmes," said Camber. "I don't—that is, I'm not a wealthy man."

"Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Camber. I shall leave you enough for bread and a ticket back to Scotland. On your way now. Charmed to have met you, Miss Camber."

When they were gone, Holmes threw himself into his seat and said, "For the first time, this looks as if it might be a tolerable holiday after all. What do you make of them, Watson?"

"Oh," said I. "They seem quite devoted to each other, and they are obviously sincere."

"Yes, Watson. You may trust me to notice the obvious for myself. What do you think of their story?"

"I hardly know what to think. At first blush, such machinations with an emblem of the festive season seem sinister, but has the final result been? The tree Camber wished to be in the duke's house is now in the duke's house, and an inferior tree is missing."

"Forget the inferior tree," said Holmes. "The inferior tree is now a pile of ashes, or flotsam in the Thames. What we must concentrate our attention on is how the original tree reached its destination on its own, like some vegetable version of a homing pigeon. And why."

"How are we to do that?" I inquired.

"Facts are the bricks from which deductions are built, Watson. Come, we go to seek facts."

We sought them in the Diogenes Club, that remarkable collection of unsociable men, who go there to read or eat or drink or relax in a comfortable chair, but who never, on pain of expulsion, allow one word of conversation to be passed one to the other.

Talking is allowed only in the Strangers' Room, and it was there we spoke to Holmes's elder brother, Mycroft. The corpulent elder brother was what he sometimes liked to describe as a "facilitator" for the British government. He had no title, nor even (so far as I knew) an office, but he seemed to know everything about any current crisis.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes informed his brother about Joseph Camber's mysterious story.

"Suggestive," said Mycroft Holmes.

"I found it so," averred his brother. "It is common knowledge that the duke moves, as my client says, in the 'highest diplomatic circles.' Is he engaged in anything of importance at the moment?"

"He is involved in something of the first importance. He is engaging in unofficial, preliminary talks concerning South West African mineral concessions with the Germans. The German government has brought Herr Stefan Geitzling over from Africa to begin the talks."

Mycroft Holmes pressed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his lips. "I need not tell you gentlemen that since the uniting of the German States under the Kaiser, relations with that country have been strained, and the strain is felt most strongly in our respective empires. The problem under discussion may be a relatively trivial one, but if such trivialities cannot be worked out amicably, they will fester over time and, one day within our lifetimes, burst out into a horrible war."

I privately wondered what this had to do with Christmas trees, but I held my peace.

Holmes said, "I intend to call on His Grace this afternoon. I shall not, of course, allude openly to what you have told me, but I will keep it in mind. I answer for the discretion of Dr. Watson."

A rare smile disturbed the folds of Mycroft Holmes's face. "My dear Sherlock, I am quite prepared to answer for the doctor's discretion myself. Do, please, communicate with me again if you learn anything the government should know."

Holmes indicated he would, and we bade Mycroft farewell.

"Now, to Ounslow Square, I imagine," said I.

Holmes was already hailing a cab. We clopped along through the whitened streets. The weather seemed to have accelerated the rate at which the usual glumness and irritation of city life are replaced by goodwill as Christmas approaches. In this case, the cabbie seemed to be smiling even before he received his tip.

According to Holmes's wish, we alighted in the business area of South Kensington before proceeding to the square. Much to my surprise, he bade me wait on the sidewalk whilst he went into an ironmonger's shop, emerging a few moments later with a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

A butler at the duke's residence informed us that His Grace was in a meeting at the moment. Holmes asked that his card be brought in to him at the next opportunity, and asked if we might wait in the meanwhile.

The butler reluctantly assented.

In the event, we did not have to wait long. The butler returned, and asked us to accompany him to a room on the first floor. When we arrived, we saw it was fitted up as a conference room, with a large table in the middle of it. The table was littered with maps and charts and documents, some in English, some in German. Having no wish to surprise my country's secret affairs, I looked no further than that.

The butler began to announce us. but he had barely gotten our names from his mouth before a round, squat little man with an imperial beard and a monocle came forward and pumped my companion's hand vigorously.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what an honour it is to meet you. Even in the Godforsaken desert, we have of your adventures read, as recorded by the so-good Dr. Watson."

He let go of Holmes's hand to pump mine for a while. "When we send for brandy and soda, and the so-good Perkins bring in to us the card of yours, I am beside myself with joy. I am neglecting my task, which is talking with my new good friend. His Grace, but I claim a guest's indulgence and say meet you I must do. And here you are."

