The Christmas Card Mystery

by Narrelle M. Harris

On a squally day in the second week of December, and being in the neighbourhood to visit a patient, I called upon Baker Street to convey my regards to my old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson ushered me into the hall with warm greetings and the news that Holmes was out on a case.

“I shouldn’t intrude, then...” I began.

“No intrusion, Doctor Watson,” she promised me, “And it’s wet enough out there, and cold enough, for you to stop by the fire a while. You’re a busy man and mustn’t make yourself unwell with a chill.” Mrs. Hudson deftly relieved me of my hat, scarf, gloves, and coat so gently and relentlessly that I was in 221b and before the fire without offering a single protest.

In truth, I was glad to be out of the blustery, sleeting wind, and with my wife away a week visiting the lately mourning Mrs. Forrester, her old employer and friend, it was lonely at home. I missed, too, the old days of mysteries and liked to see, from time to time, if I might be of assistance again. Perhaps if he was on a case, I might be so fortunate again today.

I stood in front of the hearth warming my hands, noting that Holmes had left my old chair exactly where it had always been, beside his. I dared fancy he might at times miss my company in his endeavours, too, and hoped that I may visit.

The mantelpiece was as cluttered as ever with pipes and the Persian slipper, a few stray plugs of tobacco held against his morning smoke, unopened correspondence, the clock, a collection of curved wooden shapes of obscure function, and a retort containing pale yellow fluid sitting in a cradle - some half-completed or completely forgotten experiment, no doubt. The morocco case was thankfully not to be seen. An engaging case, then.

Sitting among all of this habitual detritus were five Christmas cards, each depicting scenes of a macabre humour. A frog that had stabbed its fellow, two naked-plucked geese with a man on a roasting spit, a wasp chasing two

children with the unlikely subtitle A Joyous New Year, a savage white bear crushing an explorer in A Hearty Welcome, and a dead robin which read May yours be a joyful Christmas. The latter at least hearkened to the Christ story, the rest to a certain black wit about Holmes’s profession.

It seemed likely to me that one card had been sent by Lestrade, others by Gregson or Jones. I took up the card depicting the frog-murder but found it inscribed merely with To my dear friend at the top and Mrs. Inke Pullitts underneath. The script was disorderly, as though done in haste, and struck me as more a masculine than a feminine hand.

I was startled out of my examination when the door flew open and Sherlock Holmes strode through it, a dozen newspapers under his arm.

“Ah, Watson, I see you are making yourself at home! No, no, my dear fellow, go right ahead, and tell me what you make of my Yuletide correspondence while I pour us a brandy. It’s a cruel day out, and my blood’s in need of warming.”

He abandoned the papers over the arm of his chair. His pale cheeks were rosy with the cold he’d just escaped, and his grey eyes sparkled with the merriment I had long associated with an intriguing case.

“I had thought our friends at Scotland Yard were sending you cards,” I admitted, “But I realise I must be quite wrong. They’ve never sent you any before now.” In fact, Holmes rarely received such personal missives, except from me and Mary or his brother, Mycroft Holmes. “Did you retain the envelopes?”

Holmes placed two glasses on the table and fetched five envelopes from beneath a book on folklore. The topmost he gave to me. I examined it closely - it was addressed in the same untidy hand as the card to the attention of Mr. S Holmes, though scrawled so untidily as to appear to read

“Mrs. Hulmes”. The paper was inexpensive, matching the quality of the card, and bore no return address. The corner of the envelope was marked, fore and aft, with a peculiar indentation, as though it had contained something other than the greeting. I saw a similar mark upon the matching card. I sniffed the paper, as I had seen Holmes do in his investigations, but it told me nothing and made me feel foolish. I couldn’t bring myself to dab the tip of my tongue to the paper, another of Holmes’s investigative techniques.

“What was in it?” I asked.

He selected two of the wooden shapes from the mantel and held them between thumb and forefinger for me to see. The first was like a misshapen peg, three inches long, and almost a teardrop shape when viewed from the end that was rough with bark. The piece tapered slightly here - perhaps the top of the piece - though the other end was only a fraction thicker. The second piece, when viewed from the bark end, formed a rough U. They appeared to be carved from oak, as did the other pieces on the mantel when I examined them, though the wood was marred in places with a dark stain.

The remaining cards and their envelopes were alike in their particulars: addressed To my dear friend as from Mrs. Inke Pullitts and variously dented from the inclusion of the odd peg.

“Who is Mrs. Pullitts?” I then asked. With a broad smile, he told me he knew no such lady, and all his enquiries, made with advertisements in the papers and the gossip-gathering prowess of the Irregulars, had uncovered no person of that name who might seek him.

I was tempted to dismiss it all as a meaningless prank, but was too wise to say so. If this prank had stirred Holmes to the point of broad smiles and the spark of merriment in his eye, then it was a puzzle worth his attention.

A puzzle. I turned again to the mantel and took up the wooden pegs and U-shapes that lay there in a pile so that I might examine them more closely.

