As my practice had performed better than expected that year, I decided to treat our admirable landlady, Mrs Hudson, to a Christmas Day where she did not have to cook. I had booked a table for Christmas lunch at the St John’s House Hotel, only a short stroll from our Baker Street rooms.
Sherlock Holmes, always disdainful of the festive season, was unusually moody after I had announced my plan, until I confided that he, too, was invited. “Well, of course, I shall come along to wish Mrs Hudson’s good health,” he snarled, “as it is a treat for her.”
I told him to come as a treat for himself, too, but he turned away and muttered something (I’m not sure it wasn’t “Humbug”) under his breath.
Mrs Hudson greeted the news with a shriek of delight. “I’ve heard that the St John’s House Hotel has a fine chef,” she said, “and no one I’ve met has had a bad word to say about the establishment.”
Christmas Day itself dawned bright and clear: a light frost lay over the ground at dawn. I accompanied Mrs Hudson to morning service at St Marylebone’s Church. After the service she went to call on her sister, whilst I returned to 221B. I had expected to find that Sherlock was engaged with a client, whose case would inevitably disturb our plans. I was pleasantly surprised to find Holmes stretched out over a sofa, puffing on a pipe and fogging the room. Whilst I was away Mycroft had called round to wish his brother the compliments of the season and had left a handsome pen behind as my festive gift.
I reminded Holmes that we were due to meet Mrs Hudson at the hotel. He changed out of his dressing gown and into an elegant suit, silk tie and top hat. We left our home and walked through the crisp noon to the hotel. The sun barely had any warmth to offer. The streets were alive with the scents of roasting meat, children sliding on the ice and joyous greetings between neighbours.
“Despite the artificiality of it all,” Holmes remarked, “Christmas seems to bring out the best in men. Even the criminal fraternity seem to take a holiday: there has been nothing in the press to offer any interest.”
“Then I am glad!” I exclaimed. “It can only be good for you to rest and enjoy the day as all the world does.” In return, I received a snort of derision.
Before Holmes could inject any more sourness to the day, we arrived at the hotel and were joined by Mrs Hudson. The reception was decorated with holly and candles. Beyond was the dining room, festooned with bright lights, garlands and stars. To the side of the door was a tree, reaching almost to the ceiling, and at its base was a pile of presents wrapped in gold and silver paper.
“Oh, but this is beautiful!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson. Holmes, however looked almost affronted at the festive decorations.
The manager had been checking his pocket watch but strode over to greet us when we walked in. As he shook Holmes’ hand, the latter remarked, “I see that the St John’s House Hotel has enjoyed a prosperous year.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed the Manager. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Oh, merely the unsullied shoes in the latest fashion, and the new gold chain for a much-loved pocket watch,” replied my friend off-handedly.
“Ah, sir, you are a magician!” said the manager. “Just as my brother is. He joins us for dinner today, and I hope that he will treat us to few shows of prestidigitation.”
“I shall look forward to that,” said Holmes, grinning wickedly.
We were seated and served with aperitifs, whilst other Christmas diners arrived. Mrs Hudson was telling us of her sister’s Christmas day when there was an explosion of joy from the manager, still greeting patrons at the door.
A stout man and four women had entered, the man was dressed rather theatrically in morning-coat, white-tie and stiff shirt-front. His companions wore identical dresses, though coloured in two different pairs. The hotel manager dashed across to greet them. Evidently, this was the magician and his party. As the two men shook hands, one of the ladies wandered over to the tree and stared in wonder at it.
“I know that magician,” muttered Holmes to me. “The Great Torremago, dismissed from two theatres this year amidst accusations of theft. Nothing is proven, but he now finds it difficult to secure an engagement, even in the festive season.”
Mrs Hudson hadn’t heard Holmes’ comment. “Aren’t his friends dressed elegantly!”
“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” he replied, “with assistants dressed in such a fashion, I predict that there will be a disappearing trick performed this afternoon!”
As the woman who had arrived with The Great Torremago finished admiring the tree and walked away, her dress dislodged one of the packages arranged at its base. The Manager directed them to their table, then returned and replaced the errant box.
With the dining room full, the manager signalled that service should begin. The first course was an oyster soup, and this was followed by freshly dressed crab. Both dishes were excellent, and I could tell that even Sherlock was enjoying the meal.
There was a pause in the proceedings, to aid the digestion, and the children’s choir from a nearby church were ushered in to wassail us. Their joyous singing was acclaimed with applause.
As the choristers filed out, the manager, standing by the door reached for his pocket watch. There was a sudden look of horror on his face, and he spoke urgently with the choirmaster, then dashed out to talk with the choir. His face a ghastly shade of grey, he returned to the dining room and clapped his hands for silence.
