The Adventure of the Christmas Ghosts

Bill Crider

It was the morning of the twenty-second day of December, a Sunday according to my notes, that Sherlock Holmes and I received one of the strangest visitors who had hitherto arrived at our lodgings at 221B Baker Street. I heard the man coming down the hall, and even before he had brushed past Billy, our page boy, and entered into our sitting room, I used the methods I had begun to learn from Holmes to reach a conclusion about our caller.

I deduced that he was not coming to give the greetings of the season to Holmes. I arrived at this conclusion because, although this was early in our association, I already knew Holmes to be the least sentimental and the least superstitious man I had ever known. Our halls were not decked with holly but with retorts and vials; there was not within our rooms the steamy scent of plum pudding but of the tobacco from our pipes mixed with the faint chemical odour of one of Holmes's experiments; the music Holmes occasionally played on his violin was of his own composing and was not remotely related to any known carol; and for Holmes, the idea of cattle bowing down in their stalls at midnight on the eve of Christmas was nothing more than the sheerest fantasy, laughable on its face. Logic was what Holmes believed in, rare as he considered logic to be in the world in which we lived.

Our visitor, as I have said, brushed past Billy and entered our room. He was a man of middle age, somewhat above medium height, well dressed in a dark suit and clean linen, with his hat firmly mounted on his head. His face was smooth shaven and strongly scored with lines that ran beside his mouth and down his chin as if he might have spent his life frowning perpetually. His face was ruddy, either from the intense cold outside or from his exertions, and his breath came in short gasps, as if he had run all the way to our rooms from his own.

"This gentleman—" Billy began, but Holmes waved to him to be silent, and Billy backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?" our visitor asked, his voice rough with either emotion or the effects of the cold.

"I am," Holmes replied. "What brings you to us in such a rush and flurry of nervous agitation, having missed a deal of sleep into the bargain?"

"How did you know—ah, I see." Our visitor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have been almost running, and it has taken my breath, so you know that I was in a rush to see you."

"That you are short of breath is true," Holmes acknowledged, and I was gratified to realize that I too had noted as much. "And your shoes are wet, with a rind of ice beginning to form on your pants cuffs." continued Holmes, "indicating that you stepped onto a crusted-over puddle rather than taking the time to pass around it. You shaved so hurriedly this morning that you missed a spot just below your right ear and another just below your nose. You have also nicked yourself at least twice, and there is a dot of blood on your right shirt cuff, no doubt from one of the nicks; you would surely have changed the cuff had you noticed it."

Our visitor looked down at his cuff. "I had heard of your methods, and you do not disappoint me. Yes, I would have changed cuffs had I noticed."

Holmes looked over at me. "Always look at a man's hands first, Watson, and then his shoes and then the knees of his trousers. You will invariably learn something of interest."

"Quite so, Holmes," said I.

"As to your sleeplessness," Holmes went on, "I am sure that Watson has noted the way in which the pallor of your skin makes the black circles beneath your eyes stand out, a sure sign of sleepless nights."

"You are right," said Scrooge. "I have not slept well of late."

As usual, Holmes's analysis of the caller's condition seemed quite simple when he explained it, but I suspect that few men would have been able to reach the same conclusions from the clues that Holmes had observed.

"Now," said Holmes, "perhaps our visitor will have a seat and be so good as to tell us his name."

Removing his hat and seating himself opposite Holmes, the man said, "My name is Franklin Scrooge."

"Of Scrooge and Marley?" Holmes asked.

"The same. You have heard of my firm?"

"Certainly," responded Holmes. "As Watson could tell you, I have an interest in all the more sensational crimes of our little country. Isn't that right, Watson?"

It was of course true. Holmes, while his knowledge of ordinary things like literature and philosophy was virtually nil, had an immense store of facts at hand relating to sensational literature. He in fact seemed to have an intimate acquaintance with every appalling and dreadful crime committed within the last century.

Mr. Scrooge was puzzled. "I know of no crime in connection with Scrooge and Marley."

"Let me enlighten you, then," said Holmes. "I take it that you are related to one of the founders?"