Holmes beamed his approval at me as I set them on the table, and I confess I felt it as a high praise. He sipped on the brandy, but I ignored mine in favour of the puzzle of the pegs.

“These pieces seem to fit together,” I said, “And this third.” The three pieces indeed sat snugly together, bar the slender gaps created by the tapering. The grain of the wood and gnarled pattern of the external part betrayed their origin. “Hewn from the same oak log.”

“Splendid,” said Holmes. “What else?”

“Mrs. Pullitts is sending you this puzzle in a strangely piecemeal fashion, though for what reason I cannot surmise, unless it’s to keep the sending of it secret from a member of her household - Mr. Pullitts perhaps? She has even attempted to disguise your name, unless it’s simply that her handwriting is terrible. It would be so much easier to send a discreet letter, so I must conclude it’s a vital secret.”

“Well done, Watson, though as I’ve said, I know of no Mrs. Inke Pullitts, or of anyone of the name of either Inke or Pullitts. I don’t think this letter comes from a woman at all.”

“I did wonder at the more mannish stroke of the pen. A pseudonym, you think?”

“Perhaps, or a clue in itself.”

“A clue?” I frowned. “How so?”

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “Drink your brandy and I’ll show you.” He fetched fifteen squares of paper from beneath the book of folklore to show where he had written the individual letters of his correspondent’s name.

“Having ascertained that I knew of no Inke,” he said, “I thought to look at the name in the light of one of the simplest codes. The little scenes on the cards and what appears to be parts of a child’s wooden puzzle led to me think along a certain path.” I must have looked quite blank for he added,

“Consider it an anagram, Watson, and it may lead you to my own conclusion.”

I placed my brandy aside and spent some time shifting squares of paper about the table. It was only by separating the letters of the word ‘stilts’ that the solution came to me. The letters spelled out Rumpelstiltskin.

“This really makes it no clearer to me, Holmes,” I said, exasperated.

“No?”

“No. A fairy tale character is sending you macabre Christmas greetings and a child’s wooden puzzle, but to what end? Your Rumpelstiltskin may be simply trying to test his wits against yours to pass the tedium of the season.”

“Oh, Watson.” His disappointment was palpable. “Taken alone, these cards may signify a certain pawky sense of humour, but taken as a collection, sent by the same nameless person taking such pains to keep their communiques secret, I fear it adds up to something sinister. Don’t you recall the story of Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Yes, yes. The girl whose father swears she can spin gold from straw, and the King threatens to kill the girl if the boast isn’t proven. Rumpelstiltskin uses magic to accomplish the feat for her, and demands her firstborn. But

Holmes, this is mere childish nonsense. In any case, Rumpelstiltskin is the villain of the piece.”

“That story has several villains in it, Watson, but for our purposes, I think we may reasonably hypothesise that our correspondent doesn’t identify as the goblin, but uses the name to signal to us his dilemma.”

“Which is?”

“What’s the crux of the story, Watson?”

“A girl’s held prisoner until she performs an impossible feat. She dupes her way out of death with fairy assistance, and then has to outwit her helper to save her child.”

“Exactly!”

“How does this help?” My confusion was leading to annoyance.

Holmes shook his head at me. “You are a teller of tall stories, Watson.

You should surely see the artistic licence in this one.”

I was too used to his teasing references to my stories to be stung, but a reminder that I was sometimes required to alter details in my chronicles to protect certain parties (occasionally ourselves) suggested the solution.

“Your correspondent is held against his will - perhaps to achieve some difficult feat - and has found a way to send to you this plea for assistance.”

Holmes clapped his hands and grinned. “Indeed! He must be held under some very tight scrutiny, to be unable to send a clearer message, yet with sufficient freedom to slip a card into the mail. He’s very careful to disguise its destination, so he must feel certain that his gaoler would intercept anything that’s too obvious.”

I frowned and picked up one of the pegs. “I can’t see how this will help you find the poor fellow.”

“Have faith, Watson! And patience, and if you’ll be kind enough to help me examine these papers, you might join me in a rescue mission. If you have the time, of course.”

“All the time in the world, my dear fellow,” I declared. I took up several of the papers, flung myself into my old chair, and opened the Bromley and District Times. “What am I looking for?”

Holmes sat opposite me with the London Evening Standard. “Anything that may strike you as relevant to a wooden puzzle, Watson, or any other

unusual feature.”

We began to go through each newspaper. I scanned smaller items as well as large, and even the advertisements, my efforts going much more slowly than Holmes’s. He whipped impatiently through each page. He flung each paper aside with a grunt of irritation as he completed his search, while I folded them more neatly to drop on the floor beside me.

“These are all local papers, I see,” I said after a moment, “What if he’s from farther afield?”

“No, no! The postmark, Watson!” He softened his irascibility a little,

“Though you couldn’t know when each card arrived. I do, however, and the time between the postmark and delivery is so short that the sender must be within the metropolis. Oh, this is promising.” He tore the page from the paper and rose, thrusting it at me. As he reached once more for his coat, hat and gloves, I read the obviously related story, a small piece in the corner of page five of The Echo.