“I am sorry to impose on you in this way, but I would be grateful if you could all check under your chairs and tables. My watch is not on its chain and I fear it has been dropped.”
We all started peering under chairs and tables, although Holmes was looking at the activity in the room rather than on the floor.
“Can you see the watch anywhere?” I asked, emerging from under the tablecloths.
“I fear the watch may not have been lost,” muttered my friend. “You may look, but you will not find it.”
Holmes was right. Diners shook their heads as they settled back in their seats, and it seemed that the search had proven fruitless. The manager was looking more distressed by the moment and was ready to burst into tears. As order was restored, Torremago got to his feet.
“My brother,” he called, “I know exactly where your watch is.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” gasped the manager.
“Oh, no, I assure you. I can lay hands on it straight away.”
Next to me, Holmes was suddenly alert, eyes gleaming.
“Since you greeted me at the door,” the magician continued, “I have been sitting at this table. Am I right?”
His brother could only nod.
“If I were to send one of my assistants to select a present from under your tree, you would agree that it would have been impossible for me to have tampered with it. I have been nowhere near that tree.”
Again, his brother could only nod.
He clapped, and one of his troupe left their table and went across to the tree. She walked round for a moment, examining the packages, before swooping and grabbing one in a single move. She gave it to the Manager, wished him a happy Christmas and returned to her seat.
“Please,” said Torremago, “be so kind as to open your present. It comes with my best Christmas wishes.”
The manager stuttered, “But… but… it’s just an empty box…” Nevertheless, he pulled apart the ribbons and opened the paper to reveal a plain card container. Automatically, he prised open the lid, then gave an audible gasp. Plunging his hand into the carton, he pulled out a watch. He looked at it, the colour returning to his face.
“But… that’s amazing… this is it…” Composing himself, he swooped on his brother and shook his hand ferociously. “Ladies and gentlemen - The Great Torremago!” Astonished by this turn of events, the dining room applauded.
Holmes, however, was not applauding, and grabbed my arm. “The game’s afoot, Watson,” he muttered, and strode over to the Manager.
“Would you be so kind,” he said, “but I should like to admire your present.” He took the watch from the manager and looked it over closely. Then he pulled a penknife from his pocket and dragged the blade across the front of the case. There was an anguished cry from the Manager.
“When we came in,” Holmes said, “I could see your watch and its handsome new chain in your waistcoat pocket. I wagered with myself then that the watch was gold-cased.”
“It is,” agreed the manager impatiently.
“So how is it, then, dragging a blade across the case reveals that this watch is gold-plated?” Holmes showed the Manager the dull grey stripe beneath the shining coat.
Holmes continued, “And the name on the face of your watch I saw was that of one of Paris’ finest watchmakers, yet if I look closely – yes – beneath the face is a movement found in this year’s Penny Bazaar.”
There was a crash as The Great Torremago pushed his chair over, priming himself for an escape. I was ready for him, however, running between the tables, and tackling him before he could reach freedom.
“Send for a constable,” shouted Holmes, “a thief has been taken!” He knelt alongside me, reached into the magician’s coat and produced the manager’s actual watch. “As I thought,” he said, “hidden away where you usually hide your doves!”
“That watch was promised to me by my father,” shouted Torremago. “My brother took it before I could claim my rights.”
“You don’t claim them by theft,” said Holmes. “You should have had more Christmas spirit for your own brother.” He turned on his heel, and re-joined Mrs Hudson.
The magician was arrested and, with his entourage, taken away to Scotland Yard. A cold Christmas awaited them. With the excitement over, the tables were readied for the remainder of the feast.
“How did you know what was going on?” asked Mrs Hudson.
“I was suspicious of the parcel that was knocked by Torremago’s assistant. I surmised that she had dropped it from within her skirts to be part of the show later.”
“And I suppose that the magician stole the Manager’s watch while he was being greeted warmly?” our landlady enquired.
“Distraction – the stock in trade of magicians,” murmured Holmes. “While the brothers were enjoying their reunion, Torremago extracted the watch from the waistcoat pocket. It’s the sort of trick magicians work all the time.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head at the thought of such wickedness at Christmas, and settled down to goose, apple sauce and stuffing.
At home that evening, Holmes and I sat companionably, a decanter of brandy between us, looking through our windows at the lamplighter hard at work, and the urchins enjoying the last of the holiday whilst running through the streets.
“It is a curious thing, Watson,” Sherlock murmured, “that our adventure should turn out as it did.” He reached into pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. “I apologise for the lack of bows and ribbons, but I assure you that it comes with my best Christmas wishes.”