"Here I am, indeed." Holmes turned to the duke, whose youthful face under a crop of snow white hair showed a not-quite-suppressed smile of amusement. "Your Grace, I do not mean to interrupt your work, but I wish to have a few words with you, on something of importance. A matter has come to my attention which concerns you."

"It's quite all right, Mr. Holmes. I believe Herr Geitzling"— here the round man bowed, still beaming—"and Herr Untermeyer, his aide"—and now a handsome, blue-eyed young man with dark curly hair bowed—"were beginning to feel almost as stale as I do myself. That was why I rang for refreshment. May I be excused to talk to Mr. Holmes, Herr Geitzling?"

"You may on one condition be excused, Your Grace."

"Even now, mein Herr, you remain a tough negotiator. What is your condition?"

"That after your talk, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to this room return and the brandy and soda share with us. Furthermore, we shall talk not about our business while they are here, but about their adventures."

The duke made a conciliatory shrug. "You must appreciate, Herr Geitzling, that Mr. Holmes is a busy man—"

"But not so busy that we cannot spare some time for such a distinguished visitor to our shores, Your Grace. We will be delighted to join you."

We repaired downstairs to the duke's study, a fine, masculine room of leather and books.

He told us to be seated, and took a chair behind a large square desk. "So, Mr. Holmes, what is the matter that needs my attention?"

"I believe your life may be in danger, Your Grace."

His Grace seemed as shocked as I was.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes. My life? In danger? From whom?"

"How important is the matter which you are discussing with Herr Geitzling?"

"Moderately important. I cannot go into details."

"That will not be necessary, for the present. Would events be dire if these talks were to fail?"

"Concealing nothing from you, Mr. Holmes, I don't think so.

Expensive, yes. Inconvenient, certainly. But dire? No. Nothing irrevocable here."

Then His Grace smiled slyly. "If the failure of these talks— which, by the way, I do not anticipate, they are going quite well, thank you—if the theoretical failure of these talks was to have a dire effect on anyone, it is likely to be Stefan Geitzling. His wife is a distant relative of the Kaiser's. It is undoubtedly why he holds the position in Africa that he does. He certainly has no affection for the place, complains about it constantly. Still, he is a typical German, conscientious and painstaking. He knows his business.¹'

"How about his aide?"

"Othmar Untermeyer is also painstaking and conscientious. He is a polite and self-effacing young man." Again, we saw the duke smile. "My daughter is quite taken with him. Really, Mr. Holmes. Your brother and I know each other well, and I am both flattered and honoured by your concern, but this particular negotiation is not the sort of thing that leads one to fear for his life."

"Perhaps the danger comes from other quarters. Have you any personal enemies?"

"Only political ones. We don't assassinate each other in the House of Lords, Mr. Holmes. Not for some time, at least. Please, what has happened to cause your concern?"

"Information received. It would be pointless to burden Your Grace with the matter, especially since nothing can be found to substantiate it at this time."

"I'm sure your informant is mistaken," said the duke.

"Still, it is best to be thorough. Have I your permission to question the servants and the other inmates of the house?"

The Duke waved his hand. "You may have carte blanche, if it helps to resolve the matter. But before doing that, you must come and speak with Geitzling. Perhaps this will get a few more tons of magnesium ore per annum from him."

Holmes rarely agreed to socialize, but when he did he could be utterly charming, as he was on this occasion. This was perhaps helped by the fact that Herr Geitzling seemed to know every aspect of the detective's career, and be impressed by all of it.

"It is gratifying to know that my accounts are so well perused in such a faraway place," I said at one juncture to a compliment of Geitzling's about my writing.

"It helps keep me to Europe tied," said he. "I have a duty, and this I do, but I miss home. Even here, I have the things I have not for two years had at Christmas. The snow, the promise of a roast goose, the smell of the tannenbaum. His Grace also the custom follows, and though he tries to keep it from me a secret, I can hardly wait to see it."

"How did you know that, Geitzling?" demanded the duke.

"Because in the nose I can smell it when I come in. It the lower hall pervades, and makes me feel as if I am already home."

"I hope," said His Grace, "you will think of this as your home while you are here."

Geitzling said, "His Grace has been so kind as to invite Herr Untermeyer, and Frau Geitzling and myself, to Christmas Eve keep with him here. It was Lady Caroline's idea."