"Yes. Ebenezer Scrooge was my uncle. My great-uncle, that is."

"And what of Marley?"

"Well, Marley died. That was the beginning of the whole confounded muddle in which I find myself. At least I believe that to be so."

"Let us not get our stories out of order," said Holmes. "Marley first. He died. Is that not correct?"

"Yes. Marley was dead. There can be no doubt about that."

"And how did he die?"

Mr. Scrooge started to answer. His mouth was halfway open. But then he closed it. "I ... well, I don't believe that anyone ever said."

"No, I suppose not. And yet your uncle, your great-uncle, was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, was he not?"

"I believe that is correct. But all that was long ago. What of it?"

"It is suggestive, is it not?" asked Holmes. "A man dies, and yet the cause of his death is never revealed. His business partner, the one who stands to gain the most—the one who stands to gain all—is never questioned. He was, as I understand the facts, a man quite well known for his avarice, and he inherited all the business." Holmes paused. "But, as you say, that was long ago. That is not why you came here. Why, by the way. did you come?"

I could see that Holmes had introduced the topic of the uncle, the great-uncle, to give our visitor some time to compose himself. He was now breathing quite regularly, and his face was composed. The lines beside his mouth, while still visible, had softened and receded into the flesh. He looked at me, then back at Holmes, sighed, and said, "Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes gave a barking laugh. "I most certainly do not. Ghosts do not exist any more than other creatures of occult legend—vampires, say, or werewolves. To believe otherwise is utter lunacy."

Our visitor looked at the floor. "I was afraid that you would say so. You reject the idea out of hand?"

"Or course," Holmes responded. "And so you should as well."

Scrooge looked up and turned to me. "Dr. Watson?"

"Are you asking about my beliefs, or about my services as a physician? I do not generally treat nervous maladies."

"A malady I may have," said Scrooge. "I do not deny it. And yet I have seen . .. things."

"Ghosts?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and worse than ghosts. Would you at least listen to my story? I do not ask that you believe it."

Holmes had little patience with people who presume they have seen things, ghosts in particular, and would ordinarily have told our visitor to leave at once. However, with no case of interest having come his way of late, he had been idle for several days, and while he might not have hoped for much, he told Scrooge to continue.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes! You do not know what I have suffered for the past two nights. It has been terrible, I assure you. But I must begin with my great-uncle, Ebenezer Scrooge. He was, as you seem already to know, the sole legatee of the late Jacob Marley, and when he took over as sole proprietor of the firm of Scrooge and Marley, a quite strange thing happened to him. It is the same thing that has been happening to me."

"The ghosts," said Holmes.

"Yes. The ghosts. My uncle was a greedy, grasping man, Mr. Holmes, but something happened that transformed him. It was the ghosts."

"Or perhaps his guilt over the untimely death of his partner."

"It could have been the effects of guilt. You see, when he went home one night, at just about this time of the year, he put his key into the lock of his door, and by chance he glanced at the knocker. But he did not see the knocker. He saw... Marley's face!"

Scrooge brought a handkerchief out of his coat and wiped his face, which had begun to perspire. I looked over at our fire, but it was burning low, and the room was hardly warm.

"When he looked again," Scrooge continued, "the knocker was merely a knocker again, and my uncle went inside the house and eventually went to bed. It was later that night that Marley's ghost appeared."

To my surprise, Holmes was leaning forward in his chair, his gray eyes a-gleam with excitement. "Did your uncle describe to you the process by which the knocker became Marley's face?"

"No. But that was not the strangest thing. When Marley's ghost appeared to him, my uncle ... floated in the air of his room." Scrooge held up a hand as if to still a protest that neither Holmes nor I had made. "That is what he told me. And the air was filled with noise and numberless phantoms."

"And you believed his story?"

"That was forty years ago or more. I was quite young at the time, and impressionable, but even then I thought it was just a story. Especially when he told the rest, about the other ghosts that visited him, ghosts that helped him pass through the very walls of his rooms and out into the streets. Ghosts that helped him see the past and the future."

"And what became of these ghosts?" asked Holmes.

