Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

Leaving his steed to stand in the driveway, where the patient animal stood with its head lowered in resignation born of long experience, our client forged ahead of us to the entrance to his home, and there raised his cane and made such a clatter on the door as might have awakened the neighborhood, had it slept, at the same time raising his voice petulantly to shout, “Pip! Pip! Pip Scratch! Up and about!”

There was a scurrying beyond the door, the sound of a bar being lifted, a key in the lock, and the door swung open, to reveal there holding aloft a bracket of three candles a man of medium height, clad in tight broadcloth black breeches and black stockings, and a sort of green-black jacket from the sleeves of which lace cuffs depended. He wore buckled shoes on his feet. He was stooped and wore on his thin face an expression of dubiety and resignation that had been there for long enough to have become engraved upon his features. His watery blue eyes looked anxiously out until he recognized his master; then he stepped aside with alacrity and held the candles higher still, so as to light our way into the shadowed hall.

“No songs yet, Pip? Eh? Speak up.”

“None, sir.”

“Well, he will come, he will come,” promised our client, striding past his man. “Lay a fire in the study, and we will sit by it and watch. Come along, gentlemen, come along. We shall have a fire by and by, to warm our bones-and perhaps a wee drop of sherry.”

Pip Scratch stepped forward with a springy gait and thrust the light of the candles ahead, making the shadows to dance in the study whither our client led us. He put the bracket of candles up on the wall, and backed away before Snawley’s command.

“Light up, Pip, light up.” And to us, “Sit down, gentlemen.” And to Pip Scratch’s retreating back, “And a few drops of sherry. Bring-yes, yes, bring the Amontillado. It is as much as I can do for my guest.”

The servant had now vanished into the darkness outside the study. I was now accustomed to the light, and saw that it was lined with books from floor to ceiling on three walls, excepting only that facing the street along which we had just come, for this wall consisted of the two Elizabethan bay windows we had seen from outside, each of them flanking the fireplace. Most of the shelves of books were encased; their glass doors reflected the flickering candles.

“He will be back in a moment or two,” our client assured us.

Hard upon his words came Pip Scratch, carrying a seven-branched candelabrum and a salver on which was a bottle of Amontillado with scarcely enough sherry in it to more than half fill the three glasses beside it. He bore these things to an elegant table and put them down, then scurried to the bracket on the wall for a candle with which to light those in the candelabrum, and, having accomplished this in the dour silence with which his master now regarded him, poured the sherry, which, true to my estimate, came only to half way in each of the three glasses-but this, clearly, was approved by Mr. Snawley, for his expression softened a trifle. This done, Pip Scratch hurried from the room.

“Drink up, gentlemen,” said our client, with an air rather of regret at seeing his good wine vanish. “Let us drink to our success!”

“Whatever that may be,” said Pons enigmatically, raising his glass.

Down went the sherry, a swallow at a time, rolled on the tongue-and a fine sherry it proved to be, for all that there was so little of it, and while we drank, Pip Scratch came in again and laid the fire and scurried out once more, and soon the dark study looked quite cheerful, with flames growing and leaping higher and higher, and showing row after row of books, and a locked case with folders and envelopes and boxes in it, a light bright enough so that many of the titles of the books could be seen-and most of them were by Dickens-various editions, first and late, English and foreign, and associational items.

“And these are your valuables, I take it, Mr. Snawley,” said Pons.

“I own the finest collection of Dickens in London,” said our client. After another sip of wine, he added, “In all England.” And after two more sips, “If I may say so, I believe it to be the best in the world.” Then his smile faded abruptly, his face darkened, and he added, “There is another collector who claims to have a better-but it is a lie, sir, a dastardly lie, for he cannot substantiate his claim.”

“You have seen his collection?” asked Pons.

“Not I. Nor he mine.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, nor wish to. He wrote me three times in as little as ten days. I have one of his letters here.”

He pulled open a drawer in the table, reached in, and took out a sheet of plain paper with a few lines scrawled upon it. He handed it to Pons, and I leaned over to read it, too.

Mr. Ebenezer Snawley

Dear Sir,

I take my pen in hand for the third time to ask the liberty of viewing your collection of Dickens which, I am told, may be equal to my own. Pray set a date, and I will be happy to accommodate myself to it. I am sir, gratefully yours,

Micah Auber

“Dated two months ago, I see,” said Pons.

“I have not answered him. I doubt I would have done so had he sent a stamp and envelope for that purpose. In his case, stamps are too dear.”

He drank the last of his sherry, and at that moment Pip Scratch came in again, and stood there wordlessly pointing to the street.

“Aha!” cried our client “The fellow is back. A pox on him! Pip, remove the light for the nonce. There is too much of it-it reflects on the panes. We shall have as good a look at him as we can.”

Out went the light, leaving the study lit only by the flames on the hearth, which threw the glow away from the bay windows, toward which our client was now walking, Pons at his heels, and I behind.

“There he is!” cried Snawley. “The rascal! The scoundrel!”

We could hear him now, jingling his bells, and singing in a lusty voice which was not, indeed, very musical-quite the opposite. Singing was not what I would have called it; he was, rather, bawling lustily.

“Walnuts again!” cried our client in disgust. We could see the fellow now-a short man, stout, who, when he came under the streetlamp, revealed himself to be as much of an individualist as Snawley, for he wore buskins and short trousers, and a coat that reached scarcely to his waist, and his head was crowned with an absurd hat on which a considerable amount of snow had already collected. He carried a basket, presumably for his walnuts.

Past the light he went, bawling about his walnuts, and around the corner.

“Now, you will see, gentlemen, he goes only to the line of my property, and then back. So it is for my benefit that he is about this buffoonery.”

“Or his,” said Pons.

“How do you say that?” asked Snawley, bending toward Pons so that his slightly curved hawk-like nose almost touched my companion.

“In all seriousness,” said Pons. “It does not come from the sherry.”

“It cannot be to his benefit,” answered our client, “for I have not bought so much as a walnut. Nor shall I!”

Pons stood deep in thought, watching the streetsinger, fingering the lobe of his left ear, as was his custom when preoccupied. Now that all of us were silent, the voice came clear despite the muffling snow.

“He will keep that up for hours,” cried our host, his dark face ruddy in the glow of the fire. “Am I to have no peace? The police will do nothing. Nothing! Do we not pay their salaries? Of course, we do. Am I to tolerate this botheration and sit helplessly by while that fellow out there bawls his wares?”

“You saw how he was dressed?” inquired Pons.

“He is not in fashion,” replied Snawley, with a great deal of sniffing.