"The Adventure of the Haunted Moneylender"
It was a bitterly cold
Christmas Eve in London. Thick fog had settled into the darkening
streets like a clammy blanket, and a cold wind moaned eerily in the
dark alleyways. I was certainly thankful for the crackling fire
before which my friend Sherlock Holmes and I were seated. Holmes was
looking up something in his encyclopedia, and I was thumbing cheerily
through a book of Christmas carols, and working up the courage to ask
my companion if he might consider playing some of them on his violin.
I admit I was somewhat hesitant to ask him, as I was not sure what
his Bohemian taste would cause him to think of the festivities of the
season. "O little town of Bethlehem," I broke the silence
by reading aloud, "How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and
dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. Holmes, does that not evoke
a lovely picture of the Nativity?"
"I wonder at you,
Watson," said Holmes, laying aside his encyclopedia and turning
to me with a singular expression. "Surely you do not succumb to
the fantasy of Christmas created by the poetry of the old carols.
Consider the improbability of a town sending the Christ child to a
filthy stable, and then suddenly falling into a reverent silence for
Him. As a medical man, Watson, you ought to know that the birth of a
child in such a place would be nothing like the idyllic pastoral
scene the carolers sing of."
"But Holmes!" I
ejaculated. "Surely the birth of the Christ child, being such a
miraculous occasion, would be accompanied by special
circumstances?"
"I think not, Watson," said my
companion. "For, when one thinks of it, the beauty of the
Christmas story lies not in the romantic notions one likes to
imagine, but in the picture of our Lord willingly exchanging Heaven's
glories for the putrid reality of a earthly stable. Do you not
agree?"
I had to admit there was truth to my friend's words,
but his airy dismissal of the time-honored carols seemed to me rather
sacrilegious. "But I say, Holmes--" I began again, but was
interrupted by Mrs. Hudson's rap at the door. "A gentleman to
see you, Mr. Holmes," she said, and, at a nod from my companion,
showed a most singular person into the room. He was elderly, small,
and shriveled, with a pointed nose and thin blue lips that didn't
look as if they had ever smiled. His reddened eyes looked hard and
sharp as a flint, and he had a distinct air of being secret and
self-contained. In fact, I should have judged him to be as solitary
as an oyster.
"Sit down, won't you?" said Holmes,
directing our visitor into an arm-chair. "I would wish you the
compliments of the season, but, seeing as you would probably not
appreciate them, I shall keep them to myself, and leave the greetings
to my friend Watson. Now what may I do for you?"
"I
most certainly do NOT appreciate the season," said our visitor.
"And, pleased as I am to have someone understand that, I must
say I don't know how you knew it."
"It is a simple
matter of deduction," said Holmes with a grin playing about his
features. "I observe that, while your fine watch and chain and
the style of your clothing proclaim you to be a man of considerable
means, your top hat is patched in three places, your jacket is worn
quite thin, and your shoes I place at at least fourteen years of age.
This indicates either a gentleman in reduced circumstances, or one
who voluntarily refrains from spending money due to personal
preference. The banker's gazette peering out of your waistcoat pocket
indicates to me the latter, since a gentleman in reduced
circumstances would not take such delight in reading of banking
affairs that he carries the gazette with him wherever he goes.
Therefore I conclude that you prefer not to spend your money, and as
such could care nothing for Christmas, which is after all known as
the season of liberality in giving. Do you not see how simple it
is?"
"Bah! Humbug!" said our visitor. "You
seem to be very amused by your little games, Mr. Holmes, but I'm a
very busy man and I'd like to get to my business if you please. My
name is Ebenezer Scrooge, and I've come to consult you on a matter of
great personal distress."
"Mr. Scrooge?" I asked.
"The moneylender?"
"Yes, the moneylender,"
growled Scrooge, but at the mention of money I noticed a sort of cold
gleam come into his eyes, that reminded me not a little of Holmes
when someone mentioned his deductive powers. I must confess I had
some misgivings about working with the gentleman. I had never met
him, but his name was notorious among many of my poorer patients, for
his heartless, miserly ways.
"If it's a matter of money, Mr.
Scrooge, I'm afraid you have come to the wrong quarters," said
my friend, reaching once again for his encyclopedia. "A trip to
the financial district would be more in order, I should
think."