"One of them he smothered with an extinguisher cap, like a candle."

"A very small ghost," observed Holmes.

"It was not small. But it... dwindled somehow."

"And the other ghosts?"

"One of them simply disappeared. The other transformed into a bedpost."

"And your uncle insisted that he saw these ghosts? That he floated through the air, that he passed through the very walls?"

"He did."

I felt it was time for me to speak as a physician. "And what did your uncle have for dinner the night he saw these 'ghosts'?" Could they not have been the result of a bit of undigested beef or a scrap of cheese? Perhaps a morsel of underdone fowl?"

"I would that it were so," said Franklin Scrooge, "and for a long time I believed that his visions were caused by nothing more, not that it mattered, for the visions, whatever might have been their cause, changed my uncle's life. They changed him from a miser into a philanthropist, from a skinflint into a virtual spendthrift, from one who believed Christmas to be a humbug into a man who loved that season more than any other. Previous to his seeing the ghosts, he tried to insist that his employees work even on Christmas Day, but that certainly changed. He had never had much to do with our family before that time, but from that Christmas forward he lavished us with his gifts and his attentions."

"So it seems that the results of his experiences were beneficial," I said.

"In his case, yes. But in my own ..."

"Your own?" prompted Holmes, eyes gleaming.

"In my own case, I fear for my life. For, you see, the ghosts are now visiting me."

"Ah," Holmes muttered. "These are very deep waters indeed. Pray go on with your most interesting story, Mr. Scrooge."

I was so surprised that I am afraid I may have muttered something or other under my breath. Sherlock Holmes finding interest in a ghost story? It seemed incredible. Both Holmes and our visitor looked at me strangely. I smiled and said, "Yes, please do go on."

Mr. Scrooge resumed his tale by saying, "For two nights now, I have been visited by ghosts, or what I believe must be ghosts. Call them that or phantoms or apparitions—call them what you will. To me, they are ghosts."

"Hooded figures?" asked Holmes. "Gibbering, sheeted spectres with eyes of flame? Describe them for us, please. And be as detailed as you can."

Scrooge shook his head. "They were nothing like the usual idea of ghosts. There were no sheets. They were more like the knocker on my uncle's door."

"The door knocker that became the face of Marley," said Holmes.

"Yes, exactly. Although in my case it was not a knocker. It was the doorknob."

"And what did it become?"

"The face of my great-uncle, Ebenezer Scrooge. It was strange, most horribly strange, but as I put my key into the lock of my door, the knob above my hand seemed to elongate, as if it were made of clay. And then it twisted itself into the very face of my uncle and floated before my eyes. Then it became a doorknob again."

"And for how long did it float before you?" asked Holmes.

"Why, I do not know," said Scrooge, as if this were the first he had thought of it. "It might have been a few seconds, or it might have been an hour. It has only just occurred to me, but I have no idea of the time that passed."

Holmes nodded as if he had suspected as much. "Please continue, then, Mr. Scrooge."

Scrooge passed a hand over his face and said, "Late that night, as I was preparing for bed, the curtains of my window began to sway and writhe. Eventually they assumed the shape of some kind of creature that I cannot really begin to describe. Somehow, I felt that the thing was speaking to me, and I opened the window. The creature passed outside and beckoned me. I knew at that instant that I could fly."

"But you could not, of course," Holmes said.

"No, although I must have tried. I have no recollection of launching myself through the window, but it seems that I did. I landed on the roof in a heap and slid for several yards over the rough shingles. I would have pitched into the street had I not been able to grasp the chimney and stop my progress. I managed somehow to crawl back to the window and pull myself shivering into the room. My nightshirt was damp, and I was extremely chilled. I got into my bed, but I was so terrified that I hardly slept.

"The next morning, I seemed a little better, and I did well throughout the day, conducting my business with precision and acumen. But that evening, at about eight o'clock, the gas flame in my room began to flicker and fade, and then it became the face of my father. It wavered in front of me and seemed to be trying to speak, but I heard nothing. That is, I heard nothing until I heard the tolling of midnight on the clock down the hall."

"The face hovered before you for four hours?" asked Holmes.

