The Case of the Christmas Cracker

The Case of the Christmas Cracker by John Hall

Even his best friends and greatest admirers could not in all honesty say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be the first choice for the stage portrayal of one of Charles Dickens’s more convivial Christmas characters, Mr.

Pickwick, say, or Scrooge after his instructive visits by the ghosts.

None the less, some short time after my marriage, I called upon him a day or two after Christmas, with the object of instilling in him some seasonal cheer. It was ten o’clock in the morning when I arrived, and I found him seated in an armchair, smoking one of his old briar pipes, and staring somberly at the fire in the grate. His breakfast lay untouched upon the table.

“No case in hand just now, Holmes?” said I, for I knew these symptoms well.

“Not at the moment, Doctor.”

“Well, let me see if I can break the monotony. Here is a box of cigars -

rather decent - and this-” and I produced the object to which I referred from an inside pocket, “-this is a new thing. The latest novelty. A Christmas cracker. An American invention, I believe, and very appropriate to the season.”

He groaned.

“At least give it a chance, Holmes!”

He took the object and stared at it. “A curious shape, tubular, with a covering of a garish red paper-”

“Just pull it, Holmes!”

“Doctor?”

“Each person - you and I in this instance - holds one end, different ends of course, to be pedantic, and then we pull.”

“And then?”

“Then the thing makes a loud bang, or crack - hence the name...”

“Why?”

“Why?” Holmes has a knack of asking pertinent questions which can sometimes be very wearying. “Why, ah - why, to cheer up those doing the pulling, of course!”

“It seems a very inadequate way of producing geniality,” said Holmes.

“Could one not simply snap one’s fingers, or-”

Frankly, I had heard enough of this drivel. I seized the free end of the cracker and tugged it viciously. As you might expect, there was no loud

“Bang!”, but merely a feeble rasping or whimpering sound, rather like a match being drawn over sandpaper.

Holmes smiled ironically.

“Perhaps the actual construction still needs some development,” I suggested weakly.

“Perhaps so.” But Holmes regarded the sorry fragment of paper in his hand with at least the beginnings of animation. “Intriguing. It is evidently fulminate of mercury, or some such substance. I wonder-” And he glanced toward the old chemical bench.

“There is more, Holmes. We have not yet considered the contents. After that, you may conduct your chemical analysis if you so wish.”

“Indeed. Contents, you say?”

I produced a couple of scraps of paper from the body of the cracker. “A hat, Holmes.”

“You are ahead of me, Doctor. Ah!” said he as I unfolded the thin sheet of coloured paper. “A hat of sorts indeed, though neither Mr. Lock nor Mr.

Bowler would care to acknowledge it, I fear.”

“A paper hat, Holmes. Most appropriate for the festive board, I think.

And there is a motto, as well.”

“Ah! Something inspirational for the young people, no doubt! ‘Discipline for Service’ perhaps, or boastful ‘ Floreat Etona’, say?”

“Not so much a motto, Holmes-”

“Or ‘ Resurgam’ perhaps?” and he laughed. “Most appropriate for a man in my profession, would you not agree?”

“As I was about to remark, it is less a motto in the usual sense, but more of a joke, or riddle.”

“Ah.”

“And before you ask, I have no idea why is should be called a motto when it is not,” I told him firmly. “Now, Holmes, a challenge to even your powers of deduction, this! ‘Why is an afternoon caller like an ardent lover?’”

Holmes frowned. “Is that entirely suitable for reading aloud at a family gathering?”

“Rubbish, Holmes! Of course it is. Well?”

By way of an answer, he sat upright in his chair, and for a moment I thought that he was seriously considering the little conundrum I had posed.

But then he smiled, and remarked, “Your problem must wait, I fear, Watson. That is certainly the ring of the doorbell, and a client.”

“I heard the bell, but a client?”

“Assuredly. And a woman, by the sound of it.

A moment later, Mrs. Turner - for Mrs. Hudson was visiting friends, as indeed was my wife, a not infrequent occurrence - showed the client, for such indeed it was, into our humble sitting room, and announced, in her broad Glaswegian accent, “Miss Beatrice Denby here to see you, Mr.

