A Christmas Story E-Book

Francis London

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are traveling one day before Christmas Eve in the year 1882 on their way back from a successfully solved case in a horse-drawn sleigh through rural England. Due to an accident, they are forced to stay overnight in the small town of Christchurch. There, during the night, they hear mysterious bell ringing and organ music, and the next day, they learn of a murder at the cemetery. The perpetrator, Richard Wellesley, has fled, leaving his unhappy family just before the Christmas holiday. Will Holmes and Watson succeed in saving Christmas?

Leseprobe

Imprint

Edition Christmas 2019

© 2019 Francis London

Seventh revised and expanded edition. [email protected]

[email protected]

A Christmas Story

Francis London

A CHRISTMAS STORY

1. Prologue

Around us stretched the dreamlike, snow-covered winter landscape of rural England. I heard the gentle crunch of the snow beneath the sled's runners, the rhythmic sound of the horses' hooves, a noise that, muffled by the freshly fallen white, reached my ears as a peculiarly dull, serene sound.

In front of us, on the box seat, sat the coachman, wrapped in his thick coat, an old, amiable farmer from the area, whose occasional shouts urged the horses on as we glided through the snowy winter landscape. Snow was rare in this corner of England, so the heavy snowfall that had started a few days ago unexpectedly transformed the land into a winter wonderland.

However, today the sky was blue, the sun shone through the bitterly cold air, and our journey turned into a tranquil glide through the gently rolling hilly landscape, with its magnificent snow-covered trees and shrubs. The landscape emanated that majestic and serene beauty that gives the Christmas season its unique and wonderful atmosphere!

For me, the sight was a delight that I embraced with enthusiasm. As I inhaled the cool air deeply, captivated by this beauty, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Holmes was looking at me with a mocking smile on his lips.

My friend Sherlock Holmes was still a puzzle to me in many respects back then, and he remains so in some aspects even today. Among the many contradictions he embodied, I always found one particularly inexplicable: He was a talented musician, a lover of art, and not averse to literature and science. However, the beauties of nature, be it the captivating landscapes or the enchanting female creatures of our land, failed to arouse even the slightest hint of enthusiasm in him.

"Holmes, you're not secretly making fun of me, are you?" I asked him with a certain uncertainty.

Holmes let out a disdainful snort, the white vapor carried away by the wind. "I admire your childlike naivety, mustering enthusiasm for something that is entirely and exclusively owed to chance."

He gestured with a sweeping motion towards the landscape. "None of this, Watson, is accessible to the realm of human effort. Quite the opposite. The snow conceals everything that human creativity has brought forth."

"But the beauty of the landscape, Holmes!" I protested, trying to awaken his enthusiasm. "Don't you find any pleasure in the splendid whiteness of the snow? In the blue of the sky, the bitingly cold air, and the warming rays of the sun?"

"Where would be the gain in admiring it?" Holmes replied coldly. "There is nothing to be discerned from it, no intention hidden behind it, no puzzle to solve. It eludes my influence. The snow hinders our swift progress; that is all there is to notice about this scene."

After a brief silence, he added, "A most unremarkable observation, Watson, you must grant me that."

It was the day before Christmas Eve in the year 1882. Holmes and I were on our way back from the successful investigation of the case involving the staged theft of three jewels, in which Holmes, by detecting the vibrations of the weights in a German cuckoo clock, was able to determine when Henry Cameron must have moved through the room and thus unravel the crime.

Now we aimed to reach the nearest railway station to catch a train to London, but the journey was still long, and the unusual weather conditions slowed us down. So we sat bundled up on the open sled, the only sled we could find, and crossed rural England. The ride was not unpleasant, for the rays of the sun felt wonderfully warm on my cheeks, and as long as night had not yet fallen, I thought our path would not be arduous.

However, as we reached the crest of a small hill after a slight ascent, a sudden blast of the winter's cold east wind struck our faces, as if it were a secret harbinger of the dreadful events that had taken place in the town ahead, events that we were unaware of at the time.

Unsuspecting of it all, I pulled my scarf higher, shivering with delight, and amused myself at Holmes's suppressed groan.

