CHRISTMAS AT HARDWICKE-ON-THE-MOOR
Happy Christmas from GM
Find more NEW fanfiction: Man from UNCLE - Hawaii Five-0 - Buffy the Vampire Slayer - SW:TPM - Sherlock Holmes --
www.qnet.com/~martin5Email -- martin5@qnet.com
-- All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while --
During my many years residing in London I was accustomed to cold winters. In the years of my association with the great detective Sherlock Homes, I was accustomed to his often cold and abrasive personality. One morning near the end of December, near the end of the Nineteenth Century, I confronted both chilling phenomenon as I returned from errands.
Quickly shedding my outerwear in the vestibule, I hurried to the warm and inviting fireplace of our sitting room. Holmes sat nearly motionless in his basket chair, reading the paper, the only sign of life the thin tendrils of smoke curling up from his after breakfast briar pipe. A blanket curled round his shoulders give him the appearance of an old man.
Holmes' brain was of the first order. His ability to deduce and solve crimes the greatest. His understanding of human relations often appeared nonexistent. Ebenezer Scrooge's bah humbug of Christmas seemed an example to my friend, who decried the season of good will toward men. I imagined Holmes' childhood a bleak one and Christmas a poignant reminder of the happiest of times for others. During our association I tried my best to keep the spirit of Christmas alive and succeeded in authorizing Mrs. Hudson to prepare succulent goose dinners annually on the twenty-fifth of December. Eventually I managed to convince a reluctant Holmes to exchange small gifts on Christmas morning. I suspected he did it for the sake of friendship, and it made the conversion all the more important to this old sentimental surgeon.
Perhaps the turn of the century, less than a fortnight away, brought this pressing mood of darkness upon my sensitive friend. Perhaps the extreme of excitement and happiness pervading London coaxed out of Homes a perversely dismal aspect. Whatever the reason, Holmes seemed unusually disagreeable the last few days. As usual, I ignored the mood and went on about my business.
"You know you bring this upon yourself, my dear chap, you can't deny it."
I was somewhat surprised he even noticed my arrival. For the most observant man in the world, Holmes could be amazingly oblivious about simple things -- everyday common things -- like fellow lodgers.
"What do you mean, Holmes?"
Without looking up he continued in a disapproving tone. "The cold, Watson. You rushed through breakfast and raced about London -- to three different streets by two cab rides -- to deliver Christmas presents to your old Army friends. You return wet from the snow, cold from the wind and limping from your old wound." Carefully folding the paper, he rested his languid eyes upon me. "If you insist on playing the role of Father Christmas, you will have to pay the consequences." The clipped words rang with rebuke. "Now you will probably take to the sofa for the rest of the day." With a petulant sniff he continued. "And I am condemned to refuse a commission which would lift me from the humbug of the season."
"Upon my word, Holmes, you become more like Scrooge every year."
"Humbug!"
"And you sound just like him!"
"I must take your word for that, dear friend, for I have never read the work."
Holmes, the voracious reader, had never read Dickens' most famous book? I confessed my surprise.
"Having read one of his books, I found his fiction to be moralizing and tedious. I have no interest in his opinions of a holiday disagreeable me."
I ignored the attempt to blame Christmas for his disposition. It would be easy to debate the merits of the season, or Holmes' mood. Instead, I focused on his attitude of keen wit and sharp tone. He was excited about this case and that was the most important factor. Sitting across from him I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. A case would be just the thing to bring Holmes out of his doldrums.
"Tell me about this mystery, Holmes."
A smile quirked at his lips, his green eyes twinkled. "Hah! Watson, you are like an old fire horse!" He clapped his hands together, suddenly animated and alive. "As eager as I to be rid of the trappings of London's merriment! Yes, we have a case! A pretty little mystery, as you so aptly put it." Removing the pipe, he held it in his hand as he leaned foreword, elbows on his knees and captivated me, drawing me in with his master's art of mesmerism. "The ingredients -- a missing relative, a dying lord of a manor, a gaggle of relations gathered round at Christmastime. Add to the mix a brilliant detective and his indispensable assistant, and you have all the drama we could ask for Christmas eve and ghosts of the past and present and future."
As always, his story-weaving talent was compelling. I could feel the spirit of intrigue and danger as well as old Scrooge felt Marley's ghost in Dickens' famous tale. My friend was so correct about us both -- we lived for these moments of adventure, the thrills of enigmas. Many times Holmes' sharp manners irritated me, but offense was quickly forgotten in the times of adventure and friendship.
"You intrigue me, Holmes."
A full, appreciative smile flashed on his face. "Excellent!"
He crossed to the sideboard and brought us each a glass filled with generous portions of brandy. To ward off the chill, he insisted. Medicinally, I approved.
Curled again in his chair he continued. "An aged patriarch fears he will not see the new century, Watson. We are to find a lost relation and bring this said person to him before the eve of the new year."
Sipping the warm liquor I pondered the unusual task. "Not your usual case, Holmes. What intrigues you about a missing relative?"
"The chance to be rid of London." Wasn't that obvious, seemed his unspoken codicil? "Now finish your brandy, my good man, and we shall pack and be on our way."
