Prompt from SheWhoScrawls - Scotland Yard is having a Christmas party
Remember, Remember the 18th of December
"Inspector Lestrade didn't want me to bring this to you, Mr. Holmes," said Inspector Bradstreet. "At least, not at first."
"At first I thought it was nothing," Lestrade said defensively. "Just a sort of prank to put the wind up me."
"And what has changed your mind?" Holmes asked him.
"Finding out about these," Lestrade said, producing several scraps of paper identical to the one Holmes had received from Bradstreet. "One was sent to me on the sixth. Inspector Barton got his on the eighth. Inspector Brown's came on the twelfth. Now Gregson got one this morning."
Holmes took the scraps and examined them carefully. Each showed signs of having been roughly handled. One had even been crumpled and subsequently smoothed out. Holmes read the single line of handwriting scrawled across each scrap.
Remember, remember the 18th of December,
"Written in pencil," murmured Holmes. "Yes. Look here, gentlemen. All from the same pad and one written on top of the others. See the indentation?"
Both inspectors leaned a little closer to peer over Holmes' shoulders. He held the papers at an angle to the oil lamp on his desk, which showed the shallow depressions from words written on the sheets that had been above the others.
"All the writing looks the same to me," Lestrade commented.
"I agree," said Holmes seriously.
"Could it be some sort of bad joke, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked, sounding hopeful.
"There is very little to go on," Holmes said, continuing his inspection. "There were no envelopes?"
"None," Bradstreet said.
"Mine was slipped under my office door," Lestrade said. "I believe Gregson found his on his blotter."
"Mine was on the seat of my chair, though it could have been blown there when I opened my door," Bradstreet said.
"So they are being delivered by someone who has full access to Scotland Yard headquarters." Holmes nodded. "That narrows the field of suspects."
"Disturbing in its way," Lestrade said and began to pace. "Hard to believe whoever this is, is part of the force."
"And yet that's precisely what it seems," Bradstreet grumbled.
"And why this line?" Lestrade demanded of nobody. "I mean, everyone knows the rhyme! Why the change?"
"What special event is taking place on the eighteenth?" Holmes asked.
"Parliament isn't in session," Bradstreet said. "There's been no mention of anything like a banquet or ball involving the Queen."
"We've inquired of what friends we have in the navy and the army and they can tell us nothing," put in Lestrade.
"The eighteenth," mused Holmes. "There was something…"
The tall detective rose from his chair, frowning across the room at his mantelpiece. He stepped around the desk and crossed the intervening space to grasp the handle of the jackknife which held his correspondence pinned there. With a quick wrenching motion he pulled it free and took the stack of envelopes with his other hand. Quickly he shuffled through them until he came to one that was stiffer than all the others. The envelope was embossed with the seal of Scotland Yard. A flick of the knife's blade and the envelope was open. From it he drew the ornate, though cheap, invitation he had been sent several weeks prior.
"Perhaps I have the answer to our conundrum," said Holmes.
"The Christmas party?" wondered Lestrade.
"It is this evening. The eighteenth," Bradstreet said, his eyes going a little wide. "Gunpowder, treason and plot!"
"Oh my Lord!" Lestrade practically shouted.
Holmes calmly crossed back to his desk and spread the scraps of paper into a row.
"Inspector Lestrade," he said, "which of these was sent to you?"
"This one," said Lestrade without hesitation. "I remember this corner being torn."
"And which was sent to you, Bradstreet?" asked Holmes moving Lestrade's to the far left.
"Here," said the other inspector. "This dip where the page tore unevenly from the pad. That one is mine."
"And when did it come to you?" Holmes demanded, laying his fingers on the scrap.
"The tenth, Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet told him.
Holmes slid it to the third place in the row. With quick, sure precision he rearranged the remaining scraps of paper until he was certain they were in chronological order.
"These first three, gentlemen," breathed Holmes in the way the inspectors knew meant he was on to something. "These seem all to have been written by a person who was perfectly calm, do they not? But this next one is in a more agitated hand. This final one is almost a scribble."
"What does that tell you, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked.
"Seems clear the man is something of a lunatic," commented Lestrade. "Probably finding it difficult to hold himself in check. He's taunting us and enjoying it."
"I might find that a plausible explanation, Lestrade," said Holmes coolly, "if the writing were a man's."
"A woman wrote these?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.
"I told you the writing was more feminine," said Bradstreet.
"The Rs don't look feminine, Bradstreet," Lestrade grumbled defensively.
"Focus, gentlemen," Holmes cut them off before they could begin to squabble. "While the Rs are very strong the rest of the letters have a distinctly female look. Consider, also, these were left in your offices. One inspector after another received this same warning."
"Two days apart," Lestrade said.
"Seems odd," Bradstreet said, stroking his chin in thought.
"Perhaps the delay was to see if the warnings were being taken to heart," mused Lestrade.
"Very good, Lestrade," Holmes complimented the younger man. "I agree with you. Lestrade, your note was slipped under your door."
"That's right," said Lestrade. "I found it on my floor when I entered my office."
"You keep your door locked when you are not in the building," said Holmes.
"We all do," Bradstreet said.
"That's telling in itself, for the other notes were found on desks or the seats of chairs," Holmes told them. "Inspector Lestrade, your office is to the right of the main corridor. Bradstreet, yours is to the left as is Gregson's. What of these other gentlemen?"
