“I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown.” The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.

26 December 1887.

There was no mystery about Sherlock’s purple dressing-gown. It was a holiday gift from me, his brother, Mycroft. I thought a little colour added to his limited black-and-white palette might brighten him up a bit.

You probably know that Doctor Watson is the usual teller of these tales, but since this one doesn’t concern murder or the good doctor, I take my pen in hand. As in most of Sherlock’s life, here too there is a certain degree of danger. Nevertheless, I rarely partake in these puerile adventures, and they are better told by the good doctor.

Oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes has a brother. I am the diplomatic one. I spend my life in stately formal, gold-brocaded Royal sitting rooms. Amid changing political environs, I like to think of myself as my country’s second Rock of Gibraltar. But with an Admiral’s ability to steer through storms at the elbow of power. This is my milieu, where I shine. Clandestine living becomes me. Like Sherlock, I have created my own profession. I work within the highest levels of the British government, yet no one can pin down exactly what it is I do. Also by design.

Omniscience, though quite normal to my way of thinking, is somewhat rare, yet no one can find fault with my sweeping decisions. My wide-ranging views have gained me a special, if completely confidential, position in Her Majesty’s government. One might also say that I am Whitehall’s central exchange.

Suppose a minister needs information which involves the Navy, India, Canada, and the bi-metallic question. He could ask for separate advice from various departments upon each. But just imagine how much more efficacious it is to suggest immediately how each factor is affected. That is where I come into it. I can humbly admit that time and again my conclusions have decided the national policy.

My brother Sherlock jokingly refers to me as “The British Government.” That may be because of my girth or a desire to cut me down to size. Where he is quick, active, and thin, I am of a more moderate temperament.

Today’s 26 December holiday took place in these Isles and colonies immediately after Christmas. Boxing Day or the Feast of Saint Stephen, when even the silent gentlemen of the Diogenes Club must do without. This unique holiday has nothing to do with that great British sport and everything to do with the boxes of gifts that were given to household servants as acknowledgement for their work throughout the year, and was their designated holiday. 2

On this day, we acknowledged those who, either through choice or misadventure, served us. Secretary, chef, maitre’d, porters, barbers, concierges, tailors, doormen, librarians, wait staff, footmen, laundry, maids, valets, butlers, and those who carried out their requests. Honour gratefully paid to an endless stream of deserving caretakers. 3

While servants were off celebrating their well-earned holiday, the dearth of their guardianship gave the club a dark and eerie air. The starched brightness of costumes and the deep red velvet of jackets hung ghost-like on hooks. Oriental carpets, members’ stuffed high-backed chairs, and even the gold of the stair railing were lacklustre within the shadows of unlit lamps, undrawn window curtains, and cold fireplaces. The day was even more peaceful, for most members had taken refuge elsewhere. 4

Sherlock referred to the servant-class as the ‘London slavey’, and organized his life without them. Mrs Hudson managed the house where he lived. She hired a maid to help her with the day-to-day tasks, plus Billy, the boy in buttons, to answer the door and run up to the first-floor with clients or messages, thus saving Mrs Hudson from the constant climb. Then there were the Baker Street Irregulars, the street urchin sleuths whom Sherlock hired as needed. Wiggins, their leader, and Billy were also attending school on Sherlock’s dime.

Nevertheless, it was Sherlock’s and my tradition to spend Saint Stephen’s Day together. The surrounding library quiet of the club was reminiscent of our Yorkshire upbringing, and neither of us had an interest in the derby football matches played on this day. We met in the Stranger’s room, the only place in the club that allowed conversation. The rule everywhere else in this singular gentlemen’s establishment was that one forfeited their membership after three noisy infractions.

For Sherlock and myself, the deeply shadowed, and empty gentleman’s club brought back those rare and mysterious days of our childhood when we were completely unsupervised. At Christmastime, our parents, as squires of the manor, opened their home with elaborate parties and feasts. It was understandable that on Boxing Day, with the servants gone, they would seek each other’s quiet company.

Our only job that day was to deliver the family’s gift boxes to our neighbours. In return, they plied us with spiked eggnog. Sherlock and I, on this one day a year, probed the old Grange inside and out, to its stables and gardens, in order to discover its cold and lamp-less secrets. We created intellectual scavenger hunts and memory games, which ranged further afield each year. Sherlock usually won these contests.