I gave an involuntary glance at Othmar Untermeyer and saw on his face a young man's pride in his attractiveness.

Holmes took a last sip of his brandy and soda, rose, and announced that we must be off on further business.

Geitzling was crestfallen; His Grace, seeing how upset his counterpart was, had a suggestion. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor, if you've no previous plans, why don't you keep Christmas Eve with us as well? Then you can regale us all even with your adventures. It will be just a small gathering, but I fancy we'll generate some holiday cheer."

"We shall be delighted," said Holmes. "No idea could suit me better." He was, it seemed, giving free rein to his sentimental side.

The butler was summoned to show us out, but Holmes told him we had permission to roam the house and talk to those around. The butler conceded that His Grace had given him some such instructions, and left us to our own devices.

"Holmes, have we nothing to ask the butler?"

"Nothing. Come. Let me first retrieve my parcel in the hallway."

This done, we came to the locked door behind which stood the tree. I could now perceive that Geitzling had been right; there was a strong smell of pine even here, on the other side of a thick oak door. I remarked on this to Holmes.

"Yes, Watson, like the railway, you are frequently late, but you get there. Now, if you will just stand guard ..."

From his pocket, he drew a skeleton key and put it in the lock.

"Holmes!" said I. "You're not—"

"His Grace gave us carte blanche, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

I was talking to the oak panels of the door. Holmes was already inside. The pine scent that had been drawn out of the room with the opening of the door was nearly overpowering. Carefully, I put my ear to the door in an effort to perhaps hear what my friend was up to.

What I did hear was a soft, feminine voice saying, "Dr. Watson?"

I turned to see a lovely young lady of about one-and-twenty. She had a large quantity of blonde curls, and large brown eyes that dominated her rather pleasant face.

"Forgive my forwardness. Father told me you were here. I am Caroline Bentley." She gave me her hand.

"Lady Caroline," I said with a slight bow.

"Are you feeling well, Doctor?"

"I'm quite all right, thank you."

"Forgive me. I only ask because you were leaning against the door, I thought you might feel faint."

"No, Lady Caroline," said I. "Not at all. I was, um, investigating the source of the pine odour that Herr Geitzling was so enthusiastic about."

She laughed like tinkling bells. "Then, Doctor, you have sniffed out the truth, for in that room is the great tree sent down to us from Scotland. I can hardly wait to see it."

"Haven't you?"

"None of us has. It's part of the fun of the holiday—we trust the judgement of our forester implicitly. Othmar—that is, Herr Untermeyer—thinks it a charming custom."

"As do I, Lady Caroline," I said. I spoke, I suppose, louder than need be, for I wanted to make sure that Holmes heard us through the heavy door, and did not create an embarrassing situation by emerging while Lady Caroline was there.

"Father tells me you and Mr. Holmes will be keeping Christmas with us. I am so pleased."

"You and your father are very kind," I said.

"Not at all. We enjoy spreading the spirit of the season.

"Where is Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"I can hardly say," I told her truthfully. "He stepped away for a few moments, and asked me to remain here."

Lady Caroline said that as much as she'd like to, she could not remain, and that she looked forward to seeing us again tomorrow evening. I watched her safely down the corridor, then knocked on the door to let Holmes know he might emerge if he chose.

He did so in a few moments, bringing with him another strong breath of pine.

"Excellent, Watson," said he. "You are by little and little overcoming your inherent honesty and developing a positive skill for indirection."

I sniffed. "I hardly know if I should thank you for that. Were your efforts successful?"

"Eminently. I have changed the nature of the trap; it remains for tomorrow evening to see who shall fall into it."

After a brief visit with our clients, to tell them the situation was well in hand, we returned to Baker Street.

That evening, Holmes as usual was maddeningly unwilling to discuss the case at hand. Only once did my importuning avail anything. "I'm sorry, Watson, but you know how I dislike to explicate a case before it is completed. I shall only say that you should have sniffed out the solution for yourself."

"Confound it, Holmes. Are you or are you not drawing my attention to the strong pine odour that suffused the lower part of the house?"

"I am, indeed, Watson."

"What can one infer simply from an odour? I am not, after all, a bloodhound."

Holmes pulled his lower lip. "More to the point, you are a city-bred man. My people, as you know, were country squires. I know how a tree is supposed to smell."

I felt some of the old excitement; perhaps we were getting to the meat of the nut at last. "What was wrong with the smell, Holmes?" I asked.