"So it must have been, although I could not give an accounting of the time. It might have been seconds, for all I knew of its passing. As I had the previous evening, I tried to forget the incident. I got into my bed, but I had not been there long before the room seemed to expand around me. getting larger and larger while the bed got smaller and smaller. Soon it was as if the walls had spread so far from me that I could barely see them. It was as if the room itself had become as large as all of London, or as if the bed and I had become as small as a pea. I believe that I must have screamed at that point, and when I did, the walls rushed inward upon me with the speed of a courser; but before they reached me, I fell asleep or into a faint."

Here our visitor paused once more to wipe his face with his handkerchief. He put it away and then said, "You must help me, Mr. Holmes. I fear that I am losing my mind or that the ghosts will somehow destroy me."

"In your uncle's case, did anyone else see the ghosts of which he told you?"

"No, or if so, he never told me of any witnesses."

"And has no one else seen the strange apparitions that appeared to you?"

"I am a widower," said Scrooge. "My wife died ten years ago, and since that time I have been a man of solitary habits and have lived alone. No one else saw what I have seen. But I know that I have seen it."

"I am sure that you know what you have seen," said Holmes. "And I will do what I can to help you."

I was astonished. Never would I have believed that Holmes could allow himself an interest in a story that seemed so fantastically unreal. Ghosts? Doorknobs that transformed themselves into faces? These were the very kinds of tales that Holmes abominated.

However, he seemed to have a genuine concern for our visitor, and he assured him that he would do all he could to assist him.

"You must, of course, be perfectly frank with me," he told Scrooge. "And you must answer all my questions, no matter how odd they may seem to you."

"I have heard of your methods, as I said. I will answer whatever you might ask."

"Good," said Holmes. "First of all, tell me about your place of business. How many employees do you have, and what is their character?"

"I employ seven men, including my clerk. All have worked for me for quite some time, five years at the least. The clerk, Timothy Cratchit, has been with me ever since I inherited the business from my uncle, and a more loyal employee I should never hope to have. His father served before him as clerk for my uncle just as faithfully. As to the others, their character is beyond reproach, with the possible exception of one Randall Tomkins, who is a fine man when sober but who on occasion is most decidedly not sober. On those occasions, which are unfortunately not infrequent, he does not appear at the firm of Scrooge and Marley."

"Very well," Holmes said, and I was gratified to hear his next question, which seemed to reflect his attention to my own earlier theory. "What meals do you eat, and where do you take them?"

"I rise early and break my fast with a slice of bread and an apple. I take lunch in the Bull and Boar, just around the corner from my office, and I often take dinner there as well, though there are other places where I dine when the mood is on me. Should I name them?"

"That is not necessary at present. Do you take tea?"

"Certainly. That is a daily ritual at the firm of Scrooge and Marley. Are you of the belief that some clot of cream or dab of biscuit is causing the appearance of these ghosts?"

"That remains to be seen. Tomorrow, Dr. Watson and I will visit you at your offices. As for today, I recommend that you go home and rest. Do not allow yourself any visitors. Should any come, simply tell them that you are unwell. I do not believe that your ghosts will visit you on a Sunday."

"I am afraid that you are taking me lightly," Scrooge said, mistaking Holmes's comment for a joke.

"On the contrary," said Holmes. "I assure you that I am taking you most seriously indeed. You have asked for my help and advice. If you do not choose to follow it, then I cannot accept your case."

Scrooge rose and settled his hat on his head. "I will do what you say. At what time will you arrive tomorrow?"

"As to that, I am not yet sure. But we will be there at one time or another. You may count on it."

"I will," said Scrooge, and then he left our quarters.

"I am most surprised at you, Holmes." said I when Scrooge was gone. "I had assumed that you had no curiosity about ghosts."

Holmes was rummaging round, searching for the Persian slipper where his tobacco was kept. "And you were quite correct in your assumption. Considering the fact that ghosts do not exist, it would be difficult to develop an interest in them. Ah, here it is."