Through the club’s stained-glass library windows stood the great city we had both chosen as adults. My fortunate world existed within the seats of the British government, Whitehall, Windsor, and Buckingham Palace. While Sherlock held a map in his mind of every high or low parish and street on either side of the River Thames. Today, we drank fine wine together and shared a most splendid cold repast with Christmas goose, plum pudding, and other delicacies. What my brother gifted me was a rare Tokay wine. Sherlock never cared for feasts. Food was sustenance and fuel for him. Not so for me. I had a finely cultivated palate. He had excellent taste in wine and other spirits. Our parents raised us as epicures.

When he arrived, I was languishing in velvet and plumped pillows in my finest scarlet smoking jacket. Within the complete silence of an empty club, I was sipping a glass of Veuve Clicquot, 1870, the widow’s best, and resting after my preparations. He rushed in dressed in a tattered and rusty black frockcoat and a topper that looked as if a horse had trampled it in the dirt. He entered the little circle of lamplight and candles I had created in the library. We addressed each other properly with a hearty hand clasping.

“My God, Sherlock, come, my barber will dispatch that forthwith. Your hair is Jarvey length!”

I rang the bell-pull.

He laughed, “Thank you, but your bell will not bring a barber today, brother mine, and I have not yet completed the task for which it was grown. You must needs accept me as I am. But hurry, Mycroft, the game is afoot!”

He insisted me into my tweed jacket.

“Into your coat and come!”

“Working on a case during the Holidays, I admire your fortitude, little brother.”

“A Christmas fancy, brother mine.”

“Living undercover in another’s shabby suit, Sherlock. If you joined with my Diogenes gentlemen, there would at least be time off.”

“Time waits for no gentleman. Mycroft, your laziness is insufferable! Give in, brother, daylight is rather limited today.”

“Surely you will share dinner with me, Sherlock?”

He waved it away.

“If you are open to it, I would require your immediate assistance.”

As he spoke, he stuffed thick slabs of Christmas goose between two slices of bread, wrapped them in a paper, and with a few strawberry tarts dropped them into his coat pocket.

“Of course,” I answered.

“Splendid, I will slip out through the servant’s entrance. My horse awaits me there.”

“Sherlock, surely this is unnecessary. If you can find an open telegraph office and require my further involvement, send a wire.”

“The air of your club is as cold as the icy street! Mycroft, it is crucial that you attend!”

“What have you involved me in?”

“A little Boxing Day cheer,” echoed down the stairway with his receding footsteps.

“Complements of the Season, brother mine,” I called after him.

He swiftly descended the back stairs and was gone. For a blessed instant, I considered the serene day rolling out ahead of me. Then downed my champagne, moved the feast into the icebox, speedily donned coat, hat, and gloves and escaped into the December chill through the entrance for club members. When I joined Sherlock minutes later in his cab, he was all business and sporting an East End accent.

“Oy, where to, luv?” he showed his perfect set of teeth, the only giveaway to his costume.

With the agility of a youth, he leapt up to his seat and started the horse.

“You have chosen wisely. Ole Jack knows the city like the back of ‘is hand! Please kindly honour Saint Stephen’s Day before you leave me, sir.”

He touched his hat.

My brother’s sense of humour was never a favourite of mine. Yet, in a trice, we had surfaced in Pall Mall and pointed towards Bloomsbury at a swift pace. I was aware Sherlock’s plans would reveal themselves in good time and happy that between the university and the museum; he had chosen a respectable neighbourhood for his holiday fancy.

We slowly paced Tottenham Court Road to the back and halted at a lonely Inn.

“This will do,” my brother said as he drew the reins and applied the brake.

Sherlock hopped down, petted the horse affectionately, and handed the reins to a dirty street urchin. He then dropped the sandwich into the boy’s right pocket and the tarts into his left and patted his head.

He quickly scanned my attire and pried from me my stick, hat, and coat, leaving these supreme symbols of a gentleman’s attire in the carriage.

In character, he said to me, “Thank ye for yer generosity, guv.”

I laughed, “If all else fails, you still have a Jarvey’s occupation to fall back on, Sherlock.”

He drew me close, “Keep alert, Mycroft, this is no folly! The life of an innocent man threatened with seven years of hard labour is at stake. This Public House is not Pall Mall nor the Diogenes’ Club. Your highborn friends will not help you here.”