"Nothing, Watson. Absolutely nothing. That was an especially intense whiff of the unmistakable fragrance of Scotch pine."

Before I was done sputtering, Holmes had picked up his violin. "I feel the spirit of the season upon me," said he, and he began playing "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen."

There was but one more allusion to the case before we left Baker Street for His Grace's residence. Just prior to leaving, Holmes said, "It would be as well, Watson, to slip your revolver in your pocket."

"Holmes!" I cried. "On Christmas Eve?"

"Evil takes no holidays, Watson. Therefore, neither can those who would stop it."

We were greeted heartily by His Grace and Lady Caroline upon our arrival. The hall was now open, the tree revealed in all its green magnificence, the Yule log roaring in the fireplace. Holly was hung liberally about, and the tree had already been garlanded and hung with some ornaments. The duke invited us to join in the work of decoration, which, to my surprise, Holmes did.

"It is good, Mr. Holmes, we haff you to help the ornaments hanging, you are tall like Othmar, and can reach up high." Herr Geitzling was in high holiday spirits, frequently remarking that this was just like home, and constant in his attentions to Frau Geitzling, a woman as red and plump as her husband.

"I will get the candles," said Othmar Untermeyer. I had wondered how the candles were fixed to the tree so they wouldn't fall over, and, watching Untermeyer, I learned. He lit one candle and carefully softened the bottoms of the others letting the wax conform to the irregularities in the bark as he put them on. With his reach (he was, in fact, even taller than Holmes) he had little trouble placing the candles at the top of the tree, and he worked his way down, blowing out the softening candle and putting it on a lower branch.

"Lovely," exclaimed the duke. "Just lovely. We will light the candles after a holiday toast."

A servant came in with a tray of hot toddies. These were passed around, and the scent of the warm, buttered rum brought back holiday memories for me. I could see on the faces of the others that I was not alone.

His Grace raised his cup. "To friendship and happiness. To family and memories. To Her Majesty and the Kaiser and all their subjects. To Christmas."

"To Christmas," we echoed, and drank.

Just then, the butler entered. He spoke a word to His Grace, then went to Untermeyer, with whom I was discussing the aseptic theories of Dr. Lister of Vienna. The butler told him there was a German person outside who needed to see him; some sort of emergency. Untermeyer in his turn made his excuses to the duke, and followed the butler.

As soon as they were gone, Holmes materialized at my side. "This is it, Watson. He will return in a moment and say he has to leave the party. Mark what he says, and leave a minute after he does. You have your revolver?"

"At the ready."

"Good man."

With that, Holmes himself slipped out of the room. Typically, he did it unnoticed by all save myself. And true to Holmes's prediction, Untermeyer was back in seconds, making apologies to the duke, then to the party at large. "A family emergency," he said. "I must go."

"Othmar, can I of service be?" asked Mr. Geitzling.

"No, sir, no. I wouldn't dream of spoiling your Christmas. I insist you stay."

He left. Now I was supposed to go. Not being surreptitious, like Holmes, not having a ready-made excuse like Untermeyer, I simply told Lady Caroline that I had to leave the room and would be back in a few moments. She was already missing Untermeyer, and barely heard me.

I headed for the front door and down the steps. Holmes was waiting, not quite invisible in the shrubbery.

"This way, Watson," he whispered. Following his finger with my gaze, I could see that two men were about halfway down the block. "Quickly now," he said.

"Do you recognize them?" he said as we closed the distance between us.

"The tall one is Untermeyer," I ventured.

"Indeed, and the other is Von Tepper, a notorious anarchist. Mycroft has suspected he has been secretly in London. He will be pleased to know we have captured him."

"We haven't done it yet, Holmes."

"Confidence, Watson, confidence."

We had now drawn quietly to within ten yards of our prey. Holmes drew his revolver; I followed his lead.

"Untermeyer! Von Tepper!" he barked. The men turned. "Your plot has failed," he went on. "There will be no explosion. The duke and Geitzling will not die. You will start no war between England and Germany. At least not this Christmas."

"You are wrong, Mr. Holmes," Untermeyer said. He sneered around a small black cigar. "Even now. His Grace is lighting the candles. When he gets to the last one I placed on the tree, he is doomed. They are all doomed. I am sorry about poor, foolish Lady Caroline. And I am sorry you will not be there to die with them."