Holmes.”

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. Turner. Perhaps Miss Denby would care for a cup -

no, a pot - of your famous strong tea? Unless you would like a true Scotch breakfast? For I observe, Miss Denby, that you are somewhat agitated and in need of a calming beverage, if nothing more substantial.”

“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I have had something of an unpleasant experience. Tea will be more than adequate.” Miss Denby seemed about to say more, but was evidently reluctant to speak before Mrs. Turner, who mumbled something about tea and breakfast, then made a great clatter as she cleared the untouched dishes from the table and left the room.

I felt that my position was a delicate one, and rose to leave with a word of apology.

Holmes, however, waved me back into my chair. “This is Doctor John Watson, whose name is doubtless familiar to you,” said he, “a true friend and valued colleague, before whom you may speak freely.”

Miss Denby nodded at me, but still seemed disinclined to tell her story. I busied myself clearing the table of its residual clutter of papers, whilst covertly studying our client, for so I know thought of her. She was perhaps

some thirty-five years of age, not conventionally pretty in any girlish way, but with a handsome and determined face with spoke of independent means and a masterful character. There was, however, something of reticence about her which struck me as foreign to her nature, and I could see how Holmes had deduced some powerful shock, some unexpected upset.

Mrs. Turner soon returned with a tray of tea and the like, and as our client sipped the strong and refreshing brew and nibbled upon a shortbread biscuit, her true nature reasserted itself, and she was able to state her case.

Somewhat to my relief, I may add, for Holmes was by this time showing unmistakable signs of impatience.

“To make matters brief, Mr. Holmes, the facts are these. My parents unfortunately died some ten years ago, and since then I have lived alone.

Alone, but not lonely, for I have a large circle of friends. I have, however, never had occasion to think about matrimony, or indeed the married state, save to knit the usual small articles when my female friends have - ah, the usual thing.”

“But that has changed lately, I deduce?”

“You are right, Mr. Holmes.” Miss Denby sipped her tea, then went on with some reluctance. “Some weeks ago, quite by chance, I met a - a gentleman - by the name of Omerod. Silas Omerod. He was kind enough -

or so it seemed then to me - to pay me some attentions, entirely courteous and gentlemanly, and - well, to be plain, I found myself attracted to him.”

There was nothing in Holmes’s demeanour to show it openly, but I, who knew his every mood, could tell that he was mentally grinding his teeth.

“He had, I am sure, some gainful employment?” he managed at last.

“Ah - he represented to me that he had some private means, as I do myself.”

“Just so,” said Holmes with an effort. “And doubtless there was some investment, some sure-fire speculation..?” He left it hanging in the air.

Miss Denby blushed delicately, and sipped her tea, rather to gain a little time than from any epicurean reason. “You have it exactly, Mr. Holmes.

But I have heard such tales, and have known foolish women in the same situation, and - well, I promised to think the matter over before making any financial commitment.”

Holmes heaved a sigh of relief. “You undoubtedly did very well to act as you did,” said he. “However, beyond commending your prudence, I do not see-”

“I had not finished, Mr. Holmes,” said our client with some asperity.

When Holmes had apologised, Miss Denby went on. “Mr. Omerod’s mention of this - investment opportunity - came the day after Christmas.

The following day, that is to say yesterday, as we walked through the snow of London, looking at the shops and so forth, he did not mention it again, but I could not help thinking about it, becoming more and more certain that it was but my money that had attracted him. These sad thoughts, however, were entirely thrust from my mind when - here, at the very corner of Baker Street, Mr. Holmes - my attention was drawn to a - a woman, evidently of the poorer classes, who stared at the two of us in a most curious manner. I drew Mr. Omerod’s attention to her with some remark or the other, and to my astonishment, when he glanced at her, he cried out, ‘Oh! My wife!’ and turned and raced away.”

It takes a good deal to throw Holmes, but this simple account managed it.

For myself, I have some recollection that I muttered some expression which no gentleman should utter in mixed company, but fortunately Miss Denby did not catch it. To make amends for this, I ventured, “You are certain that he said ‘wife’ and not, perhaps, ‘My life!’ or some similar expression of astonishment?”