Would anyone knowing the whereabouts of Mr. Silas North, cabinetmaker and carpenter of Chester Street, Lambeth, missing now for fifteen days, please make this known to his employer, Mr.

Abel Sudbury. Mrs. North would also be pleased to hear from her husband.

Our hansom deposited us before a row of three smart terraces that had once been more uniform, but now displayed a variety of railings, eaves and other decorative touches. The first’s embellishments were primarily in woodwork, the next in ironwork and a third, ceramics.

“This will be Mr. North’s home, I think,” said Holmes. This house was trimmed in intricately carved wooden eaves and elegant window frames and shutters.

“These terraces are all owned by Abel Sudbury,” explained Holmes as we headed for the door painted in fine, fresh blue, “Accommodation for the master craftsmen in his employ in the building trade. You’ll note how he uses the buildings to showcase the skills he can offer his clients. This particular house offers the finest examples of woodwork. The right home for a master carpenter, wouldn’t you say?”

Holmes’s knock was answered by a harried looking woman of middle age. A small child with a round, sticky face hung upon her skirts and an older girl bustled towards them. “Here, now Bess, what did I say? Leave Mam alone for the door.”

Little Bess gazed widely at us. I smiled at her and she ran away to hide behind her sister.

Holmes gave the woman a small bow. “Mrs. North. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I-”

“Oh, I know of you, Mr. Holmes!” said Mrs. North with a breathy sigh of relief, “Judy, my eldest, read out that story in Beeton’s! Have you come to tell us where Silas has gone?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. North - but I have come in an endeavour to find him.”

We were welcomed into the tidy little home and shown to the parlour while Mrs. North went to instruct the maid to prepare tea. Beyond the door, I heard the piping of young voices, and a motherly admonishment to hush and be good children.

While we waited for refreshment, Holmes prowled around the parlour, gleaning all he could about the family and their missing patriarch.

My efforts to follow Holmes’s methods led me to conclude that the Norths had five children - two girls and three boys - and that Mr. North was a highly skilled craftsman, if it was his work that had furnished their home.

The joinery and finishes were the best I had ever seen, and through my association with Holmes I had been in a good many exquisitely furnished apartments. The parlour was also filled with beautiful hand-made toys, many scuffed with loving use and age. On the top of a small bookshelf -

filled with books by the likes of Ballantyne and Stevenson - was an unusually designed wooden castle and a regiment of painted soldiers.

The parlour spoke of a warm and loving family life, and I confess I felt a pang of envy. Mary and I had hoped before now to have our own home so filled with happy children.

Mrs. North and her maid returned with tea, and Holmes remained remarkably patient until all was settled to our hostess’s satisfaction. Mrs.

North sat on the edge of a chair commonly used for needlepoint, judging by the basket of work to one side. Her hands were clasped tightly together in

an attempt to settle her agitation. Holmes sat opposite her, touching her wrist briefly in a gesture of reassurance, before leaning forward attentively, elbows on knees and fingers steepled.

I sat across from them with my tea and my notebook.

“When exactly did your husband disappear?” Holmes began, ignoring the cup at his elbow, “Tell me everything you recall about that day.”

Mrs. North pressed her lips together, met his gaze with resolve and told her tale.

“He left us fifteen days ago today, on November the 29th. He had his breakfast as usual, waved us goodbye on the stoop and walked towards Kennington Station - he was catching the tube to a house in Angel, where he and Mr. Sudbury were to meet with a client, a Mrs. Babcock. Silas never arrived at the house. I knew nothing of it until Mr. Sudbury came to the door, very cross too, to see why he hadn’t come.”

“What did you do?”

“I sent Freddie with Mr. Sudbury to walk to the station, but nobody there knew anything, nor had they seen Silas.”

“What steps did you take then?”

“We went to the police of course, but they’ve found nothing. Someone near the station thought they’d seen Silas get into a hansom with someone, but they couldn’t be sure, and one hansom looks much like another. The police haven’t found a cabman who’ll own it they picked him up, and there’s been nothing since. Except this.”

Mrs. North rose to pluck a Christmas card from her mantelpiece. It depicted two owls on a bench, one in a top hat, the other in a bonnet. The inscription read “Maudie” at the top and “I’ll be home soon, God willing, S.” at the bottom.

Holmes examined the card minutely then held it out to me. The only thing clear to me was that the handwriting matched that of Holmes’s mysterious Rumpelstiltskin.

“When did this arrive?”

“A week ago, only the police could make nothing of it. They say it only means he has run off for his own reasons and will be back or not as he pleases. They gave up looking. But Mr. Sudbury, who is a good man, knows my Silas as well as me, and we know he wouldn’t just take off like

this. There must be a reason he’s away, and if he could come home he would. Only I’ve no notion why he can’t!” Her harried look, kept at bay, returned, heralded by anxious tears. “If you can only tell me where he is, Mr. Holmes, I’ll go and fetch him myself, or Mr. Sudbury will send a lad.

This isn’t like him! Please don’t tell me, like that Inspector Bartle did, that Silas has run off. If he’d done so, why would he write?”