As our sled glided over the crest and followed the downhill path, I enjoyed a breathtaking view into a deep, snow-covered valley, at the lowest point of which the small town of Christchurch had found its place.

The sight was of such overwhelming beauty that not for a moment did the slightest suspicion enter my mind that my friend Sherlock Holmes and I would soon be confronted with a crime whose dramatic consequences nearly destroyed a happy family and transformed this festive season of love into a triumph of hatred, greed, and violence. A crime whose successful resolution would mark one of those important steps that ultimately established Holmes's outstanding reputation as a detective.

"However, first, we approached the place on the gently winding road from the west. The low-lying sun cast the long shadow of the sleigh and the two powerful horses, moving in rapid synchrony, in front of us on the snow-covered path. Our journey downhill progressed quickly, and the coachman braked carefully to control the sleigh's speed. The snow churned up by the iron runners formed a white trail in a swirling commotion behind our vehicle.

I could see a two-story manor house at the entrance of the village, with smaller houses of the village behind it. On the opposite slope of the road, the village was dominated by a mansion nestled into the hills. Our path would lead us out of the village past it.

My eyes were drawn to the magnificent centuries-old Christchurch, a large church whose mighty stone walls glowed orange-red in the evening sunlight, radiating warmth and tranquility from the center of the village. The sight exuded so much warmth and calmness that I wanted to persuade Holmes to allow us a pleasant break from our strenuous journey.

"Shouldn't we look for accommodation and dinner in the village?" I addressed him.

"I can understand why you find Christchurch to be a pretty and peaceful place, Watson," Holmes replied, turning to me with a wink. "However, we must hurry today. The next train station is still far away, and I would greatly appreciate a nightly dinner from Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street."

I suspected that despite the interesting events of the past few days, Holmes found rural tranquility boring and was eager to escape this dreamy area as quickly as possible. He missed the hustle and bustle of the city, the unexpected incidents that inevitably arose from the friction of five million people, bringing forth unpredictable circumstances. He longed for a visit from one of the Yard's inspectors, seeking advice, which would drive Holmes' restless, young mind into a new adventure.

The coachman guided his horses downhill towards the village. But just as we passed the first manor house, a runner broke with a loud crack. The sleigh came to an abrupt halt as the broken iron dug into the snow. The horses reared up in shock and started neighing loudly, lashing out with their hooves, defending themselves against the invisible enemy.

Our coachman had his hands full trying to prevent a greater disaster. With a speed I had not expected from the old man, he found his balance on the box and regained control over his horses.

However, I had been catapulted out of the sleigh by the force of the sudden stop, along with our luggage. Thrown across the road by this momentum, I landed unceremoniously between the suitcases in the deep snow at the roadside.

Holmes managed to hold on and avoid a fall. He eventually climbed out of the tilted sleigh, approached me, and helped me up. After glancing at the damaged vehicle, he said with a slightly ironic tone, "I almost feel as if your Christmas wish for food and lodging has been unexpectedly granted. We won't be able to continue our journey with this sleigh today."

The residents of the manor house had become aware of the incident. Four children ran eagerly towards us on a narrow path, where the snow had been compacted by regular use. The three boys jumped around us and the sleigh, inspecting the damage and chattering excitedly. The girl, about fifteen years old and the eldest of the group, observed from a distance. It didn't escape my notice that a lady emerged from the manor house. As she noticed the scene, she turned towards the house, called something inside, and shortly after, accompanied bya servant and a housekeeper, she approached us.

Holmes had tightly wrapped his gray traveling coat around his shoulders with an annoyed gesture, retrieved our luggage from the snow, and stacked it at the edge of the road, while our coachman had his hands full restraining the excited children, unharnessing the horses, and inspecting the damage to the sleigh.

I had joined Holmes, still undecided whether to direct my attention to the events at the scene of our accident or to the newcomers. Holmes, however, had decided to turn his attention to the lady and her entourage.

This woman was a well-groomed figure with a gentle face. Her long brown hair had a slight reddish tinge and was held back by a clasp, allowing it to fall on either side, leaving her forehead exposed. She wore a long dark red dress with puffed sleeves held by silver clasps on her upper arms. Her hands were covered in a white fur muff, and her dress's neckline was protected from the cold by a light woolen scarf. Both the butler and the housekeeper stood a step behind her, waiting to see what would be required of them.

