IT WAS MRS. HUDSON who persuaded me to dress up as Father Christmas and distribute a few toys to the neighborhood children. I felt just a bit foolish toting my sack into her front parlor on that Christmas Eve Sunday of 1899, emitting a jolly, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" as I brought forth the gifts.

"Look here, children!" she announced enthusiastically. "It's Father Christmas!"

My sack was quickly emptied and I was out of there in ten minutes. That was when I decided to drop in on my old friend Sherlock Holmes on the floor above. It had been weeks since I'd seen him and I wondered if I could astound him with my costume.

But he barely glanced up from his paper as I entered, saying simply, "I'm glad you dropped by, Watson. I have a little problem here that might interest you."

"I assume Mrs. Hudson told you I was coming tonight," I muttered, deflated by his casual reaction to my entrance.

"Not at all, old friend. But do you think I could have listened to your tread upon the stairs for all these years and failed to recognize it? I see Mrs. Hudson has recruited you in her latest mission to spread a bit of Christmas cheer. I could hear the commotion all the way up here."

I was busy pulling the false beard from my chin. "They're a noisy bunch at holiday time," I agreed. "Now what is this little problem that's so important as to concern you on Christmas Eve?"

"We have a new century beginning in just eight days," said Holmes. "It is a time for all manner of skullduggery."

"Her Majesty's government is of the opinion the twentieth century does not officially begin for another year," I pointed out.

He shrugged. "Let them think what they will. In America, this has been a decade known as the Gay Nineties. It certainly began in 1890, not 1891, and it will end next Sunday at midnight."

"I quite agree."

"But now to business. I was visited yesterday by a charming young lady named Elvira Ascott. She has been married just one year and now her husband is off in South Africa fighting the Boers. Her parents are deceased and she has no one to advise her on financial matters. Now an offer has been made on a piece of land she inherited from her family. The offer is good only until the end of the year, at which time it will be withdrawn." "That's hardly your line of work, Holmes," I pointed out.

"But a gentleman has come forward to help her in the matter, free of charge. His name is Jules Blackthorn and he claims to be a solicitor. However, she called unexpectedly at his office a few days ago and found it was only a convenience address where he received mail. He did not even have a desk there. That was when she consulted me."

"And what have you learned about this man, Blackthorn?"

Holmes leaned back and lit his pipe. "Very little, except to confirm her suspicion that he is not a solicitor. She suspects a plot of some sort to steal her property while her husband is away."

"Is this property especially valuable," I asked.

"It does not seem so, which adds to the mystery. The land is a flood plain near the mouth of the Thames, often under water when there are storms with onshore winds. The man offering to buy the property is a fellow named Edgar Dobson, the owner of an adjoining estate. As it happens, Dobson holds a Christmas party at his home each year and has invited Mrs. Ascott to attend. Blackthorn has offered to escort her in her husband's absence, but she doesn't trust him. She has asked me to accompany her instead."

"You, Holmes, at a Christmas party?" It was difficult to picture in my mind.

"She fears Dobson may pressure her to conclude the sale while she is at the party. Since she is a client, I feel I must protect her interests. If you are free tomorrow, I'd like you to accompany us as well."

"Surely you jest!"

"Not at all. Mrs. Ascott resides in London. We will be taking an afternoon train to Rochester, where Dobson's carriage will meet us. His home is in Cliffe, overlooking St. Mary's Marshes. Could you join us?"

My wife was spending the holiday with an elderly aunt in Reading, and there was no real reason why I could not accompany Holmes.

"But I have not been invited," I pointed out.

"Let me worry about that."

There was a decided chill in the air on Christmas Day, despite the unaccustomed sunshine, when I met Holmes and Elvira Ascott at Victoria Station shortly after noon. Mrs. Ascott proved to be a handsome young woman in her early thirties, wearing a long grey coat over her dress. Her brown hair was gathered attractively beneath a stylish black hat. One look told me she was a woman of the upper classes.

"Mr. Holmes tells me you are his closest confidante," she said, as the train pulled out of the station for the hour-long journey to Rochester.

"We have shared many adventures together," I agreed.