Holmes hushed her with a pat on her wrist. “I can assure you, Mrs.

North, your husband is trying to return to you. Do you have the envelope this card came in?”

“No. Oh! Should I have kept it?”

“It may have been instructive, but I shall persevere without it. Now, can you tell us of the days before your husband disappeared? Did he seem preoccupied or anxious?”

“He was his usual self. He’s a man of few words, my Silas, and soft-spoken when he has something to say. Though there was the gent, came to the door the week before. Silas wasn’t pleased with his being there, but no hard words were exchanged that I know. I heard none of their conversation, and when I asked, Silas only said, ‘The persistent fellow offers a fascinating commission, but I work for Mr. Sudbury, and that’s that.’ His contract with Mr. Sudbury is very watertight on that point - Silas isn’t allowed to work for others.”

Mrs. North was unable, however, to describe this “persistent fellow”, beyond that he was tall and pale and “had the most penetrating blue eyes.”

“One last thing, Mrs. North,” said Holmes as we rose to leave, “The toy castle on the shelf - is this your husband’s work?”

“Oh, yes. He learned the trick of it from his grandfather, and makes them for all the children around here who want them.” Mrs. North brushed her fingers over the turrets of the toy, and all of a sudden the towers collapsed with a friendly clatter into the base. Then she lifted the base block and with a flick of her wrist, the carved pieces shot out, creating a concertina of shapes that built three extending layers of tower.

“Made all from a single piece of wood, I see,” said Holmes, showing it to me. The tower pieces all had that peculiar curved shape, teardrops and U-shapes, tapering finely so that they fell snugly into place when flicked out,

yet would collapse neatly into the base after. “Thank you, Mrs. North. You have been most helpful. I expect to have news for you within a day or so.”

She pressed a hand urgently to his elbow. “He’ll come home, you think?

He isn’t...” she steeled herself, “...hurt or ill?”

“Not at this moment, and I’ve every hope he’ll continue in good health until found. Come, Watson!”

As we strode back to Kennington Road in the wind, but thankfully not the rain, Holmes withdrew a wooden peg from his pocket. It was one of those sent with the cards, oak bark still attached to the crown of it.

“That castle design shown to us by Mrs. North is most unusual, Watson.

Rumpelstiltskin is undoubtedly this vanished Mr. Silas North, and wherever he is, and if he willingly went, he almost certainly did not willingly stay.”

“Perhaps he took on that fascinating commission,” I ventured. Holmes flagged a hansom for our return to Baker Street.

“I’d be surprised if that persistent gentleman were not involved. The timing is too close to be a coincidence.”

“Then perhaps Mr. North decided to take on the job, and keeps his silence as a way of avoiding questions from his regular employer, Sudbury.”

“In that case, why send me these cards and castle pieces? Which, you’ll note, are not carved as smoothly as the toy he made for his son. No, Watson. Silas North is held against his will, although not yet, I think, in any real physical danger. He has freedom enough to both make and send these tokens, but not enough to send a clear message. He has been allowed to reassure his wife, too, which means his warder isn’t beyond humanity.”

“You think he’ll be released in due course, when whatever this commission is has been completed?”

“I’m not as certain as all that, Watson. If the report of Mr. North willingly getting into a hansom cab is correct, it’s likely he was tricked into entering the vehicle, perhaps on the pretext of getting a ride closer to his intended destination, and waylaid that way. If no driver has come forward, either he has been paid well for his silence, or laid up in some fashion. Any legitimate business offer would surely not involve such secrecy, and would certainly not keep Mr. North from communicating with his family. No,

Watson, I fear there may yet be some threat to Mr. Silas North, once he has completed whatever work is required of him.”

“What can we do?”

“I must examine those cards and envelopes again, Watson, and consult a directory or two. You are most welcome to join me, if you have no other calls upon your time.”

“None at all,” I assured him, “Though, Holmes, do you think I should return home for my revolver?”

“I don’t believe it will be necessary,” he said thoughtfully, “But you should be ready with that strong left hook of yours, as needed.”

Once more at Baker Street, we found a new delivery from the Royal Mail, and a new card. This, like all the others, was postmarked Bethnal Green, and was addressed scrawlingly to either Holmes or Hulmes. Within was a Christmas card depicting the head of a dog which threw a distorted shadow of a policeman. The inscription was identical to the previous missives, addressed To my dear friend, and signed with the anagram of Rumpelstiltskin. Holmes put the enclosed U-shaped peg with all the others and gave them to me.

“See what you can make of the addition, now that we know what they’re for.” He dashed to his shelves to withdraw several business directories and a map of Bethnal Green, and flung the lot over the table.

I sat in my old chair, placed the small side table in front of me and arranged the wooden castle pieces on it. This sixth piece filled the gap and now all six fit, with that slender fissure that showed how the pieces tapered towards the top.

Of course, these pieces lacked the unifying base that had held the North’s toy castle together, and replicating that foundation might prove tricky. Of course, I need not have the solid base in order to flick out the towers and turrets as Mrs. North had done. It would be sufficient to have a pedestal that could hold the towers steady.