"Barton is on the left, also," Bradstreet replied instantly, excited but not knowing where Holmes' reasoning was taking them.
"Brown's office is directly across from mine," Lestrade said.
"Do you know where he found his note?" asked Holmes.
"Slipped under his door," Bradstreet said. "Same as Lestrade's"
"And these others were all either on the desk, or the chair in your case, Bradstreet." Holmes rubbed his hands together and smiled. "A pretty little picture. Scotland Yard employs a cleaning service, does it not?"
"It does," Lestrade said, his eyes flicking over the notes as he began to see where Holmes was going. "White Apron has the contract. Done good service for us."
"I agree," Bradstreet put in. "Always trustworthy."
"There are two cleaning women on your floor." Holmes was not asking. "One cleans the offices on one side of the corridor. The other cleans the offices on the other side."
"That's right." Lestrade nodded.
"They split at the T and work their way round the sides until they meet in the back of the building." Bradstreet stood staring at Holmes. Understanding blossomed on his face.
"It's your cleaner, Bradstreet!" Lestrade cried out. He turned for the door with a purposeful stride. "We'll go 'round right now and arrest her!"
"No, gentlemen!" shouted Holmes, moving to cut them off. They stared at him. "Can you not see? She is a friend!"
"Writing threatening notes like those?" Lestrade demanded.
"Warnings," Holmes replied. "She is attempting to warn you."
"Warn us, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked. "Why didn't she just come out and tell one of us what is going on?"
"Most likely she is afraid," Holmes explained. "There are several possibilities."
"Could be her husband is the one making plans to do harm," Lestrade agreed. He turned and began to pace as he thought. "Or a blood relative."
"Her husband must be as old as she is," Bradstreet said. "She's near sixty. Might be her son."
"Has she got a brother?" Lestrade asked him.
"We should find this woman," Holmes said firmly. "Not to arrest her, but to question her. Clearly she knows something. It may have nothing to do with your Christmas party. Whatever it is, it is something dangerous."
"A plot of some kind," Lestrade murmured, deep in thought.
"Her name is Mrs. Sheaves," Bradstreet said. "We can get her address from the cleaning service."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. "We'll inform you of what we discover."
"Good luck, gentlemen," Holmes said, though he felt some concern that they might fail to discover what they needed.
Hours later Holmes was working out a new melody on his violin when Billy knocked. Holmes bade him to enter.
"Message for you, Mr. Holmes," the page said and crossed the room to hand him an envelope.
"Thank you, Billy," said Holmes passing him a farthing.
Mr. Holmes,
Come at once to 332 Barrowsford Place. Information from Mrs. Sheaves indicates threat to the Yard.
Bradstreet
"Billy!" Holmes called downstairs. "Summon a hansom! Quickly!"
Holmes darted into his bedroom, casting off his dressing gown as he did. Moments later he was riding in a hansom at a good clip for Barrowsford Place and the amusement hall the Yarders had rented for the evening. Though he remained outwardly calm, Holmes' mind was racing through possibilities. Gunpowder, treason and plot ran alongside his thoughts. The chief possibility was that someone was going to detonate a bomb to eliminate as many inspectors and constables as possible in one fell swoop. The city would be plunged into chaos if that should happen. Though they were a dull lot, the Yard was perfectly adequate for maintaining order under most circumstances.
The hansom drew to a halt in front of the amusement hall just at sunset. Holmes piled out, paid the cabman and made for the entrance to the hall. Lestrade and Bradstreet met him in the lobby.
"What have you found, gentlemen?" Holmes asked as they fell in next to him.
"It's bad, Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet said in a worried tone.
"Best if you take a look for yourself, I think," Lestrade said with a shake of his head.
They burst through the inner doors and Holmes slammed to a stop, his eyes wide with astonishment. All about were the men of the Yard with their ladies and children. All smiled and raised their glasses of punch.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!" the crowd of families cheered and laughed.
"What are they doing here?" demanded Holmes, utterly at a loss.
"Wishing you a Merry Christmas, Holmes," said Watson coming from the side with Mary on his arm. He handed Holmes a glass of punch and clicked his own against it in the manner of a toast.
"The threat to the Yard?" Holmes stammered.
"We knew you wouldn't come unless there were some dire emergency," Lestrade laughed.
"You've declined every year, sir," said Bradstreet, putting his arm around his wife as she came up and handed him a glass of punch.
"You lied to me?" Holmes said, bewildered.
"Consider it a degree of repayment for all the times you've left us to wander around, bumping our heads into things," laughed Lestrade.
"We couldn't have done it without the help of Dr. Watson, though," chuckled Bradstreet and raised his glass to Watson.
Holmes looked from one to the next. Slowly a smile spread across his face. They had certainly fooled him. He had had no idea Lestrade or Bradstreet could act so well.
"To your performance, inspectors," Holmes said, toasting them. Turning to Watson he said, "And to your playwright."
They all laughed together and music began to play. Mrs. Bradstreet took Holmes' hat, stick and coat. And Mary took his arm, drawing him out to the dance floor. It was a good party and the climax of the evening was when the Yarders presented Holmes with a brand new microscope of excellent quality. Embarrassed, Holmes was only able to say five words.
"Thank you and Merry Christmas!"
The End.