He filled his pipe, and when he got it going to his satisfaction, he said, "We will be visiting the offices of Scrooge and Marley tomorrow afternoon. I am sorry to have presumed of you, Watson, that you would accompany me. I should have asked. But you will go, won't you?"

"Of course," said I. "I'm sure it will be as enlightening as any venture on which I have accompanied you."

"Good old Watson," said Holmes, a wreath of smoke surrounding him. "I knew that I could count on you. And you may want to take your revolver. It is best to be prepared."

"I hardly think that a revolver would be much use against a ghost," I said.

"Indeed," said Sherlock Holmes.

#        #        #

The next day was dark with clouds, and cold enough to crack stones. A thick, greasy fog slid around the buildings and rolled down the streets. Holmes and I spent the day indoors, I reading a book of memoirs written by one of my fellows from the Afghanistan campaign, Holmes going through his commonplace books and reading in some of the many volumes of chemical and criminal lore that he kept in a jumble about our rooms. Finally, at about half past three, he said, "It is time to pay our visit to the firm of Scrooge and Marley, Watson. Are you prepared?"

I patted the pocket of my jacket where I had secreted my revolver earlier in the day. "Yes, Holmes. I believe that I am."

We shouldered into heavy coats and wrapped our scarves around our necks. Holmes put on a travelling cap with earflaps, and I chose a black bowler. Both of us wore warm gloves.

What with the fog, the clouds, and the lateness of the hour, it was quite dark by the time we descended to Baker Street. The Christmas crowds were bustling about, but the people were subdued by the brutal weather, and the sounds of their voices were distorted by the thick murk. In the distance we could hear someone faintly singing a carol, and the gaslights were rosy gold smears.

"Do you know where we are going, Holmes?" I asked.

"To the firm of Scrooge and Marley."

"I meant the direction."

"I looked it up in my directory. It is not far from here, and I doubt that we can find a cab in this weather, so we must walk. Stay by my side, and you will not get lost."

Indeed it was the kind of evening on which one might easily get lost. The fog gathered around us so closely that I could hardly see Holmes's face, though he was but two feet from me at the most. The cold seeped in below the hem of my coat and crept up the sleeves.

"It hardly seems like Christmas." I remarked.

"Ah, but it will," Holmes said, "when Mrs. Hudson prepares for us a magnificent Christmas goose."

"Do you suppose there will be pudding as well?" I asked.

"I hope so," said Holmes. "But come along, Watson. We cannot dawdle."

He led me on at a goodly pace, but I was able to keep up and not lose sight of him. When we reached our destination, I was flushed and out of breath, but Holmes seemed to be breathing quite naturally.

"Here we are," said he, looking at the sign that appeared through the fog above the door. "Scrooge and Marley."

It was not a prepossessing building. The portion of the walls that I could see was streaked with soot, and the clammy stones were slick with little runners of ice. We went inside, and the atmosphere did not greatly improve. The walls were dark, the lights were dim, and the stove did not glow brightly, although I could detect that the chill in the air was not quite as profound as that outside the doors. Six men on stools bent over their account books at cramped desks.

"Our client seems to have inherited something of the frugal nature possessed by his great uncle," observed Holmes as he began to unwrap his scarf.

As he said this, Scrooge himself appeared from an inner office. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I was afraid that you had forgotten our appointment."

"I do not forget appointments," said Holmes, removing his gloves.

"I am sure that you do not," said Scrooge. "At any rate, you have arrived just in time for tea. Will you take it in my office with me?"

Holmes nodded. "In a moment. Which of these men is Randall Tomkins?"

Scrooge indicated a portly man at one of the desks. His back was to us, but I had a feeling that he was listening to our every word.

"Watson and I would like to have a brief private conversation with Mr. Tomkins," said Holmes. "May we use your office before we take tea?"

"But the tea is steeping now," protested Scrooge.

"This will not take long. If you would be so good as to ask Tomkins to step in, Dr. Watson and I will go to your office now."

Without waiting for a reply from Scrooge, Holmes walked away. I, not knowing what else to do, followed him, and within seconds we were joined by Tomkins, whose portly physique was complemented by the red and pitted nose of the habitual toper. He was twisting his hands together as if he were washing them, and his eyes did not linger long in one place.