"Bah!" said Mr. Scrooge, "If I were
having money troubles, Mr. Holmes, I would certainly not have come to
you. In fact--" his voice faltered for a moment, and a look came
into his cold eyes that one might have interpreted as embarrassment.
"The whole business is probably a humbug, Mr. Holmes, but I
thought there was no harm in consulting you about it. Mr. Holmes,
what do you know of psychic phenomena?"
A look of keen
interest came into my friend's eyes, and he leaned forward, placing
his fingertips together. "Experience has taught me that much of
it is, as you would say, a humbug," he said. "But I sense a
tale worth hearing from this fellow, Watson. Pray describe to us what
you have seen, Mr. Scrooge."
"My business partner,
Jacob Marley," began Mr. Scrooge, "has been dead these
seven years, as dead as a doornail. Yet I tell you that this very
night, I have seen his miserable face appear upon my
doorknocker!"
My face must have betrayed my surprise, but
Holmes' remained as inscrutable as a book-jacket. "Did this face
remain there for any length of time?" he questioned.
"Only
for a moment," said Mr. Scrooge.
"I suppose you took
the precaution of opening the door and looking behind it?" asked
Holmes.
"Nothing there," Mr. Scrooge replied.
"And
you are certain your partner is dead?"
"There is no
doubt whatever about that."
Holmes ran his long fingers
lightly over the arm of his chair. "Into your coat, Watson!"
he said after a moment's reflection. "I think my friend and I
had best accompany you to your lodgings tonight, Mr. Scrooge. This is
a case in which speculation before facts is especially dangerous. You
have no objection to us staying the night?"
"I suppose
not," Mr. Scrooge growled, "but don't expect any Christmas
charity."
A half-hour later, we were stamping our cold feet
on the doorstep of Mr. Scrooge's apartments. My companion examined
the doorknocker at length, but proclaimed there was nothing unusual
about it. Mr. Scrooge, with a rather forced-sounding "Good-night,
gentlemen," took himself off to bed, while Holmes and I sat up
in the hallway to see what should happen. At Holmes' advice, I had my
revolver cocked and by my side.
I confess I must have dozed a
little, for when I woke it seemed much later, yet Holmes had not
broken his vigil. "Has anything happened?" I asked, feeling
rather ashamed.
"Not a thing, Watson," said my
companion. "Mr. Scrooge has been sleeping like a baby all this
time. If anything unusual has happened in this house tonight, it must
be visible only to him."
I pondered this as the clock slowly
struck four. Two more hours passed in the dark passageway. Holmes and
I chatted a bit about musical matters, but something in the quiet air
seemed to still us into silence. Suddenly, as the first rays of
morning were creeping into the room, the silence was shattered by a
loud exclamation from Mr. Scrooge's bedchamber. In an instant, Holmes
was on his feet and had flown into the room, I following close
behind. The sight that met our eyes was certainly nothing like what I
had expected.
The crusty moneylender was capering about the room
like a giddy schoolboy, shouting some garbled nonsense about the
Past, the Present, and the Future.
"Mr. Scrooge, calm
yourself!" said Holmes, reaching for a flask of wine and
attempting to guide our client into a chair.
"I don't know
what to do!" cried Mr. Scrooge, shaking him off. "A merry
Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world!"
"Really,
Mr. Scrooge, this is most irregular," I began, but it was
evident that our client was quite indifferent as to our
bewilderment.
"I'm reforming my life!" he cried,
pumping our hands with delight. "I've had the most miraculous
experience tonight, and I declare I'm as happy as an angel!"
With that, he waltzed over to a wardrobe, pulled out two large
moneybags, and plopped them into our astonished arms. "Many
thanks for your services, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he said with
a cheery grin. "But my experience is no longer a mystery to me!
May I bid you good day and a very happy Christmas!"
We found
ourselves bewildered on the front doorstep, while Mr. Scrooge above
us was leaning out the window shouting a greeting to an equally
bewildered lad in the street.
"Well, what do you make of
that, Holmes?" I asked as we walked back to Baker Street in the
crisp morning air.
"Mr. Scrooge is a very...singular
person," said my companion. "He is the second most
interesting object that I have seen this Christmas."
"And
the first?" I asked.
"I've said it before and I'll say
it again," he answered, patting his money bag affectionately. "I
am a poor man, Dr. Watson."
THE END