"Today?"
He jumped out of the chair, swinging his blanket like a magician's cape. All sign of lethargy vanished, replaced by his glittering excitement for the chase. Fortunately I had wished the compliments of the season on my few friends this morning. The case would take us out of London -- for how long?
"Holmes, where is it we are going?" I stood in the doorway of his bedroom and watched him fling scarves from his wardrobe into his Gladstone bag. "We will be back tomorrow, I pray?"
Holmes scoffed. "My dear Watson, we shall not. Our Christmas will be spent in the picturesque hamlet of Hardwicke-on-the-moor."
"Where on earth is that? Sounds -- remote."
A smirk lived and died instantly on his enigmatic expression. "So right you are. The coast of Scotland."
"Scotland!" I shivered in anticipated horror. "In the dead of winter?"
Mentally mourning the loss of Mrs. Hudson's redoubtable Christmas feast, my mind flashed on the familiarity of the village name. About to quiz my friend on details, he motioned me away to pack, insisting there was little time before catching the one-ten out of Paddington.
With a regretful sigh I started for my room, hoping this strange little town in the wilds of civilization would have a decent pub. Was it too much to hope for a meager, hot meal on Christmas? Holmes would never bother to concern himself with such trivialities, but such considerations filled my disconcerted mind as I packed my warmest clothes into a bag.
***
As was his wont, my companion did not utter another word concerning the mysterious case of missing relations on the moor. His only clarification was that we were not, exactly, to be in Scotland -- just as far into northern England as was possible before setting foot over the border into Scotland. And the missing heir we were tracking might, indeed, be connected with the Scots. During the long journey we discussed various topics ranging from opera to race horses. We ate from the generous basket sent along by a distressed Mrs. Hudson, who bemoaned our departure and the waste of her tasty Christmas goose.
Holmes was dozing when the train slowed. The first-class carriage swung round a curve, away from the bleak view of the dark North sea I had studied for some time. I caught the first glimpse of the enigmatic village of Hardwicke-on-the-moor. At the far edge of the hamlet a charming holiday-striped lighthouse stood as sentinel on rocks jutting into the ocean where grey waves crashed against the black crags. Beyond that, up the rugged coast sat an old and elegant abbey. Rustic bridges of old stone spanned a river. Children played on a nearby frozen pond. A snow-dusted main street boasted enchanting shops and houses, a pub, thankfully, plentiful inns and numerous, practical Scots bundled in warm coats, scarves and hats.
A carriage awaited us and we bundled the lap rugs on our laps as the horses clopped through the town. A lovely little tea shoppe, complete with ancient waterwheel, dominated the main bridge. An inn, a clock shop, a thatch-roofed house and a toy emporium resided close to the pond. A police station, surprisingly, and, coincidentally, next door, the local public house. As we passed the pub I nudged Holmes' arm.
"By Jove, that says it's the Baskerville Arms!"
"Amazing." The tone declared Holmes was no such thing as amazed. "The butler -- whatshisname -- wished to open a pub. Isn't that what you wrote me?"
"Yes. Barrymore. Swore he would use Baskerville's inheritance to open a pub and name it the Baskerville Arms."
Holmes shrugged. "Another mystery solved with your inherent deductive abilities, Watson."
There was no note of sarcasm and I did not choose to think him facetious. This time.
Throughout Hardwicke-on-the-moor, Christmas wreaths decorated every door and lamp, benches and carriages. In the streets happy children and dogs played in snow fights and skating. The little seaside hamlet seemed alive with the spirit of Yuletide. On the far end of the village sat houses, a music shop, another modest inn, and a bakery. On the high street were the library, a quaint bookshop, an elegant inn and a humble local church with an impressive nativity in the front. In the distance, on a high hill, dusky outlines of an imposing edifice stood out against the twilight sky.
Curving up the snow-covered hills we passed farms and white fields. Slowly we climbed into the hills, moors on one side and cold sea on the other. As darkness fell the village below was alight with glowing fires lighting the windows and gas lamps lining the streets of the charming community. I commented my observations to Holmes, who, wrapped in his coat and scarf barely acknowledged my words. He bothered to glance out the window and nod at the scene -- in approval or disapproval I know not -- then settled farther down under the rugs.
Moments later it was Holmes who nudged me. "We are almost there, Watson."
We passed two stately stone lions marking the long, sloping drive of the castle. Under an archway spanning two towers we drove into a cobblestoned courtyard. From the carriage we emerged, pausing for a moment to gaze in wonder at the incredible castle nearly indistinct in the waning light. Tiled gables haphazardly adorned every wing of the amazing structure; Tudor windows peaked out from between half-towers. In a whimsical mood I would guess it dated back to Camelot with Merlin being the chief architect! There seemed no rhyme or reason to the eccentric pile as rooms and gables -- at least ten -- jutted out at irregular angles from the core of the castle.
Before I could wonder what manner of family might reside in such a place, Holmes urged me onward. Nearing the massive wooden doors, a huge black dog, rivaling the infamous Hound of the Baskervilles, rounded the corner of the yard. Stopping several feet from us he dug in his heels and barked, but did not approach us. More confident than I, Holmes stepped up to the threshold.
