First in my responses to the December Challenge of Awesomeness hosted by Hades Lord of the Dead.
Prompt from W. Y. Traveller – Carollers
The Mystery of the Caroller Bells
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but did you just say I should arrest Mathew Wells?" demanded Inspector Gregson incredulously.
"Indeed," my old friend replied sedately.
I confess, I was as surprised as the good inspector. Holmes and I had been summoned to the Wells residence by Mr. Phineas Wells that afternoon to investigate an apparently unsuccessful burglary attempt. The household of Mr. Wells, a well-known collector of and recognized authority on fine Galway crystal, had been awakened in the middle of the night by sounds of a disturbance in the parlor where his collection of crystal was displayed. Wells and his chief butler had entered the room to find a curio cabinet broken into, a window standing open and two chairs overturned. The men rushed to the open window when they heard shouting on the street. Looking out they saw young Mathew Wells shaking his fist in the air and calling imprecations after a fleeing man.
"This is unbelievable, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said, shaking his head. "The young gentleman recovered two of the bells intact and we have the remains of the other two. Mathew Wells, I think, is the hero of the piece. Not the perpetrator of the crime."
I had to agree with the inspector. It seemed outlandish for Holmes to accuse the victim's son of committing the robbery.
"Are you quite certain, Holmes?" I asked.
"I am, Watson," he replied, giving me a cool glance. "You know my methods. You have seen what I have."
"But, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said, shaking his head and looking to me for support. "Doctor?"
"I don't understand, Holmes," I admitted. "What is it that I have seen? What tells you Mathew Wells is the culprit?"
In answer my friend stepped to the curio cabinet where the near priceless collection of bells had, until the previous night, been safely kept.
"The Caroller Bells, Watson," he said drawing one of the finely crafted miniatures from a shelf in the cabinet. "These should be enough to inform anyone of the theft."
He handed it to me. I examined the cut crystal carefully, noting its fineness, but discerning nothing more. I looked up questioningly. Gregson gingerly took the little bell from my fingers and did the same.
"Messrs. Cunningham and Dolan of Galway have produced the finest crystal in all of Europe for the past twenty years," Holmes explained. "Each year for the season of Christmas they create what is known as a limited edition series known as the Caroller Bells."
"Mr. Holmes, we know this already," Gregson interrupted and handed the bell back to my friend.
"Each bell is as finely crafted as humanly possible and they are as valuable as diamonds," Holmes went on, unperturbed. He replaced the bell on the shelf. "A worthy target for a burglar."
"Agreed, Holmes," I said. "But why do you suspect Mathew Wells of the theft?"
"You have noted the damage done to the lock on the cabinet," he said, indicating the torn wood and the bent brass catch. He then strode to the window. "There is no damage here, Watson. Three inches of snow on the street and no sign of damp on the floor. This window was opened from the inside."
"The burglar could have entered through another window or one of the doors," argued Gregson.
Holmes raised an amused eyebrow at the inspector.
Gregson's shoulders slumped and he sighed, "What else have I missed, Mr. Holmes?"
"The tracks in the snow, Inspector," Holmes said. "Mathew Wells says he lunged from the window and caught hold of the burglar as he attempted to escape. They struggled, the thief broke away and Wells pursued. The tracks indicate no such action took place. You and your men were not as careful as you could have been during your investigation, Inspector, but I saw no sign of a struggle. If anything, the burglar assisted Mathew Wells out of the window. Odd behavior for a man attempting escape."
"The tracks clearly indicate the two men ran away from the window," I said. "Their strides were long and the prints quite clear."
"Oh yes, Watson," Holmes agreed. "Very clear. Do you not find anything odd about them, given that the burglar is reported to have thrown his loot to young Mr. Wells in order to end the pursuit?"
"It seems not unreasonable," I said. "What good would the loot have done the man if he had been apprehended and jailed?"
"Most reasonable, Watson, but not what I was asking," replied Holmes. "The tracks at the point where Mr. Wells supposedly snatched two of the bells from the air are as clean and clear as the rest. He did not waver, nor did he skid on the slippery surface. He simply came to a stop. The tracks of the burglar never vary until they disappear down the alley. His strides are as regular as a sprinter's."
"He should have turned or at least slipped," Gregson said with a nod.
"But you said the bells themselves should be enough to inform us of the crime and the young man's culpability," I noted.
"I did, Watson. I have two reasons for saying so." Holmes went to the small pile of broken glass on the table where the evidence had been set. "My first reason is the remarkable fact that the broken bells were the matched set from ten years ago. The most valuable pair in the collection, as a fire in the manufactory of Cunningham and Dolan destroyed all but fifty pairs of that year's edition. My second reason is these." Holmes indicated the shards on the table. "There is not much here to go on, I admit, but there are three fragments from the lips of two shattered bells. Have a look at them, Watson. Do be careful of the sharp edges, though."
I looked, as did Gregson, but to my untrained eye they looked like nothing more than broken crystal. Gregson and I exchanged a glance before we turned to Holmes for his explanation.
"Listen, gentlemen," he said and lifted one of the bells out of the curio cabinet and gave it a light shake. It tinkled prettily, but gave us no clue as to what Holmes was driving at. He repeated the performance three more times, each bell giving out a similar note. "Quality, gentlemen. Quality of craftsmanship and quality of sound. These bells are made by hands that know their business. The fragments you hold were never cared for so much."
"How can you know that, sir?" Gregson asked, though not in a challenging tone.
"The thickness varies far too much, Inspector," Holmes replied. "Even those small pieces show that the bells from which they came were cheap imitations. Mr. Phineas Wells can confirm my assessment."
"Very well, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said and set the small shard back among the pieces on the table. "Can you tell us why the young man did it?"
"Mathew Wells is deep in debt," said Holmes. "He has been losing heavily at cards for quite some time. My sources tell me he has been quietly banned from one of his clubs until his debts to other members are repaid. I suspect you will discover that the burglar of last night is one of his friends or perhaps a fence who deals in such collectables as these bells."
Gregson frowned at this conclusion and shoved his notebook back into his pocket before summoning the master of the house. Mr. Phineas Wells confirmed what Holmes had said about the shattered glass and then nearly collapsed when Gregson described the situation as we knew it. Holmes provided some solace to the distraught man, though.
"If your son is forthcoming with the name of his accomplice and assists the police and myself," said Holmes, "I will undertake to recover your bells and prevent scandal from spreading."
"Mr. Holmes," said the older Wells. "I thank you. My son will cooperate. I'll see he does."
It took no convincing to get Mathew Wells to admit his part in the crime. Before evening we had recovered the missing bells from the home of one of the young man's boyhood friends. Gregson quietly closed the case, leaving the press to speculate about Sherlock Holmes' part in the recovery of the stolen items. Two weeks later I read in the paper that Mr. Mathew Wells would be traveling overseas to India to oversee certain business interests of his father in the far Orient. All things considered, it was the best possible answer for the parties concerned and I quite forgot about this small adventure until the twenty-fourth of December when a boy arrived at our flat on Baker Street. He bore a small, wrapped box addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Well, what do you make of this, Watson?" Holmes asked me, smiling.
I took the card he held out to me.
"To Mr. Holmes, in gratitude," I read aloud. "Who is it from, Holmes?"
He did not answer me, but held up a small cherry wood box and opened the lid. Resting on a burgundy velvet cushion within were a pair of sparkling Caroller Bells.
The End.
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story, keep your eyes open for others taking part in this challenge.
Thanks also to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing and hosting the December Challenge of Awesomeness.