I opened the box and found inside a gold pocket watch. The case had been decorated with a Rod of Asclepius inlaid in silver. I opened the watch, and found it had been engraved “To John, my dearest friend - S.H.”
Sherlock Holmes, always disdainful of the festive season, was unusually moody after I had announced my plan, until I confided that he, too, was invited. “Well, of course, I shall come along to wish Mrs Hudson’s good health,” he snarled, “as it is a treat for her.”
I told him to come as a treat for himself, too, but he turned away and muttered something (I’m not sure it wasn’t “Humbug”) under his breath.
Mrs Hudson greeted the news with a shriek of delight. “I’ve heard that the St John’s House Hotel has a fine chef,” she said, “and no one I’ve met has had a bad word to say about the establishment.”
Christmas Day itself dawned bright and clear: a light frost lay over the ground at dawn. I accompanied Mrs Hudson to morning service at St Marylebone’s Church. After the service she went to call on her sister, whilst I returned to 221B. I had expected to find that Sherlock was engaged with a client, whose case would inevitably disturb our plans. I was pleasantly surprised to find Holmes stretched out over a sofa, puffing on a pipe and fogging the room. Whilst I was away Mycroft had called round to wish his brother the compliments of the season and had left a handsome pen behind as my festive gift.
I reminded Holmes that we were due to meet Mrs Hudson at the hotel. He changed out of his dressing gown and into an elegant suit, silk tie and top hat. We left our home and walked through the crisp noon to the hotel. The sun barely had any warmth to offer. The streets were alive with the scents of roasting meat, children sliding on the ice and joyous greetings between neighbours.
“Despite the artificiality of it all,” Holmes remarked, “Christmas seems to bring out the best in men. Even the criminal fraternity seem to take a holiday: there has been nothing in the press to offer any interest.”
“Then I am glad!” I exclaimed. “It can only be good for you to rest and enjoy the day as all the world does.” In return, I received a snort of derision.
Before Holmes could inject any more sourness to the day, we arrived at the hotel and were joined by Mrs Hudson. The reception was decorated with holly and candles. Beyond was the dining room, festooned with bright lights, garlands and stars. To the side of the door was a tree, reaching almost to the ceiling, and at its base was a pile of presents wrapped in gold and silver paper.
“Oh, but this is beautiful!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson. Holmes, however looked almost affronted at the festive decorations.
The manager had been checking his pocket watch but strode over to greet us when we walked in. As he shook Holmes’ hand, the latter remarked, “I see that the St John’s House Hotel has enjoyed a prosperous year.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed the Manager. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Oh, merely the unsullied shoes in the latest fashion, and the new gold chain for a much-loved pocket watch,” replied my friend off-handedly.
“Ah, sir, you are a magician!” said the manager. “Just as my brother is. He joins us for dinner today, and I hope that he will treat us to few shows of prestidigitation.”
“I shall look forward to that,” said Holmes, grinning wickedly.
We were seated and served with aperitifs, whilst other Christmas diners arrived. Mrs Hudson was telling us of her sister’s Christmas day when there was an explosion of joy from the manager, still greeting patrons at the door.
A stout man and four women had entered, the man was dressed rather theatrically in morning-coat, white-tie and stiff shirt-front. His companions wore identical dresses, though coloured in two different pairs. The hotel manager dashed across to greet them. Evidently, this was the magician and his party. As the two men shook hands, one of the ladies wandered over to the tree and stared in wonder at it.
“I know that magician,” muttered Holmes to me. “The Great Torremago, dismissed from two theatres this year amidst accusations of theft. Nothing is proven, but he now finds it difficult to secure an engagement, even in the festive season.”
Mrs Hudson hadn’t heard Holmes’ comment. “Aren’t his friends dressed elegantly!”
“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” he replied, “with assistants dressed in such a fashion, I predict that there will be a disappearing trick performed this afternoon!”
As the woman who had arrived with The Great Torremago finished admiring the tree and walked away, her dress dislodged one of the packages arranged at its base. The Manager directed them to their table, then returned and replaced the errant box.
With the dining room full, the manager signalled that service should begin. The first course was an oyster soup, and this was followed by freshly dressed crab. Both dishes were excellent, and I could tell that even Sherlock was enjoying the meal.
There was a pause in the proceedings, to aid the digestion, and the children’s choir from a nearby church were ushered in to wassail us. Their joyous singing was acclaimed with applause.
As the choristers filed out, the manager, standing by the door reached for his pocket watch. There was a sudden look of horror on his face, and he spoke urgently with the choirmaster, then dashed out to talk with the choir. His face a ghastly shade of grey, he returned to the dining room and clapped his hands for silence.
“I am sorry to impose on you in this way, but I would be grateful if you could all check under your chairs and tables. My watch is not on its chain and I fear it has been dropped.”