“Do you still have a plentiful supply of putty in your disguise kit, Holmes?” I asked.

He waved me towards the box where he kept such things, intent as he was on his directory. I retrieved a largish selection of putty and sat once more with my puzzle. As I considered it, Holmes leapt to the door, called

for Mrs. Hudson, and sent her away with a telegram for Billy to take. “Tell him to wait for an answer!”

It struck me, turning over the pieces of carved oak and remembering the intricacies and layers of that toy castle, that surely Mr. North was only part way through sending his message to Holmes. Nevertheless, I slotted the pieces together and then, using the putty to hold each layer steady, I made the pieces jut up as intended.

Looking from above, the puzzle meant nothing. I was disappointed, having hoped for some secret message to be spelled out in the bark.

Holmes crouched by my side. He peered at the result - a crude selection of rising towers. I could imagine what the base must be like, and reckoned it’d be a handsome thing when completed, quite a neat little carpenters trick to make turrets that could stack high and then compact down again like that.

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said, “I thought there might be more...”

But Holmes grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “Look again, Watson. I believe we have found our missing carpenter.”

He rose as I peered at the pieces. It was a moment before I could see with new eyes, to find the clue I had missed, but there it was. Parts of the curved shape were stained a slightly darker colour, and now that I looked at the thing front-on, it was possible to read those marks as more than flaws in the wood. With a little imagination, I could see the letters F and O.

“I still don’t see how this helps.”

Holmes dropped a directory into my lap and leaned over my shoulder to jab at an entry with a long, elegant forefinger.

FOX BROS: Toymakers. Artful Constructions, Tricks and Trinkets for the Curious Child.

The address was in Bethnal Green.

“And here,” added Holmes, dropping the second directory on top of the first. “By the fine print on the back, all of our cards and Mrs. North’s owls were printed by Fox Brother’s neighbours, Calico Press. I think we can be on our way and learn more of the ‘why’, once we have located our Rumpelstiltskin!”

The day had become dark, though the wind had dropped, as we made our way by hansom to the fringes of Old Nichol Street Rookery, a slum filled

with workhouses and dilapidated tenancies. The rookery was notoriously crowded, damp and unsanitary, and I had professional cause to know that a child contracting whooping cough or diphtheria within its boundaries were significantly more likely to be lost to the disease than their counterparts a mere half-mile away.

The toymaker’s store with its cheerful green door stood at the corner of Bethnal Green Road and a row leading to the warren of the rookery beyond. Its windows were crammed with all manner of bright and colourful trifles - dolls and sailing boats, tops and tea sets, tennis rackets and drums, puzzles and hoops, and books and soft felt rabbits. Nothing like the unusual castle we had seen at the North home could be seen, but Holmes was undeterred.

“That isn’t why Mr. North’s liberty has been taken from him. No, Watson, there’s clearly a much bigger game at stake.”

We didn’t enter the toyshop, as I imagined we would, but turned down the row to the shop’s perpendicular neighbour, Calico Printing. Its goods, too, were on display: posters for concerts, magic shows, and theatrical events, as well as prettily spread fans of pamphlets and monographs. A wide range of its fantastical and humorous Christmas cards were hung upon a string in its window.

“Be a good fellow,” said Holmes, “And take a turn along this adjoining lane. I’d like to know if the Fox Brothers have a workshop at the back of their shop premises. We’ll meet again at the corner.”

I drew my coat and scarf closer against the cooling day and did as I was bid. I concluded, from the depth and height of the building, that the shop front and living quarters above it concealed modest space at the rear for at least some of the toy-making labour of the business. I met again with Holmes, who smiled in satisfaction at my report.

“Calico did indeed supply a modest number of cards to the Brothers Fox, which perforce have been delivered only to their premises here. So come, Watson, let’s go shopping.”

His ebullience was infectious, and we strode through the front door of Fox Brothers together, as two friends seeking Christmas gifts for their families. It was not so much pretence for me, as we had hopes, Mary and I, that this time she would carry to term. Her health was robust enough for

her week away with Mrs. Forrester, early as she was in her condition, and from there I would ensure the best of care for her confinement. As Holmes spoke to the proprietor, I lingered at the blocks, dollies, and felt rabbits, thinking, perhaps one day for my sons or daughters.

“I understand your workshop can make special items on commission,”

Holmes said to the man at the counter, undoubtedly one of the Fox brothers. He was a slender fellow with a jolly face and gingery side whiskers that suited his name.

“It’s possible,” jolly Mr. Fox conceded, “It may depend upon your needs.

We buy from local craftsmen around here, of course - one tries to support good local workers - but we can arrange special requests too.”

“I was thinking of a type of toy castle,” said Holmes, “Carved from a single piece of wood. The interlocking pieces unfold with a flick of the wrist to make towers...”

“Oh, I do believe I know the design you mean. My youngest boy has a friend with the very toy. The other boy’s father is a carpenter and makes them for local children. My brother approached the carpenter in question, North by name, to see if he’d make them for us, but he declined.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Very much so, but you know, the fellow works exclusively as a cabinet maker for Sudbury Furnishing and Trimming, if you’ve heard of them.”