"May I offer you the assistance of Oldfields House?" the lady addressed Holmes kindly and calmly, an offer he accepted with a polite nod, albeit without enthusiasm due to the delay in our journey. Thus, within a few minutes of my involuntary encounter with the snowy ground, we found ourselves walking on the narrow, walkable part of the path towards the manor house. Its snow-covered beauty, illuminated by the evening sun, gave no hint that a dark secret had already begun to unleash its destructive power within.

As we approached, I examined the building and noticed that it consisted of two stories. Two chimneys protruded from its roof, burdened by the thick layer of snow, with one of them cheerfully emitting smoke, giving me hope for a well-heated room. While the butler and the housekeeper struggled through the snow with our luggage behind us, we followed the kind invitation and entered through the Christmas-decorated front door, finding ourselves in the cozy warmth of the house.

Holmes, having resigned himself to his inevitable fate, tossed his coat and hat energetically onto a chair and turned his sparkling eyes with interest towards our hostess. She introduced herself as Mrs. Jennifer Wellesley, the mistress of Oldfields House.

Although we were her guests, she remained strangely aloof, which seemed at odds with her helpfulness. From the very beginning, I had the impression that her thoughts were absent, far away, separated from us by an invisible barrier.

"My butler, Mr. Evens, will accompany your coachman to the village blacksmith," she initiated the conversation, without beating around the bush and swiftly transitioning to the essential topics. "I would be happy to offer you accommodation in our house. Two young gentlemen like yourselves will be grateful for free lodging, and I have plenty of rooms available. The damage to the sleigh can surely be repaired tomorrow."

She turned to her housekeeper. "Eleanor, please show the gentlemen to their rooms." Then she said, addressing us again, "Mrs. Dinnick will assign the rooms to you, and we will reconvene for dinner later."

We gladly accepted this offer, considering the conversation concluded, and immediately followed the housekeeper up a wooden staircase to the second floor, where each of us was provided with a comfortably furnished room. The small stoves in the rooms were supplied with firewood and lit, quickly dispelling the cold.

We had already changed into our dinner attire and were gathered in Holmes' room when the butler summoned us downstairs. The large dining table in the dining room was elaborately set, and the lady of the house was already seated, waiting for us.

As we entered, she rose and approached us to greet us. "Please, do take a seat," I hastily said, fearing that my behavior had prompted the lady to rise. I received a fleeting smile in response.

"Forgive my unconventional behavior," my hostess contradicted my expressed conventional views. "I often forget the customs and traditions of my homeland."

Curious, I looked at her, and after a brief pause, she added, "We have only returned from the States a year ago. Women there bear a different burden and responsibility. I am accustomed to assuming roles that in this country belong only to men."

She also extended her hand to Holmes, who, amused by the breach of convention, accepted it with a satisfied smile. As we took our seats at the table upon our hostess's invitation, she called out loudly to the children, who could be heard playing in the hallway, to come to order and join us for dinner. At that moment, it still seemed to me like a rather cheerful and lively household.

Mrs. Wellesley felt obliged to offer a few apologetic words and explained, "Even my children have gone through an upbringing shaped less by a schoolmaster and more by the experiences of the wilderness. They are wild ones, raised in the prairie and forests of the West."

I had taken a seat next to the youngest, a boy of perhaps eight years old. He seemed to enjoy it, and he had no hesitation in engaging in conversation with me. Holmes had found his place on the other side of the table, next to our hostess.

During dinner, I had the opportunity to observe the lady of the house more closely. She had a lovely, friendly face, but I sensed a melancholic expression of sadness in her eyes, which she carefully tried to conceal.

It was the day before Christmas Eve. I was already in that relaxed, contented mood I always felt at the end of a busy year, just before the holidays, not far from embarking on a new year, enjoying this tranquil in-between time.

The size of the house, the certain rural prosperity expressed in the meticulous and well-maintained furnishings, the cheerful boys—all of it had aroused in me the expectation of a relaxed and festive atmosphere in this family.