Sherlock threw the least offensive of the carriage rugs over my shoulders, pinned it with a tarnished rose broach, and crowned me with what looked like one of Doctor Watson’s old, discarded caps. Then he put his arm through mine, and we entered the Old Alpha Inn as extremely disreputable brothers together.

It was indeed a lively place, filled with celebration and holiday cheer. Sherlock relit his soggy cigar and tipped his hat to the landlord. The Pub was gas and candlelit, festive Christmas Holly adorned every fireplace and doorway. Wooden tables with full groaning benches kept grateful men warming at the blazing hearths. It was clear from the expectancy and enthusiasm shown by their audience that the final darts tournament of the year was underway. It was lit by additional candelabra and boisterous with loud concomitant wagering. Sherlock talked for a moment with the landlord. Then he led me to a nearby table and brought over two pints.

“What is this, Sherlock?”

I pulled out my red silk handkerchief to dust off the bench. But my brother instantly thrust it back into my breast pocket with a growl and a look of fire in his eyes.

“Sit down and be patient, my dear Mycroft! And leave your snuff box in your pocket,” he hissed.

“Sherlock, what does this have to do with me?”

“Yesterday, brother mine, Commissionaire Peterson, shared with me his Christmas Eve mystery. He observed a man carrying a splendid white goose over his shoulder who was put upon by roughs in this neighbourhood. In the scuffle, he lost his hat, and his Christmas goose, and accidentally shattered the window of a local establishment when he raised his stick in self-defence. Peterson rushed to protect the man from his assailants, but they all took to their heels. The Commissionaire retrieved the battered hat and goose and brought them to me to solve the dilemma.

“‘For Mrs Henry Baker’ was printed on a small card tied to the bird’s left leg, and the initials ‘H. B.’ were legible upon the lining of the hat. These were my only clues; but, as there are some thousands of Bakers and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not a simple thing to restore lost property to any one of them.” 5

“Sherlock, my mind is just as full of essential facts as is yours, yet I have not memorised the London telephone book!”

“Nor would it help you here, brother mine. It was only right that the goose would go to Peterson’s family dinner, while I retained Henry Baker’s hat.”

“I will never understand your love of trifles. Where does this lead us?”

“Today, we shall scour these Public Houses in search of the roughs who attacked Mr Baker.”

“Who may be a tough on Christmas Eve, may be a family man on Christmas Day, eh, Sherlock?”

“Exactly. The holiday changes everything. And I would rather be led to the scene of the crime by one who was there than search through every street for the right shop.”

“I celebrate your choice of a warm inn. Sherlock, is this why we are here in this establishment instead of surrounded by the comforts of my club?”

“It is the game, Mycroft! Your Diogenes Club is cold and deserted. It is highly probable that Watson is soaking in the Northumberland Street Baths after his Old-Timers football match. However, our game is of paramount importance as John Horner must be got off.” 6

“I read in The Times he was arrested for stealing the Blue Carbuncle. They accuse him of a previous charge for theft, Sherlock. But why be concerned with such an artless case?”

“The man is innocent, Mycroft! Yet what Scotland Yard inspector will probe the clues to demonstrate it? It is a second conviction to them. You are free of your customary duties, as am I. Since we unite today as family, brother, I thought you might indulge me in the solving of this remarkable little mystery.”

“I am Watson in this scenario?”

“No, no, no, Mycroft, you are my elder brother, with a brain of greater capacity than mine. And I thought you might enjoy a taste of how lives the common man. Rejoice in your pint, brother. The landlord confided to me their ale has a reputation for rich, wine-like flavour, and strength. Further that Henry Baker was one of a knot of regulars who lounged in the warmth of the British Museum during the day. This sojourn may soon be concluded.”

Sherlock has always been interested in the other classes. He believed in the equality of all. He partnered with a fine middle-class gentleman, a soldier, and a doctor. However, I find Mrs Hudson’s crowded upper floor to be quite beneath a Holmes! We have descended from Squires, so we are gentlemen, nonetheless! While I couldn’t do my work without this distinction. He frequently found it a barrier to his.

“Mycroft, keep an eye on that darts player, a violent man,” my brother whispered.