“I believe I’ve heard them highly spoken of,” offered Holmes cautiously.

“Their reputation is unparalleled,” Mr. Fox assured him, “But Sudbury aims to keep it that way. He snatches up all the best craftsmen and their contracts are very strict.”

“Surely the making of a trifle like a child’s toy wouldn’t constitute a problem.”

“Constantine offered very generous terms, but North refused to work around his obligations. A very conscientious fellow, it seems.”

“Ah well,” said Holmes, feigning disappointment, “Perhaps North might consider that a one-off wouldn’t violate his honour. Do you think he would?”

“Possibly,” said Mr. Fox agreeably, “Although he also declined Constantine’s request for another one-time commission.”

“A pity,” said Holmes. He looked to me. “Has something caught your eye?”

I placed a felt rabbit on the counter, which may have been precipitate of me, considering our previous loss, but I chose to look on it as an act of faith. “These seem well made.”

Holmes gave me the most searching look, but I was well used to being under his scrutiny and it rarely bothered me.

“Our sister makes those,” said Mr. Fox proudly, “She has a very fine hand and their little faces are very dear.”

The felt rabbit did, indeed, have a very dear little face, and I happily handed over my coin for it.

“Are all your magnificent toys crafted by your talented family?” asked Holmes with generous admiration.

Mr. Fox beamed. “Not all, no, but they all contribute something. Well, Constantine isn’t a craftsman, it’s true, but he often designs some of our more clever toys for the artisans to make. He’s a magician, you know, and does conjuring tricks for the customers. He’s a great admirer of Maskelyne and would dearly love to follow in that great man’s footsteps. He has been engaged for some house parties, and has hopes of gaining a following. He has hired a week at the Piccolo Theatre for the spring.”

“Didn’t we see a poster for The Astounding Constantine?” I asked Holmes: the poster had been displayed in the window at Calico’s.

“Did you?” asked Holmes, though I knew full well we both had.

I turned to Fox. “My wife likes magic shows. Perhaps I should take her.

What’s his act?”

“My friend’s wife is something of a connoisseur,” expanded Holmes,

“She would hope for something more than card tricks and disappearing coins.”

Mr. Fox seemed mildly offended. “My brother’s only starting out, but he takes the craft very seriously. Levitation, mind-reading, all of the best expected from the province of magic.”

“A Cabinet of Wonders?” suggested Holmes. “I myself am fond of a good disappearing act.”

“The very thing he’s perfecting over the winter.” Mr. Fox’s familial pride had returned. “He saw a most excellent disappearing act last summer and has been designing an ingenious cabinet for the purpose.”

“Oh, I’d like to see such a thing. These devices are splendid pieces of engineering. Would he let us see his workshop, do you think? Is it far?”

Mr. Fox shook his head. “He works in the shop behind the house, but he won’t even let me see what he’s up to. It’s very secret stuff.” He waggled his eyebrows at us, showing how charming he found his brother’s eccentricities.

“You haven’t seen him working?”

“Oh no,” Mr. Fox assured us, “He’s been nigh on living there for two weeks now, though he comes out to eat with the family. Many days he even sleeps in the workroom. Apparently, rival magicians are apt to sneak about and steal ideas.”

“And you don’t see him otherwise? He must be very dedicated.”

“Oh he is, though he doesn’t neglect his family duties. I told Constantine,

‘if you must spend time sequestered on your art, you must, but at least you can address all the festive cards for our customers, clients, and suppliers, and save me the time!’ And so he has done.”

Mr. Fox’s affectionate enthusiasm for his brother’s preoccupation with magic and the making of a cabinet bordered, I thought, on the foolish.

Certainly, he had a fool’s propensity for wittering on about the brother with strangers, as though Constantine Fox was a precocious child who deserved to be indulged.

Holmes beamed upon the garrulous Mr. Fox. “I have friends in theatrical circles,” he said, “Should your brother be in need of an agent. I shan’t be this way again for a while, but I’d be happy to exchange a word with him now to confirm if he would like a letter of introduction.”

Mr. Fox was so tickled by my friend’s generosity and kindness, that he felt sure, he said, that Constantine would spare him a moment.

Holmes cast me a glance which spoke volumes. I tucked the felt rabbit, which Mr. Fox had wrapped in brown paper, into my pocket and followed the two men behind the counter, beyond the shop door to a corridor. The passage led left to stairs and the living quarters for the Fox family, and right to a firmly shut door.

Mr. Fox tapped on it. “Constantine! I have a visitor for you! A wonderful fellow who can recommend an agent for your show.” He turned the handle, but the door was locked.

A sudden flurry of noise behind the door included what seemed a throttled cry, a dull thud and the sound as of a door slamming.

“What say you, Ezekiel?” came a strained voice, “Haven’t I told you not to disturb me at work?”

Mr. Fox gave us an apologetic look, as though to excuse his brother’s rudeness. “You have, but this man may be of great benefit to your career, and I thought you might make an exception.”