Miss Denby smiled at me. “You are very kind to try to make me feel less foolish, Doctor Watson, but there can be no mistake as to his words.”

“You say that Omerod took to his heels,” said Holmes, as practical as ever, “but did you not perhaps think to query the matter with the other lady concerned?”

“I did, Mr. Holmes, but by the time I had quite recovered my wits, she too had vanished from sight.”

“Did you have time to remark upon her appearance?” asked Holmes.

“Pray think carefully, for what seems but the merest detail may have some significance.”

Miss Denby shook her head. “Beyond remarking that she was of the poorer class, there - but wait! I recall that she wore a hat of a peculiar red

shade, and there was a small, inexpensive brooch or pin in the side, in the form of a violet.”

“Oh!” said I, “that is surely the ‘flower girl’, as they call them, though many are advanced in years. You know, the one who stands at the end of Baker Street. You will have seen her, Holmes. Although I did not notice her there today. The Christmas season, I suppose, or the inclement weather, for it is perishing cold outside! And of course, there are few flowers to sell at this time of year. Holly or mistletoe, perhaps or-” and I stopped under Holmes’s stern gaze.

“Thank you, Watson. Yes, I know the lady, though only by sight. I wonder-” and he broke off in his turn, and smiled at Miss Denby. “Well, Miss Denby, you have, I think, given us enough to work on, and I am in hopes that we may-” and he broke off a second time, a frown appearing on his face. “Ah - I quite forgot to ask, but just what is it that you would wish to do in the matter? You can hardly want the return, as it were, of a suitor who already has a wife to his credit.”

Miss Denby managed a laugh. “Hardly! No, sir, it is something more serious. The fact is, when I returned home, my maid informed me that Horace - Mr. Omerod - had called a few minutes previously.”

“Ah.”

Miss Denby nodded. “He had presented to her that I had sent him on some small commission - a pocket handkerchief - and my maid, being used to seeing him around the place - for I had pretty much given him a free run of my house - left him alone in my room. When I looked into my jewellery box, a valuable diamond ring and a good string of pearls were missing.”

“Indeed? Then, as I feared, the matter is more serious than a mere breach of promise marriage?”

“Much more,” said Miss Denby emphatically. “I care nothing for the wretch, but a good deal for my jewellery!”

Holmes nodded his approval. “We shall try to return the one, whilst leaving the other where he is! Unless, that is to say, you would wish to press charges against him?”

Miss Denby considered this, a look of distaste upon her face. “If it were simply a case of trifling with my affections, I should have thought nothing more about it - or him. But theft is another matter altogether. Yes, Mr.

Holmes, I will give evidence against this villain, though it may expose me to ridicule as a foolish woman.”

Again Holmes nodded approvingly. “A couple of points only remain.

Why, since this encounter took place in Baker Street itself, did you not contact me yesterday?”

“I did not think, Mr. Holmes. But when I mentioned the incident, and the loss of jewellery to my maid, who is an intelligent girl, she reminded me of you, and I resolved to contact you on the morrow, that is to say, today. I spent a wretched night thinking about the whole sordid affair, and half determined to leave it alone, but my maid reminded me of my original intention, and - well, here I am!”

“Just so. Well, then, if you would give Doctor Watson here a note of your address? And we shall hope to be in touch with you very soon.”

When our visitor had left, Holmes rang the bell. Mrs. Turner appeared, and he said, “I believe that you might be of inestimable help to me, for your knowledge of the environs of Baker Street is second only - that is to say, it is supreme. Tell me, do you have any acquaintance with the lady in a red hat, wearing a violet pin-”

“Lizzie, sir! Mrs. Norton, or rather Mrs. Cruikshank as she is now, on account of her having remarried - what she was a widow woman you know, sir - and her marrying a Mr. Cruikshank. And him a bad lot, by what I understand.”

I frowned, and Holmes glanced at me, but I shook my head.

“Well, then,” Holmes went on, “you should not happen to know Mrs.

Cruikshank’s address, by any chance?”

