Double prompts:
- From W. Y. Traveller: An unexpected guest on Christmas Day.
- From Domina Temporis: Holmes knows nothing about history that is not criminal history
Merry Christmas all!
"I do hope I'm not too late?" A wavering voice greeted me as I opened the door Christmas morning. I looked down to see the hunched form of an elderly gentleman, a pile of books tied with twine hanging from one skinny hand. "Your dear wife told me to call in. Looking for history books, aren't you? Last minute present for a friend? Christmas morning is leaving it rather late, but please, have a look at these, I'm sure you'll find just what you need."
I glanced back up the stairs, to where I had left Mary sleeping. I had been considering buying a history book as a present for an old army friend, but had settled on another idea just a few days ago. At no point, however, did I remember mentioning this to Mary, as anything more than the regular chatter of presents and Christmas shopping. Would she have gone to this effort on such a slight mention?
"I'm afraid I am no longer looking for a history book, but-"
"Ah, but you have not seen what I have brought!" The bookseller handed me the bundle and I could not help but take it, balancing it awkwardly in my hands while he slid one book out. "The histories of Homer, the best of Roman senators! And this," he brought out another book, carelessly placing the other one on top of the pile, and I jostled it again to balance it, "a rare volume on pharaohs of the far east!"
He reached for a third book, and I was greatly tempted to drop them all on him. The man was clearly a charlatan, unaware of even the most basic history. However, in the spirit of Christmas, I bided my time, silently thankful I had not invited him in.
"A very uncommon book, this one. You may consider it more of a pamphlet, but it contains, in great detail, the precise evidence used to convict Mary Bateman, more commonly known as the Yorkshire Witch, as well as preliminary thoughts on her additional victims."
The man waved the thin book at me, and I was caught by the contrast between the detailed explanation he now gave and the thoroughly inadequate ones he had provided for his previous volumes. It sparked a sudden moment of insight, and I peered closer at the bookseller. Was he really as hunched as he appeared? Was his hair, perhaps, artificially lightened? "Holmes?"
As if by magic, the wizened body of the old bookseller unfolded into the much more familiar form of my friend. "Merry Christmas, Watson."