We all started peering under chairs and tables, although Holmes was looking at the activity in the room rather than on the floor.
“Can you see the watch anywhere?” I asked, emerging from under the tablecloths.
“I fear the watch may not have been lost,” muttered my friend. “You may look, but you will not find it.”
Holmes was right. Diners shook their heads as they settled back in their seats, and it seemed that the search had proven fruitless. The manager was looking more distressed by the moment and was ready to burst into tears. As order was restored, Torremago got to his feet.
“My brother,” he called, “I know exactly where your watch is.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” gasped the manager.
“Oh, no, I assure you. I can lay hands on it straight away.”
Next to me, Holmes was suddenly alert, eyes gleaming.
“Since you greeted me at the door,” the magician continued, “I have been sitting at this table. Am I right?”
His brother could only nod.
“If I were to send one of my assistants to select a present from under your tree, you would agree that it would have been impossible for me to have tampered with it. I have been nowhere near that tree.”
Again, his brother could only nod.
He clapped, and one of his troupe left their table and went across to the tree. She walked round for a moment, examining the packages, before swooping and grabbing one in a single move. She gave it to the Manager, wished him a happy Christmas and returned to her seat.
“Please,” said Torremago, “be so kind as to open your present. It comes with my best Christmas wishes.”
The manager stuttered, “But… but… it’s just an empty box…” Nevertheless, he pulled apart the ribbons and opened the paper to reveal a plain card container. Automatically, he prised open the lid, then gave an audible gasp. Plunging his hand into the carton, he pulled out a watch. He looked at it, the colour returning to his face.
“But… that’s amazing… this is it…” Composing himself, he swooped on his brother and shook his hand ferociously. “Ladies and gentlemen - The Great Torremago!” Astonished by this turn of events, the dining room applauded.
Holmes, however, was not applauding, and grabbed my arm. “The game’s afoot, Watson,” he muttered, and strode over to the Manager.
“Would you be so kind,” he said, “but I should like to admire your present.” He took the watch from the manager and looked it over closely. Then he pulled a penknife from his pocket and dragged the blade across the front of the case. There was an anguished cry from the Manager.
“When we came in,” Holmes said, “I could see your watch and its handsome new chain in your waistcoat pocket. I wagered with myself then that the watch was gold-cased.”
“It is,” agreed the manager impatiently.
“So how is it, then, dragging a blade across the case reveals that this watch is gold-plated?” Holmes showed the Manager the dull grey stripe beneath the shining coat.
Holmes continued, “And the name on the face of your watch I saw was that of one of Paris’ finest watchmakers, yet if I look closely – yes – beneath the face is a movement found in this year’s Penny Bazaar.”
There was a crash as The Great Torremago pushed his chair over, priming himself for an escape. I was ready for him, however, running between the tables, and tackling him before he could reach freedom.
“Send for a constable,” shouted Holmes, “a thief has been taken!” He knelt alongside me, reached into the magician’s coat and produced the manager’s actual watch. “As I thought,” he said, “hidden away where you usually hide your doves!”
“That watch was promised to me by my father,” shouted Torremago. “My brother took it before I could claim my rights.”
“You don’t claim them by theft,” said Holmes. “You should have had more Christmas spirit for your own brother.” He turned on his heel, and re-joined Mrs Hudson.
The magician was arrested and, with his entourage, taken away to Scotland Yard. A cold Christmas awaited them. With the excitement over, the tables were readied for the remainder of the feast.
“How did you know what was going on?” asked Mrs Hudson.
“I was suspicious of the parcel that was knocked by Torremago’s assistant. I surmised that she had dropped it from within her skirts to be part of the show later.”
“And I suppose that the magician stole the Manager’s watch while he was being greeted warmly?” our landlady enquired.
“Distraction – the stock in trade of magicians,” murmured Holmes. “While the brothers were enjoying their reunion, Torremago extracted the watch from the waistcoat pocket. It’s the sort of trick magicians work all the time.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head at the thought of such wickedness at Christmas, and settled down to goose, apple sauce and stuffing.
At home that evening, Holmes and I sat companionably, a decanter of brandy between us, looking through our windows at the lamplighter hard at work, and the urchins enjoying the last of the holiday whilst running through the streets.
“It is a curious thing, Watson,” Sherlock murmured, “that our adventure should turn out as it did.” He reached into pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. “I apologise for the lack of bows and ribbons, but I assure you that it comes with my best Christmas wishes.”
I opened the box and found inside a gold pocket watch. The case had been decorated with a Rod of Asclepius inlaid in silver. I opened the watch, and found it had been engraved “To John, my dearest friend - S.H.”