"Do you know me?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"I.. . do not."

Holmes stared at him, his gray eyes hard.

"That is to say, perhaps I do. It isn't easy to say for sure, you know. It has been a while since our last meeting."

Holmes turned to me. "Tomkins and I have crossed paths in the past. He has reason to wonder about my being here, no doubt, considering his former career. I assume that you have changed, Tomkins?"

"Oh, yes, sir. No more of the old light-fingered Randall Tomkins, sir." He held up his right hand and his gnarled fingers. The thick knuckles indicated that he was afflicted with severe arthritis. "Just hard work and the occasional drink, but that's all there is."

"I am afraid that the drink is more than occasional," remarked Holmes.

Tomkins looked abashed. "In that you are right, but I am doing as best I can, sir. I do have an honest job, and Mr. Scrooge has been kind not to dismiss me when I backslid. I hope you're not about to get me into some difficulty with him, sir. This job is my salvation."

"I do not think that I am going to cause you any difficulties," said Holmes. "You may return to your desk, Tomkins."

"Thank you, sir," Tomkins said, backing out of the office.

"Is Tomkins involved in this, Holmes?" I asked. "Does he have something to do with the ghosts?"

"That is quite doubtful," said Holmes, though he had no time to tell me why, for Scrooge came into the office.

"Do you know Tomkins?" he asked. "He seemed to indicate that you were an old friend."

"I know him," said Holmes.

"That is a point in his favour, I'm sure," said Scrooge. "Are you and Dr. Watson ready now to take tea?"

Holmes rubbed his hands together. There was a definite chill in the air.

"Who will serve us?" he asked.

"Cratchit. He makes quite a delicious pot of tea."

"Ah, yes. The faithful Cratchit. Where does he make the tea?"

"There is a small gas burner in the back of the building near his office. Cratchit is a man who likes privacy, and he prefers to work away from the others here. But let me call him now."

He went out, and I said to Holmes, "I am not certain that I know where this is leading us. Can you see any evidence here of ghosts and apparitions?"

"None at all," said he. "But you should remember I did not expect to see any such evidence, considering that ghosts cannot and do not exist."

At that moment, Scrooge returned, followed shortly by a man whom I assumed to be Cratchit. He was small and bent and walked with a shuffling step. To my physician's eye he appeared to have been at one time a victim of some debilitating disease, which he must have overcome by no less than the most difficult of struggles. His wizened face was wreathed with a beneficent smile, and he said as he set the tea tray on Scrooge's desk, "God bless you, gentlemen, and the happiness of the season to you."

"Cratchit," said Scrooge, "this is Dr. Watson. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Cratchit smiled and gave a slight bow. "I am most glad to meet you, sirs. I have heard something of your exploits, Mr. Holmes, but surely your talents are not needed here at the firm of Scrooge and Marley?"

"No need to worry yourself about that," said Scrooge. "Please do the honours, Mr. Cratchit, and pour."

As Cratchit reached for the pot, which was covered in a white crocheted cosy. Holmes said, "I believe that I might know something of your family, Mr. Cratchit. Do they not come from America?"

Cratchit drew back his hand. "Oh, bless us, no, Mr. Holmes. I have worked here with Mr. Scrooge for something more than thirty years, alongside my father for a great deal of that time, and my father worked for Mr. Scrooge's uncle long before I began here."

"But you have American relations," Scrooge said. "I know that your father mentioned them more than once."

"Bless me, yes," said Cratchit. "My own great-uncle, Samuel Cratchit. He was a rambling sort of a man, and left home before ever I was born."

"Quite the adventurer, to hear your father tell it," said Scrooge. He looked at Holmes. "Samuel Cratchit lived among the savage red Indians for years, panned for gold on the Pacific slope, and later went to the wilds of Alaskan Yukon, where he was supposedly mauled and killed by a grizzly bear."

"Yes, yes, Uncle Samuel was quite the frontiersman," said Cratchit. "Shall I pour, Mr. Scrooge?"