Sherlock was up in a flash. He took the next turn at darts and threw four bullseyes for the team, which was glad to have him. But the man he had indicated was not. That he had a violent nature was apparent in his surly demeanour. He had the stamp of every school bully upon him, though I doubt he ever attended much school.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m fillin’ in!”

“A ratbag ringer, that’s wot!”

“Fair ‘n square!”

“Not in my book! Get out of it!”

While Sherlock assessed his man, shouts and threats filled my end of the pub. Another row was developing right in front of me. It centred around a friend I had recognised, the butler from the Tankerville Club, who was discreetly drinking across from me. An observant rough realised the man was celebrating the Boxing Day Holiday and taunted him.

“Who the bloody dickens do you think you are? What makes you so different that you deserve a special holiday and Christmas boxes?”

He pushed the butler.

“I work like you do. Where’s my holiday? Where’s my drafted boxes?”

“No different from you, sir. I am here, as you are, hiding from my good woman on a day of rest.”

“Now, ‘es telling me fortune! Shut your saucebox and share those gifts! Come on, give us a wee peek.”

He laughed loudly and elbowed the butler hard. I had to step in to defend the man.

I addressed him cordially, “My good man, you are mistaken. There is no cause for derision. This man’s job is to superbly care for a full club of gentlemen and very much deserves his day off.”

I patted the first man’s back in a friendly way. He moved away from my hand as if it were on fire. Then he turned to me and knocked off my cap.

“Who’re you? I wasn’t talking to you, Mr Jollocks! You sound like you know this mumbling cove and maybe belong to his almighty club. What’s a gentleman doing here in our pub? Or is Mr High and Mighty spying on us? Admit it, gents, don’t ‘e look like a spy?”

Sherlock pushed his way through the laughing, jeering crowd that had formed around the butler and me. He stood next to me in a fighter’s stance.

“Gentlemen, surely this difference of opinion is not worth a rumbumptious anointing? What will your Misses say to a blooded nose or even a half-mourning blinker?”

“From you? You’re as skinny as Job’s turkey. Better watch that parish pick-axe don’t weigh you down. You’re off your chump!”

I watched incredulously as the foolish man actually took a swing at Sherlock. I had no fear, for my brother was a semi-pro, bare-knuckled boxer. He acquired his pugilist skill first at Cambridge and then in the private clubs, boxing in the ring with those who were far superior to his ability. Yet once he learned the sport, no one could beat him, for my brother’s other talents assisted him in predicting his opponent’s next move.

I was enjoying this outing and joined in the betting that had instantly encircled the two men.

“To the blood, brother mine,” I yelled above the betting.

Sherlock smiled and parried the man’s thrown punch, stopping his arm in mid-flight. Then he knocked him down with three rapid-fire lefts to the jaw. From behind, the darts chucker joined in the fray. Sherlock shifted, then addressed the man’s wrist with baritsu forcing him to his knees and then the floor. When he again gained his feet, my brother threw his signature uppercut. Both men went down. We escorted the butler and the two scoundrels outside for questioning. As soon as we gained the pavement, we sent the butler on his way home.

“I don’t know no bloody Henry Baker!” the man who began the altercation said, blood streaming from his nose dotted the snow.

My brother gave him a handkerchief.

Sherlock said, “Late Christmas Eve, you were part of a group of toughs who tormented Mr Baker, instead of wishing him the complements of the season. A commissionaire approached you and you all ran, leaving behind Baker’s sizable Christmas goose and his old bowler hat.”

“So what if we did? You’re no bloody mutton-shunter.”

He extended his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am looking for Mr Baker. If you can direct me to the shop with the broken window, I’ll give each of you a half-sovereign.”

This changed the energy completely. The air of danger receded and its opposite expressed itself.

“I’m Barney. And would you, sir, be Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock answered, “Forgive me. This is my friend, Mike.”

I smiled and tipped my cap. Barney put out his hand. Sherlock elbowed me into action, and I shook the man’s hand. His grip was surprisingly commanding, reminiscent of Sir James Walter of the Admiralty.

The darts man introduced himself as Tommy. Throughout, he hurried Barney along with cold-related comments, and the men quickly brought us to the Goodge Street crime scene.

“He broke the window of that wine shop.” Tommy pointed at the debris. “I’ll bet his stick is still there, gov! But none of us knew him.”