“Not to say know, Mr. Holmes, but I do know she lives in Dorset Mews, at the back of Baker Street here.”

“I know it.”

“And if you was to ask at the corner shop, they’d just as like know her house number.”

“Just so. Thank you, Mrs. Turner, that was most helpful. And now, Watson,” he added as she left, “I think a brisk walk around the corner might be in order.”

“Indeed.”

“By the way, Doctor, you seemed to recognize the name ‘Cruikshank’

just now.”

“Something rang a bell, as they say, Holmes. Popular illustrator of that name, of course. But still - no, can’t recall it. It’ll come to me, no doubt.”

“Quite.” And Holmes led the way to the back of Baker Street, and a narrow lane of small cottages. Enquiry at a little tobacconist’s shop revealed the number of the Cruikshank establishment, and Holmes was very soon knocking on the door.

It was answered by a little woman with a worried expression on her face.

Not much above middle age, she nonetheless bore every sign of a hard existence. “Yes, sir?”

“Mrs. Cruikshank? I wondered if I might have a word with Mr.

Cruikshank. I should very much like to speak to him on an urgent matter.”

Mrs. Cruikshank smiled, a thin and ironic smile. “You and me both, sir!”

The smile quickly vanished. “It wasn’t about money, was it, sir? Only there isn’t above sixpence in the house.”

“No, we are not the bailiffs,” said Holmes with a smile. “Might I prevail upon you to allow us inside, for it is very cold in the street?”

Mrs. Cruikshank muttered something or the other, but stood aside to allow us in. The house was scantily furnished, and I noticed two or three thin children staring at us from various hiding places. The place was freezing cold - I almost said colder than the street, if that were possible, for the only heating was a tiny and smoky coal fire burning in a huge fireplace.

Holmes rubbed his hands together for warmth, and said, “I gather that your husband has - ah-”

“Legged it, sir, is what ‘e’s done. Yes. And taken all my Christmas club savings with ‘im, or it would’ve done, ‘ad ‘e not blotted ‘is copybook pretty badly!” Mrs. Cruikshank sniffed loudly, whether from cold or emotion I could not well judge. “And that’s not the worst of it, sir! Only yesterday, as I was trying to work out how I might find the rent for the rest of the week, I spotted ‘im, large as life and twice as nasty, strolling down Baker Street, nice as you please, and with another woman!” Mrs.

Cruikshank seemed inclined to say more, but her feelings overcame her, and I was obliged to offer her my clean handkerchief.

Holmes, practical as ever, asked, “And when exactly did he vanish, madam?”

“Oh, let me see. Five week, six? That was bad enough in all conscience, your husband leaving without a word, but then when I came to collect the Christmas money, I was told ‘e’d drawn it out already, every brass farthing!” And her emotions too over again.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I asked with some warmth, “that your few savings for Christmas have entirely gone? What did you do as to Christmas dinner, then?”

“You may well ask, sir. A mighty lean time we ‘ad of it, I can tell you!

Why, I’m ashamed to say what I put - or rather, didn’t put - on the table, and me with four children to feed, if you’d credit it, sir!

“The poor mites!” I felt in my pockets and, despite her protestations, handed her some few coins. “For the children, you know.”

“Tell me,” said Holmes, “how much was involved?”

“Five pounds, all upon, sir. And ‘e ‘ad it, every penny.”

“And you have no idea where he might have gone? Where he might be now?”

Mrs. Cruikshank shook her head. “Not an inkling, sir.”

“Well, thank you all the same.” Holmes followed my example, and some silver changed hands. “Come, Watson.” To Mrs. Cruikshank he said, “I cannot promise you anything, madam, but we shall try to ensure you do not lose your savings.”

As we left, he said with some anger in his voice, “This is dreadful, Watson! We might not have too much sympathy for Miss Denby, who already had her suspicions, but to rob what is effectively a widow and orphans! I shall not hesitate to turn this rogue over to the police.”

“Assuming we can lay hands upon him, Holmes.”

“Assuming that. But I am in hopes that we may. Consider, Watson, that both his victims have been in the near vicinity of Baker Street. Why, then, not a third upon our very doorstep?” He shook his head. “If we but knew the name he might be using. Cruikshank, Omerod-”

“Belvedere!” I cried.