"Sorry to disappoint you, mein Herr" said Holmes, reaching under his cape, "but I pulled the teeth of your little monster yesterday. He held up a parcel. "Quite an interesting device, the latest in high explosives."

"Herr von Tepper was responsible for procuring it. Well, you have spoiled our little plan. There will be other occasions."

"Not for you," said I.

"It does not matter. Others will rise until government and privilege have been done away with forever!"

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Your movement will need conspirators more intelligent than yourselves. Why did you select the very tree that Camber had marked for cutting?"

"Our allies in Scotland did that. It was done so that the tree would be acceptable to the duke when it arrived. We didn't know that the fool of a forester would come here to identify the thing." He took a puff of a cigar. "Or that he would consult you. He did consult you, did he not?"

Holmes gave a slight bow. "So you got hold of the tree, bored a hole through the back of the trunk and into a thick lower limb, packed that with explosive, and placed a sharp end of fuse through the remaining shell of wood for a candle to be placed on, a candle you would shorten by using it to soften the bottom of all the other candles. Did you think I wouldn't notice that the last candle stayed erect without having its bottom softened? I wasn't even forced to wait to see who made an excuse to leave the party early; I already knew you for the conspirator."

"How did you come to suspect the bomb?" Untermeyer had no air of a villain thwarted. He seemed honestly to wish to know where his errors had been.

"The tree was already suspect, thanks to Mr. Camber. The pine scent told me the rest. When you cut into a resinous wood like pine, you increase the intensity of the fragrance manyfold. I suspected something implanted in the tree even before I reached the duke's house. A breath of air within it, and the matter was settled. I had stopped at an ironmonger's shop and provided myself with an auger. A few seconds' work was enough to disarm your little toy. Here," Holmes said.

Then, to my astonishment, he tossed the parcel to Untermeyer.

The German mouth widened in a grin that was almost hideous. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I believe I know what you have in mind, and I shall avail myself of it." He puffed deeply on his cigar, causing the end to glow bright red. "However," said he, "I fear you underestimate the power of this new substance."

He took the cigar from his mouth.

Von Tepper screamed the only word I ever heard from him: "Nein!"

Holmes brought me to the pavement with a rugby tackle just as Untermeyer said, "See you in hell, Mr. Holmes," and touched the coal of his cigar to the parcel.

The blast felt like the kick of a spirited horse, and made my ears ring for a moment, but I was otherwise unharmed. Of Untermeyer and Von Tepper, nothing remained but a stain on the pavement.

"He was a fool," said Holmes. "Had he not the wit to imagine I would adjust the amount of explosive in the parcel?" He shook his head, and helped me to my feet.

"Come, Watson. We must go and spoil everyone's Christmas with the sad news that Herr Untermeyer and his friend have been assassinated by anarchists."

*        #        *

On Christmas Day in our Baker Street rooms, with Mrs. Hudson's wonderful goose inside us, Holmes puffing on the new pipe I had given him and I placing early engagements for next year into the leather-covered physician's pocket diary he had given me, Holmes finally deigned to discuss the events of the previous night.

"It takes but little imagination to see, Watson," said he, "that arresting Untermeyer and putting him on trial would be little better than letting his assassination plot succeed in the first place."

"In what way, pray?"

"The man wouldn't admit to being an anarchist; he was an employee of the German government. He would say he was following orders."

"But the Germans would deny it!" I protested.

"Which they would in any case. And our government, no doubt, would believe them. But the suspicion would remain, poisoning relationships, and adding to the already dangerous international tension. Mark my words, Watson, if war comes, it will be caused by just such a trivial incident as the assassination of a duke."

"Hardly trivial to the duke," I ventured.

"Quite so, Watson."

"And so you offered yourself, and me, though I hesitate to mention it, as bait to make it worthwhile for Untermeyer to kill himself."

"If you wish to put it that way."

"Strictly for patriotic reasons."

"Indeed. Mycroft is beside himself with the joy of it, I'll wager. My Christmas gift to him."

"You had no thought of Lady Caroline? She was well on her way to falling in love with that evil young man. You let her remember him as a martyr, rather than as a scoundrel who used her trust in an effort to kill her father and her."

"Well, Watson," he said in mock surprise. "So I did." Then, more sombrely, he said, "I am sorry I could not prevent Christmas from becoming a time of sad memories for her. But we cannot be expected to pass miracles, eh, Watson?"

"Not that kind," said I. "Happy Christmas, Holmes."

"And the same to you, my dear Watson."