However, despite the friendly and open manner that only our compatriots develop after exchanging the confinement of our island for the vastness of America, the mood seemed to be strained and controlled. In the moments when Mrs. Wellesley thought she was unobserved, her features lost their smile, and a weary sadness shimmered through. I could also observe this mood throughout the entire dinner in her daughter, who made no effort to pretend a better mood than she had. Only the three boys were carefree and primarily occupied with competing for food.

While my companion initially tried to engage Mrs. Wellesley in conversation, I noticed that his attempts became less frequent over time, and longer periods of silence prevailed in their conversation.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dispute erupted between the daughter and the mother. I hadn't followed the verbal exchange that led to it but caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye as the daughter swung her arm and angrily hurled her glass against a picture hanging on the wall. The glass shattered against the picture, and both fell to the floor in a clattering rain of shards. While the housekeeper rushed to attend to the fragments, the mother remained seated in silent contemplation, her gaze lowered.

The daughter, visibly agitated, hastily left the room. Thus, the dinner came to an end in a suffocating atmosphere that even affected the young ones, who quickly retreated from the table. In light of these events, Holmes and I soon found an excuse to retire to our rooms, and no one made an effort to detain us.

The strange occurrences during dinner had dampened my Christmas spirit, and a melancholic feeling weighed upon my heart. Lost in these thoughts, we sat together for a moment, smoking in silence until I could no longer bear it and addressed my friend about the uncomfortable situation during dinner. "What events might have taken place in this house, Holmes?"

Holmes turned to face me, propping his feet up on the sofa where he sat and reclining comfortably, his hands behind his head, the pipe between his lips. He did not reply immediately, calmly taking a deep puff and then slowly releasing the smoke towards the ceiling. Finally, he looked at me and said with an expression of bored annoyance, "Well, Watson, I believe the wife has driven her husband away and had a dispute with her daughter as a result."

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

"My deduction is based on quite obvious observations. Firstly, Mrs. Wellesley evaded every question I asked about her husband. Secondly, the painting that Miss Charlotte swept off the wall with a well-aimed throw of her water glass depicted Mrs. Wellesley arm in arm with a man who is not her husband."

"How could you know that?" I asked, astonished.

Holmes regarded me disdainfully. "Because there is another painting hanging there that portrays the Wellesleys' wedding. The man in that painting was someone entirely different."

He stood up somewhat impatiently. "However, I am not inclined to meddle in the family histories of rural England, and I look forward to continuing our journey to London tomorrow. I hope that we haven't overstayed Mrs. Wellesley's rather cool hospitality."

Holmes seemed eager to put an end to the topic as he approached his luggage and produced the promising bottle of sherry we had acquired from a spirits merchant the previous evening.

That reminded me of how eagerly I looked forward to the Christmas Eve in Baker Street, as it was only my second Christmas since returning from my military service in Afghanistan. The holiday season had become a symbol for me that I had re-entered civilization.

Of course, it was not to be expected that we would celebrate Christmas in a traditional manner. With someone like Holmes, a festive atmosphere was entirely unthinkable, and as for myself, being without family, I still cherished the thought of placing a glass of sherry and a mince pie by the fireplace in our Baker Street apartment on the upcoming Christmas Eve, just as I did last year.

I'm not sure who it was that left a small gift for me on the table last year, drinking the sherry and eating the pie in return. Perhaps it was Holmes, more likely Mrs. Hudson, but probably not the legendary Father Christmas. However, I didn't want to inquire about it and preferred to indulge in that special, atmospheric joy that only Christmas could bring.

Even during my years of military service in Afghanistan, we managed to recreate such a scene on Christmas Eve, whether in a tent in the field camp or in a solid structure, and we rejoiced in the small things we could exchange amidst the adverse circumstances, captured on cameras.

So now, filled with pleasant memories and joyful anticipation, I gratefully accepted the glass of sherry from Holmes, allowing the smoky aroma to waft into my nostrils as I relaxed. In this mood, we sat together for a while, engaging in trivial conversation.

Suddenly, we heard the bells of a church tolling. The strikes came in a strangely irregular sequence of bright and dark tones from two bells. I glanced at my watch, surprised to find it was somewhere between eleven and twelve o'clock, making the ringing seem nonsensical.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---