Silence greeted this pronouncement, broken at last with a querulous:

“You know an agent for a magic act?”

“Certainly,” said Holmes with a flourish. “The great Allendale himself, who I am sure you know, acts on behalf of many of the great stage artists.

He’s a personal friend of mine, and was saying only the other day that he wished he had some new up-and-coming performer for whom to play Midas. His words. He tends towards vanity, though it seems well founded upon his successes.”

“Yes,” came the voice, “I’ve heard he’s a bit of a peacock, but he’s very good.”

“He is,” said Holmes, “And it’d delight to me to deliver him a new protégé. I owe him a good turn.”

The key turned in the lock. The door opened a fraction.

A wan face looked out at us. Younger and shorter than his jolly brother, his thinness speaking of frailty, Constantine Fox had anxious blue eyes and a trembling mouth. Had he come to my door for professional services, I would, on that face alone, have prescribed bed rest in the country for a month. He seemed a man on the verge of nervous collapse.

Holmes acted on the instant, placing his foot in the narrow space between door and frame and pushing his shoulder against the door itself. With a yelp, Constantine Fox tried to slam the door shut. The violence of the action must have caused Holmes some pain, but he held fast and at the next moment I was using my own strength to push the door wide.

Ezekiel Fox shouted an ineffectual protest as Holmes and I stumbled into the room beyond. For his part, brother Constantine shouted at us about the

invasion of his privacy while standing before a great wooden box placed on a wooden platform.

“It isn’t any good, Mr. Fox,” said Holmes sternly, “We know that you are keeping Mr. Silas North a prisoner here, and it’s very easy to see the work you have been making him do.” Holmes gestured grandly towards the box -

the height of a man, with a pyramid roof, sturdily built and covered in chalk marks outlining so-called mystic symbols. I supposed this was the sketch for later decoration.

Constantine Fox went pale as a ghost and stumbled so that Holmes reached to catch him, but he righted himself and drew himself up defiantly.

“What nonsense!” Fox declared. “Ezekiel, who are these impossible intruders? I warned you about my rivals who would try to steal my idea!”

“I’m not your rival, but a detective,” said Holmes crisply, “My name is Sherlock Holmes and you, Mr. Fox, are in dire trouble. If you tell me where you are keeping Mr. North prisoner, and you have done him no harm, I may yet persuade him and the authorities to press no charges.”

A strange spark came into the magician’s eyes. “I challenge you to find such a man, Mr. Holmes.”

I could have warned him how foolish it was to issue such challenges to my friend, but I confess I rather enjoy the effect of their learning such foolishness for themselves.

Holmes immediately strode around the raised platform, heading for the back of the workshop. Constantine Fox appeared very smug about it, until Holmes, having walked a semicircle around it, leapt lightly onto the planks to investigate the box.

“I shall call the police this instant!” cried Ezekiel Fox.

“That’s up to you,” I said, watching as Holmes circled the cabinet now, his hands trailing across the four panels, “But I expect that will obviate Mr.

Holmes’s efforts to have no charges pressed, once he finds Mr. North.”

“You are offensive, sir,” said Ezekiel Fox haughtily. “Constantine hasn’t seen Mr. North since approaching him about the toy castles. Have you, Constantine?”

“Of course not!” But there was something furtive about his reply, and as I had failed ever to keep a secret from my late brother Henry when we were

boys (and indeed, ever from Holmes now), the elder brother knew instantly that the younger lied.

“Oh, Constantine, what have you done?”

“Nothing. Nothing!”

Holmes pressed the front panels of the cabinet and it sprang open. It was empty. Holmes immediately fell to his hands and knees and explored the floor of the thing, but no trapdoor was revealed. With a snarl of disappointment, Holmes stood inside the cabinet and felt all the walls of it, again without satisfaction. He fell still and closed his eyes, thinking, and when he opened them again, the gleam in the grey told me that he had solved it.

Holmes reached up to the ceiling of the box, which came some fourteen inches below the peak of a square hip-roof atop it. The four sides of that little pyramid were chalk-marked with symbols and the name The Astounding Constantine.

Holmes pushed. The ceiling clicked. Constantine Fox cried out in horror and fainted as the ceiling section yielded.

At that moment I suddenly had three patients on my hands - Constantine Fox in a swoon, and Sherlock Holmes on the floor, half under the man who had fallen from the tiny cavity in the roof of the cabinet - no doubt Mr.

Silas North.

It was a simpler triage than many I had made on the battlefield, and I leapt at once to Mr. North’s aid. His breathing was laboured with him, a tall man, having been folded up into so small a space for some minutes. He was curled in on himself with a bruise on his forehead.

Holmes scrambled out from underneath him, following my instructions to stretch out the patient on the floor. I set about raising North’s arms above his head before bringing them down to his chest and repeating the action until his breathing regained regularity. North groaned and I checked his pupils. He’d have a very nasty headache, and perhaps a slight concussion, but would recover.

“Rest easy, Mr. North,” I said in my most soothing tone, “You are rescued and will be home soon.”

“Constantine!” I heard Ezekiel Fox cry in despair. “Constantine!”

