In 1976, a trunk bearing the label 'Mr Mycroft Holmes Esq.' was discovered in the attic of the Diogenes Club. Inside were a number of journals, relating principally to those years when his celebrated younger brother was practising as a private consulting detective. Written in an obscure code, finally deciphered in 2008, and translated from the original mirrored Latin text, presented here for the first time is a series of short extracts relating to the Christmas period of 1888.
Tidings of Comfort and Joy?
Wednesday, 19th December 1888 – The First Nowell?
So, it has finally happened. Took me completely by surprise and from such an unexpected source too.
Quietly minding my own business, half listening to the PM fretting over the latest problem with the Cabinet, half thinking about tomorrow's Governors' Meeting at the club, when from out of nowhere – "And a Merry Christmas to you both".
This from the butler of all people, with the tea and biscuits still on his tray. One would have thought he should have known better. Whatever is the world coming to?
Of course, one is obliged to respond in kind. That sort of thing is expected. So startled was I that I could barely mumble a reciprocal gesture. Indeed, I believe I added a wish for a 'Happy New Year' into the bargain, which is nonsense this side of Christmas Day.
I can only say that I was thoroughly ashamed at being hagridden into Christmas pleasantries. I caught the PM giving me a peculiar look over the mince pies as the fellow left – this is the man I have told time and time again that I have no liking for the festive season. He must think I am suffering from a softening of the brain.
As a general rule, I do not believe it appropriate to start with this absurd annual ritual – if one must, that is – until Christmas Eve, working on the basis that one risks repeating oneself when festive greetings are bestowed too early.
Acquaintances can be comfortably dealt with when one is able to anticipate one's final meeting – a shake of the hand, as sincere a wish of 'Happy Christmas' as one can muster, and that is the matter dealt with for another year. Exchanging similar pleasantries with strangers, tradesmen and passers-by should be avoided at all costs – it leads onto familiarity, and thence to contempt, and before you know where you are, they are turning up on your doorstep bearing gifts and expecting something in return.
Relatives are another matter. Thankfully, I am cursed with one lone brother and he as desirous of his own company as myself. Best of all, he does not make himself a nuisance. Occasionally, Sherlock will turn up with some problem that has thrown him out of kilter, usually at dinner time and usually with that hungry look about him that obliges me to act the hospitable host and invite him to stay.
As younger brothers go, if one must have one, then I suppose Sherlock is tolerable. Some time ago he stopped calling on my purse and switched his attention to my time, which I tell him is just as precious and worth more than he could afford if I had a mind to start charging for services for which the government pays handsomely and he nothing. He seems to find this amusing – one day, I'll present him with a bill and then we shall see if he still has the gall to laugh.
Someone asked me the other day what exactly it is he does. I tried to explain it, but I fear I made little impression on the fellow. He commiserated with me, said he had had the same trouble with his younger sibling, and that one day they come to their senses and grow out of it.
Personally, I do not hold out much hope of that happening in Sherlock's case. If the impossible does finally happen, I suspect we shall both be too old to care.
True, he does not have what our father would have called 'a proper job', but then neither do half the people who work in Whitehall, so that cannot be held against him. When one creates a profession for oneself, the accusation is bound to come that it is idleness by another name. No doubt the fellow who created the role of monarch for himself came in for similar criticism.
To his credit, Sherlock is the only person I know who has taken a hobby and turned it into a successful enterprise. Thanks to that friend of his, his name has become a household word. Strange to think of him being spoken of in the same hushed breath as Lyton's Horse Embrocation, Spencer's Perfumed Soap, Bryce's Choice Leaf Tea and all the other domestic essentials that ease the daily round. One could debate which is the most useful of the four; I suppose it depends on one's circumstances at the time.
Talking of his friend – an amiable fellow is Dr Watson, as I believe I have mentioned before, what I would call, with no offence intended, 'normal' – he married a very pleasant young woman this year, which means Sherlock will be Christmasing alone.
This is not good news. I suspect he is fishing for an invitation to Christmas lunch – and no wonder. I had the good foresight to insist on a first-rate French chef for the Diogenes and he has never disappointed, even if he has failed to master the fine art of the Yorkshire pudding.
I could take pity, but I shall refrain from doing so unless he asks. And then solemnly undertakes to behave himself. I will not have a repeat of last time.
On that occasion, when he stayed at the club for the Christmas meal, he had the temerity to say that the turkey was dry, the cabbage limp and the sprouts too hard. Such language came from the kitchen when this was reported, the like of which I hope never to hear again. I understand the chef threatened to do ungodly things to him with the rolling pin and had to be restrained. So much for the season of goodwill.
Addendum: I find that looking at my entry for this time last year, I had not the misfortune to be wished 'Season's Greetings' until the 23rd December.
Whoever said that Christmas comes earlier every year I fear was sadly correct.
Next: Thursday, 20th December 1888 – Deck the Halls?