"Just a moment," said Holmes. "Dr. Watson, as you may know, has a habit of jotting down my own more sensational exploits for the public prints. Perhaps he might be interested in telling some tale or another about your uncle. You say he lived among the savages, Mr. Scrooge?"

"There is not much to the tale," said Cratchit. "He was adopted by them for some reason or another, but they were a peaceful tribe, and he grew weary of their simple life. Shall I pour, sir?"

"Please do," Scrooge said.

There were four teacups on the tray, and Cratchit filled them carefully, not spilling a drop.

"Milk?" he asked when he was done, picking up a delicate china pitcher. He poured as we requested, and then he said, "Sugar?"

When the tea was poured, we extended out hands for our cups, except for Holmes, who in an unexpectedly clumsy motion reached for one of several biscuits that lay on the tray. In doing so, he brushed his hand ponderously against Scrooge's cup, causing Scrooge to spill most of his tea on the tray, where it soaked into the biscuits and the cosy. It also splashed onto the arm of Scrooge's suit, and Holmes brushed at it with his napkin so vigorously that Scrooge dropped his cup to the floor where it shattered into several pieces.

"My word, Mr. Holmes," said Scrooge. "It is only a spot of tea."

Indeed it was, and I was taken somewhat aback to see how Holmes was behaving. He was not normally so clumsy in his actions.

"Bless us all," said Cratchit, fairly hopping about in agitation. "Whatever shall we do for another cup? Mr. Scrooge never misses having his tea."

"He must do without it today, however, it appears," said Holmes.

He was still brushing at Scrooge's sleeve, and at that moment the napkin slipped from his fingers and to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, and as he raised up, he struck the edge of the tea tray heavily, upsetting another of the cups.

"I say, Holmes." I had been looking forward to having one of the biscuits, but it now seemed that I was not to have that pleasure. "Are you quite well?"

"I am fine, Watson, I assure you. I am sorry, Mr. Scrooge, that we will have to forgo the tea on this visit. Perhaps you can have Mr. Cratchit remove the tray before I do any further damage."

Cratchit was bent to the floor, picking up the pieces of the broken cup. He straightened and said, "Mr. Scrooge never misses his tea."

"Today he must," said Holmes firmly. "Mr. Scrooge?"

"You are right, of course," said Scrooge. "Remove the things, Mr. Cratchit. I can always have tea tomorrow."

Cratchit gathered everything onto the tray and took it from the room. With a backward glance and a half-hearted smile, he said, "God bless you all, gentlemen," and then he was gone.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said Scrooge, "this has not proved to be a particularly auspicious meeting. I am afraid that you have done nothing to dispel the worry that afflicts me."

"On the contrary," said Holmes. "I have done everything to dispel it. You need not fear ghosts tonight or ever, Mr. Scrooge. I can say with some certainty that they will not appear to you tonight or ever again."

Scrooge's jaw dropped. "What? But how can you say that? You have done nothing here but upset my tea tray and break one of my cups!"

Holmes allowed himself a half smile. "That is how it may appear to you. It is quite different if seen through other eyes, however. Is that not so, Watson?"

I nodded my assent, although I had seen no more than Scrooge. I, however, was much better acquainted with Holmes than Scrooge, and I knew that if he said that no more ghosts would appear, then the matter was settled.

"Very well," said Scrooge. "But what if you are wrong?"

"I am not wrong," said Holmes. "You will sleep peacefully tonight and each night thereafter if your conscience is clear. I suggest you make a start to clear it by allowing a bit more warmth in your building." He turned to me. "Come along, Watson. Let us have one last word with Mr. Cratchit before we leave. He appeared most upset by my indelicate bumbling."

We left Scrooge scratching his head in puzzlement and made our way to the back of the building where Cratchit sat hunched over his desk in a cramped little room no larger than a closet. He turned with a jerk when Holmes entered.

I had to stand without the door, there being no room for me inside, but I could hear all that Holmes said.