I knelt by Constantine Fox’s side, but there was nothing more wrong with him than exhaustion and the fear of the consequences of his own selfish madness. Already he was moaning, rather more theatrically than his condition warranted.

“That’s enough of a fuss,” I told him sternly, “You’ll sit up and confess all.”

Strangely, this is precisely what he did. He sat, pale and trembling, and told us the story as though seeking, if not absolution, then at least validation.

“Silas North is the best cabinet maker in London, and he refused to help, no matter how much I promised to pay, so I made him do it,” he said. “That cabinet is the only thing I needed to begin my career. I designed it so perfectly, but I don’t have the skill to make it myself. Twice North refused me. I took a hansom to see him, to ask again, and offer more money, and again he refused. Well, I had gone prepared for his stubbornness. I offered him a ride in my hansom, since he was heading over the river anyway.

Once he was inside the cab, I overpowered him with chloroform, as I once read about in a book. When we were near home, told the driver my mate was taken ill and I carried North right in here with hardly a murmur. I didn’t even pay the cabman extra, as that would have drawn attention to us.”

Constantine Fox looked at us with a shining, beseeching face, but none, not even his indulgent brother, could give him absolution for his actions.

“I was good to him,” he continued, “I let him write to his wife so that she wouldn’t think him dead in a ditch. I told him he could go home when the cabinet was done, but he couldn’t get it right. The floor, you see, is false.

At the compression of the concealed switch, it springs up to become the ceiling, while I curl into the space, vanishing in a trice! Then my assistant closes the doors, the ceiling drops, and once again I appear in the box, to the amazement of all. Wonderful, don’t you see? But the spring mechanism is supposed to be soundless, and lift very quickly, and North couldn’t get it right. So I made him stay until he could. I’d have let him go after. I would have.”

“You have nearly killed him,” said Holmes darkly, which wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Another few minutes in that crushing chamber and Silas

North might have suffocated.

This observation set the elder brother to roughly shaking the younger by the shoulders.

“That is enough from you, Constantine!” snapped Ezekiel Fox, all jollity vanished, as Constantine might say, in a trice. “And enough of this ridiculous business. You have spent all your savings on this madness and it is done. You’ll be lucky if you don’t go to prison for this! Oh, you wretched idiot. I’ve been too forbearing with your stage-struck follies.”

Constantine Fox wept, but it was very difficult to summon any sympathy for him.

We agreed to leave him in his disapproving brother’s care until Mr. North was in a condition to choose his next steps. Scotland Yard should perhaps have been called immediately, but Mr. North wished only to return home to Lambeth, to his long-suffering wife and his little ones.

We escorted Mr. North home, where I completed a second examination to satisfy myself that he suffered no permanent injury.

“My messages reached you!” Mr. North said to Holmes, throat still hoarse from his ordeal.

“They did indeed,” said Holmes, “Though I wonder how you smuggled them out. Even a man as overtaken with obsession as The Astonishing Constantine should have noticed what you were doing.”

Mr. North shook his head. “He left me alone many nights, chained like a dog in the workshop and gagged so that I couldn’t cry for help. But then he brought in boxes of cards he was to address for his brother’s business, and decided that it was good use of my time to aid him with this so that we could together resume work on the magic box sooner. When he left to eat in the evening with his brother, he’d leave me to work, under the most dreadful threats if I made any sound. I was able then to work on the castle pieces that I sent you, from a piece of firewood, but it was very hard going.

“Still, he wasn’t very observant. I took some of the cards and was able to slip them and their contents among the many piles of cards to post - some of which contained little trinkets. I disguised the messages, of course, in case someone in the household read them. I had no idea how many of them were in on the scheme. I’m lucky it is so successful a toy business that my little messages were able to leave my prison so easily and often.”

“It’s a clever man who can make the use of a good opportunity,” Holmes assured him, and we left Mr. North in the embrace of his wife and loving family.

In truth, Holmes didn’t try particularly hard to persuade Mr. North against pressing charges, but Ezekiel Fox paid a handsome compensation to him and gave many boxes of toys to Mr. North and all his neighbours. He also sent his wayward brother to South Africa to see if that might make him more sensible.

Within the week, Mary returned home, looking bright and healthy for her time in the country. I showed her the felt rabbit. She exclaimed upon its pretty face and said, “I do feel quite strong this time, John. I’m certain all will be well.” She placed her hand over her belly, which held our hopes, and I kissed her cheek.

We invited Holmes to join us for Christmas lunch, and I was honoured that he came, bearing a box of fine chocolates for Mary, whose sweet tooth had become insistent since she was with child. I hadn’t told him of her condition, so he must have deduced it - along with the fact that I had changed my brand of tobacco only a month before, as he brought me a tin of the new blend. Mary had knitted him a fine scarf, which he admired with all sincerity. He smiled too, at my gift to him of Kendal Mint Cake, which I knew he carried with him for quick energy while working on a case.

After an excellent roast dinner, Holmes played carols for us upon the violin. And so we three kept our Christmas together with an excellent meal, good cheer, and much hope for the future.

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