Sherlock gave each a half-sovereign and released them. I watched as they stomped their way through the snow and headed back towards the Alpha. My brother was analysing the scene before us. He paced with light, swift steps about the area. I felt it was obsessive, especially in the cold weather, yet he called out important points to me.

“Stay where you are, Mycroft! Though damaged easily, snow is the best substance for foot impresses. The scuffle took place here. Mycroft, can you see where these footprints overlap in the snow? Here’s the commissionaire running tiptoes on top of them! Baker’s stick went through the shop window. Recently smashed. It is gone. A shame. I had hoped it would have led me to him.”

“Sherlock, are you satisfied? I’m freezing!”

He paid the street urchin who immediately ran inside the warm Public House. We mounted the carriage. Sherlock in his cabbie persona drove me back to the Diogenes Club, where he took the rug from me and swaddled the horse in its warmth.

As the short winter sun coloured the Stranger’s Room windows, I added coal and wood to the fire and handed my brother a warming brandy. Then brought out our cold repast. We pulled chairs up to the blazing fire and talked over the day. Sherlock threw his cigar into the flames, downed his drink, and sat rubbing his hands together for warmth.

“Sherlock, you see importance where no one else can. It was exhilarating, but what was that about?”

“You know my methods, Mycroft.”

“Not as well as you do. For instance, how did you single out your suspect? To me, he was the same as all the others.”

“That is your blindness. I make a point of never having any prejudices and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me. The man was wearing a scarf of green and gold Baker Clan plaid knotted around his neck. A simple thing.”

“Ah, ha! He may be related to Baker, or he stole the scarf. Either way, you win, Sherlock.”

“Yes, and the fact that as soon as he realised my purpose, he hid this adornment deep inside his coat underlined my deductions. But Mycroft, surely you noticed this.”

“What I observed was the fact that the shop window had a circular break at the point of impact. Broken glass radiated out from that central point, so Baker’s cane must have a metal top to match it.”

“That is a fine observation for a scavenger hunt. Yet, in deduction, it is necessary to sift through clues and keep only the relevant ones. Speculations without facts to back them up can lead to an exhaustive pursuit of an erroneous scent. Are they your only conclusions from this year’s Boxing Day games, brother?”

“Of course not, most the patrons of the Alpha Inn were humorously enjoying each other’s company, while one or two were agitators. I find this same state of affairs can exist in any group of people, even in political meetings where the agitators might serve a purpose. Maybe I ought to offer half sovereigns the next time I encounter such? Then there was the fact that you brought me into a dangerous situation, brother. Now, please enjoy some of this splendid goose, dear boy. Where will you go from here?”

Sherlock sighed, “I must return the horse and then will await further developments. Mycroft, you know John Horner has already spent his holiday’s in the cold cells of Pentonville Prison.”

I thought it the right moment to gift him his pub winnings, which he accepted with a laugh.

“Thank you, gov!” he said.

We finished the wine, and I succeeded in serving him the goose, pudding, mince pie, and the rest.

Following our feast, I poured out two tumblers full of brandy and handed one to my brother. He nodded his thanks and accepted a cigar. I was not a pipe fancier. I preferred the refinement and violet perfume of royal snuff. But Sherlock revelled in his smoke.

“I wonder if Mr Baker might not give it up as a loss and just purchase a new hat, Sherlock?”

“Quite possibly, Mycroft, yet just as possible is that the story will continue when I advertise the found goose and hat, which will bring him to Baker Street at 6:30 o’clock tomorrow.”

I fed the fire once again. We watched as the flames flashed and flared, throwing animated shadows on the stone walls of the large hearth.

“What did you think of my Boxing Day game, Mycroft?”

“Somewhat reminiscent of the year the Vicar caught us after one too many eggnogs and the carols that were enriched by our unforgettable harmonising.”

Sherlock laughed, “Yes, that also was an excellent Boxing Day diversion, brother mine.”

We then toasted the day, and those who served us, our brotherhood, our friends, and the coming New Year 1888.

Mycroft Holmes

The Diogenes Club

26 December 1887

Note: Boxing Day commences the day before Doctor Watson’s original story. To discover what occurs during the next three days, and the conclusion to this adventure. I highly recommend reading one of the good doctor’s best, “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.”