Before my friend could use the huge brass lion-doorknocker, the door opened. A grey-haired, stoop-shouldered man gave us a bow.
"You are expected, gentlemen."
The hound, the pub, the moors, the mystery inclined me to almost expect Barrymore. Instead, this man introduced himself in a thick Scottish accent as Brooks, the butler, and took us directly to our rooms. We were instructed to come down for dinner in an hour, at which time the lord of the manor would greet us.
Many Christmas Eves had been spent in more pleasant and warm surroundings, both figuratively and literally. As I should have guessed, the unique castle was as draughty and cold as any other castle. Perhaps more, since my fertile imagination harkened back to the bleak chills of the snow, the moors and the sea surrounding us. Still, many other holidays were spent in worse places than this, so I had no reason to complain.
I dressed and stayed close to the fire, driving the cold from my bones. In my pocket I placed the small wrapped and ribboned box I had brought from London. Holmes' Christmas present. Who knew what this strange family might do as Christmas celebrations, so I brought along the present to give to Holmes tonight. Regardless of where we were or what puzzle we might be involved with, my innate sentimentality demanded my own observance of Christmas.
Holmes knocked on the door, summoning me to dinner. Just outside the dining room Holmes stopped, favoring me with a curious smile.
"I believe this will be a Christmas you won't soon forget, Watson."
He opened the double doors.
The spacious, yet intimate room was dominated by row upon row of candelabra on the walls. Holly and ivy stretched in boughs from light to light, scenting the room with Christmas. The butler and a serving maid stood to the side of a large, long oak table. Macbeth, the huge black hound, sat obedient and docile next to one of the chairs. At the head of the table sat a man who was bent with age, his wrinkled face reflecting every season of his many years. His appearance, however, caused me to stop in my tracks. The man seemed familiar . . . as if I was seeing myself in decades to come.
"May I introduce our host, Watson. Sir Hamish Hardwicke. Your cousin." Turning to the elder man, he gestured to me. "Sir Hamish, your long missing cousin, Doctor John Watson. Merry Christmas to you both."
The unexpected and amazing evening passed quickly. Sir Hamish came from my mother's relations, being my mother's cousin's son. After dinner we removed to the conservatory and viewed the family portraits. The family resemblance was striking, particularly between my mother and her cousin, Sir Hamish's mother.
Over superb brandy and cigars, the elderly gentleman explained how my mother married my father, an army surgeon, and took her far from England. Hamish's family remained in England and Scotland, inheriting titles and estates in both countries. Now, at the end of his life, Hamish wished to find his heirs and bestow lands and titles to proper antecedents.
Learning of another cousin, named Hardwicke, living in Scotland, I requested that Sir Hamish give me whatever he thought appropriate, but that the titles and certainly the lands belonged in the family of Hardwicke. I was content to remain in my modest living in London. I had, after all, everything I needed there to make a man happy.
Holmes gave me a smile of approval and raised his glass in a toast.
***
Christmas morning dawned cold and crisp. I awoke to snowflakes fluttering past the window. Gazing out on the grounds, I was surprised to see Holmes and Macbeth strolling outside the gates of the courtyard. Donning my warmest clothing I snatched up Holmes' gift and rushed out to join him.
The crunching snow gave away my approach. Holmes waved to me with his walking stick. Macbeth, now accustomed to us, ran up and nuzzled my leg. I followed him to Holmes, who stood on the edge of the road and gazed out at the sleepy hamlet below.
"The music master has insomnia."
In the sleepy hamlet most of the windows were lighted, smoke trailing from chimney stacks. At the music shop the windows darkened, then a few minute later lighted again, then darkened. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to discern the mysteries and quirks of this little village in just a short visit.
For what must have been the hundredth time I thanked Holmes for his incredible feat of detective skills in finding my relative. He dismissed the accolades yet again.
"Now Holmes, this is no time for modesty. It isn't every man whose friend finds him a castle and inheritance for Christmas." Macbeth rubbed against my leg. "Complete with hound."
"All deserving for you, my dear fellow." Holmes turned from the sight of the village and critically studied me. "Are you sure you want to give it up, Watson?"
"Of course. What in heaven's name would I do with a castle? I love London with it's plays and activity. It is where I share adventures and intrigues with my very closest friend. What more could a man ask? I have all the riches in the world."
Touched beyond words, he offered a faltering smile, then turned back toward the castle. Macbeth ran ahead. I stopped him.
"Merry Christmas, Holmes." I handed him the package.
"Watson, you shouldn't have." His warm tone belayed his words. Quickly unwrapping the paper, he laughed out loud. "Shall I take this as a message, old fellow?"
I shrugged. "Just a classic piece of literature to add to your collection, Holmes. Should you take it to heart -- well -- all the better then."
Holmes tucked the volume of Dickens' A Christmas Carol under his arm and took my elbow. "A merry Christmas to you, Watson." A quick Cherub smile creased his face and his eyes twinkled. "And God bless us everyone."
Happy Christmas