"I know what you have done, Mr. Cratchit," said he. "And what your father did before you." Cratchit started to protest, but Holmes raised a hand to silence him. "There is no need to deny it. I have read something of Ebenezer Scrooge and his way of conducting business, and I have heard of Ebenezer's ghosts from his nephew. I am sure that what your father did, he did in hopes of working some kind of change in Scrooge, and in that, he was successful. But it was a dangerous course that he pursued, and you should never have chosen it for yourself."

"How can you know that?" asked Cratchit in amazement.

"Suffice it to say that I do know it. You must desist in your plans."

"But this Scrooge is embarking on a course that resembles that of his great-uncle," said Cratchit. "Have you not noticed the conditions here, the lack of warmth, the lack of light, the lack of cheer? God bless us, Mr. Holmes, Scrooge is well on a course to becoming his uncle."

"Be that as it may," said Holmes, "it is not your place to alter his life in the way you have attempted. You might try telling him the story of his uncle again. Perhaps he will see the similarities and change without your assistance. I have made one suggestion of my own to him, and I believe that he will pay me some heed."

Holmes took his gloves from the pocket of his coat and began to pull them on his hands. "But I must tell you, Mr. Cratchit, that if any harm comes to Mr. Scrooge, or if any more 'ghosts' appear to him, I will set the police on you."

Cratchit tried to smile but he failed. "I understand," said he.

"I am sure that you do," said Holmes. "Come, Watson. Let us go to Baker Street and see whether Mrs. Hudson has prepared our evening meal."

We left Cratchit sitting there, no longer hunched over his desk but staring after us with wondering eyes. He failed to bless us as we left.

Back in our rooms after a typically filling meal prepared by Mrs. Hudson, Holmes reached for his violin. I knew that if he began to play, I would never learn how he had known about Cratchit, and more than that, I would never learn what he had known. So before he set bow to strings, I said, "Tell me, Holmes, what made you suspect Cratchit in the matter of the ghosts?"

Holmes lowered the violin, holding it by his side. "There were no ghosts, Watson. That is the important thing to remember. Ebenezer Scrooge saw no ghosts, and his nephew saw none, either. We must begin at that point. There were no ghosts, so there must have been something else."

"But both Scrooges saw something," said I. "Ghosts or not."

"You should have listened more carefully to the present Mr. Scrooge's description of his great-uncle's visions," said Holmes. "He described them vividly, as he did the things he believed himself to have seen. Try to recall what he said. It was all quite suggestive."

"Suggestive of what?" I asked.

"Of the effects of certain mushrooms of the American southwest," said Holmes, "effects that are well known to certain red Indian tribes and their medicine men. They are often ingested for the visions they cause and are used in tribal religious ceremonies. One day I may write a small monograph on the subject."

"So that is why you asked about Cratchit's American connections."

"Yes. From the description given by Scrooge, I at once suspected the mushrooms, or something very like them, had been used. The elder Cratchit must have obtained them from his brother, Samuel, and he undoubtedly saved something of the remainder for use in the future if he ever needed it again. Though he did not, his son believed that the time had come to try the mushrooms, no doubt reduced to a powder, on our client."

"And that is why you asked where Scrooge took his meals?"

"That is true. I did not suspect, as you did, that the dreams were caused by some undigested bit of food. A man's stomach may or may not control his dreams, but it does not make him believe that he can fly."

"But what was that about Tomkins?"

"Whoever put the powder into the tea was quick of hand, and Tomkins used to be a sharp one at picking a gentleman's pocket. He is obviously no use at that trade now, judging from the appearance of his hand, and his fingers would not have been supple enough to drop the powder into the teacup, which is where it had to be placed. Cratchit would never have put it into the pot. He might have had to drink it himself in that case. I was watching carefully, and I saw him drop a dusty substance into Mr. Scrooge's cup this afternoon. That is why 1 so clumsily caused the cup to fall."

"But the taste of the tea," I said. "What of that?"

"The tea would not have been much affected, particularly not after the addition of as much milk and sugar as Mr. Scrooge received from the hand of Mr. Cratchit."

"You never fail to astonish me, Holmes," said I.

"That is one of your more endearing qualities," said he, and he raised his violin and began to play "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen," the only song of that type I had ever heard him play, and one which he never played again.