Holmes stared at me as if I had lost my senses. Then he laughed out loud.

“Of course! Cruikshank, Omerod, and Belvedere, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths! The firm of lawyers at the end of Baker Street!

Well done, Watson!”

“Nothing, Holmes. I should have got it sooner, for they drew up my will when I got married, and the lease on my practice. Although it wasn’t any of those names I saw, probably all dead last century anyway, but a fellow named Chapmen, nice young man with a fine taste in beards. Anyway,” I finished as Holmes gave some indication of impatience, “this villain is evidently going through the partners, and thus I predict he is now calling himself Belvedere. Doesn’t get us any nearer to finding him, though.”

“Does it not? I think you underestimate our combined intelligence, Doctor. A few enquiries of the local tradesmen, and I fancy that we shall have him.”

In any event, it took a dozen queries at a dozen local shops, but in the end we found that a widowed lady by the name of Granby had recently remarried a man called Belvedere, and the address, in another poor mews, was forthcoming.

Holmes led the way through the streets, which already showed signs of the early winter evening’s closing in. I asked, “Suppose the bird has already flown, though? He may have moved on to Mrs. Cruikshank, rather than away from her.”

“True. But let us remain optimistic, Watson, for we have not done so very badly in the course of but one day.”

Arriving at the house in question, Holmes paused. “There is, you observe, a passage at the side of the house, which may indicate a back door.

Would you mind, Watson, going through and stationing yourself in readiness for a hasty exit? I shall knock on this door, and we shall see what may occur.”

I went down the narrow and dirty passageway, and found that there was indeed an even narrower and dirtier back lane, a tiny back yard, and a back door to the house. I turned up my collar, for there was ice in the yard, and the snow was beginning to fall.

The houses in the mews were tiny, and I could hear Holmes’s knock and his high-pitched voice, evidently enquiring after a Mr. Belvedere. There

was a clatter from inside the house, the back door shot open, and a small man came running out.

I stuck out my foot. The man tripped over it, slipped on the ice, and slid over the little yard until he was abruptly halted by colliding with the outer wall of a small but convenient brick building. I hauled him to his feet as Holmes appeared in the doorway, and together we escorted him into the house.

Mrs. Belvedere, another thin and worried looking woman, regarded the three of us with sardonic amusement. “Just as I thought!” she said, together with some further remarks as to her husband’s habits and character, which I shall take the liberty of omitting.

“Has he had money from you, madam?” asked Holmes.

“Not likely! Though it’s not from want of trying. Is it a police matter?”

“I much fear it is. Watson, if you would be so kind as to call a constable?”

I did so. We discovered Miss Denby’s jewellery, which slightly surprised me until Holmes pointed out that the pawnbrokers were probably shut over the holidays. Mrs. Cruikshank’s Christmas savings were gone, but Holmes and I agreed that we would make up that trifling amount between us.

“By the way, Holmes,” said I, as we returned to the warmth of 221b,

“that little adventure reminded me forcibly of my riddle earlier today.

Might have been written for it, in fact. You know, ‘Why is a lover like an afternoon caller?’ wasn’t it? You see it?

Holmes stared at me. “Alas, no, Watson.”

“Well, with you at the front door, and me at the back, you see.”

“I fear you have lost me, Doctor. Perhaps if you revealed the answer to the riddle?”

“Ah, yes. Forgot it had you puzzled, Holmes. Afternoon caller, ardent lover. ‘Because they both go to a door,” you see.”

Holmes patted his pockets and took out his silver cigarette case.

“It’s a play on words, Holmes. ‘To a door,” three words, and ‘to adore,’

two words. Do you see it?”

Holmes lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. Then he patted me kindly on the shoulder. “In view of the season, with its spirit of forgiveness

and goodwill to all men, I shall overlook this lapse, Watson.”

“Thank you, Holmes.”

“Just this once.”

NOTE

I refuse to accept responsibility for this riddle, which really is late Victorian or early Edwardian, from 1901 or 1902. Age, of course, does not make it any better. - J.H.

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