"You may be as frank and open with Watson as you have been with me," said Holmes."

"Then you know of my distress. I met my husband, William, last year when we appeared together in an amateur theatrical production. Now he is half a world away, fighting for the Empire."

She took a photograph from her purse and showed it to us. A handsome young man, standing tall in an army officer's uniform, had his right arm around her in a protective gesture, while his other arm was stretched out straight, pointing a revolver at some unseen menace.

"Isn't he handsome?"

"Indeed so!" Holmes agreed. "You make a handsome couple. But a Christmas party seems like an awkward setting for the signing of an important contract."

"Mr. Dobson only wants me to initial it tonight as a show of good faith. The actual signing will take place on Wednesday at his solicitor's office."

"And Jules Blackthorn is urging you to do this?"

"He is, and I fear he may appear at the party tonight. Mr. Dobson insists that the land must be deeded to him before the new year, or there will be no deal. Of course, this gives me no time to contact my husband in South

Africa."

"Is the land held jointly?" I asked.

"No, it is from my family."

"But your husband would inherit if you died."

"Actually, no. As I said, it is land from my family. I have made provisions for it to pass to my sister's children in America. William has no connection with it at all. It's only that I value his opinion and would have sought it had time allowed. Instead, I was forced to rely upon the good offices of Mr. Jules Blackthorn."

"Which proved to be no good at all," Holmes observed.

Our train was passing through the countryside around Bexley, about halfway to our destination. There were patches of snow here, a reminder that winter had set in. "How did you happen to contact Mr. Blackthorn?" I asked.

"He contacted me. He sought me out at the theater early last week, on the very day Edgar Dobson made his offer for my land. It was at a production of the new Nutcracker ballet. Have you seen it?"

I noticed a smirk on Holmes' face as I admitted I had not.

"It is a wonderful show for the Christmas season. William and I planned to see it together until the war intervened. I found a girlfriend to accompany me so his ticket would not be wasted. At the intermission, I was approached by Jules Blackthorn. He identified himself as a solicitor and offered me his card."

"But how could he have known of your impending business dealings with Dobson?" Holmes wondered.

"He implied that Dobson had told him."

"Did you mention anything to Dobson about attending that performance of The Nutcracker?"

"I'm certain I did not."

"And have you conveyed these developments to your husband in a

letter?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. His ship would only have arrived in South Africa last week and he has had no time to send me his address. I only pray that he will not be in the front lines of this terrible war."

Presently our train pulled into the station at Rochester and we found Dobson's carriage awaiting us as planned. As in many towns, the cathedral was the tallest structure, towering over all else, and we passed it on our way out to the Dobson mansion at Cliffe. Though it was not yet dark when we reached the sprawling cliffside house, a number of carriages were there ahead of ours.

Holmes was the first out and presented his hand to assist the lady down the step to the ground. Already a tall, balding butler had appeared to welcome us and escort us inside. He turned away almost immediately and directed a footman to show us inside. We were led to the rear of the house, where a room called the Great Hall had been aptly named. Close to a hundred feet long, with a ceiling-scraping Christmas tree and a grand piano at its center, the room had been arranged with three dinner tables on either side. It had windows overlooking the cliffs and flatlands of St. Mary's Marshes. Beyond the marshlands was a majestic view of the mouth of the River Thames, emptying into the North Sea.

Already our fellow guests numbered more than a score, and many of the ladies and gentlemen wore evening clothes. When Edgar Dobson himself appeared, he proved to be a short, somewhat scrawny man with puckered eyelids and a flushed face.

"My dear child!" he addressed Mrs. Ascott. "I thought you were coming with Mr. Blackthorn. Were you forced to make the journey from London alone?"

"Not at all. May I present my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, Dr. Watson."

The little man frowned. "Holmes? Where have I heard that name before?"

"I'm mentioned occasionally in the press," said Holmes with a slight smile.

"Well, I'm pleased you could accompany Mrs. Ascott. It's a lengthy journey to make alone." He turned his attention to her. "Shall we wind up our business before the festivities get under way?"

"I'd like Mr. Holmes to be present as my advisor," she said, taking Dobson by surprise.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary."

"I think it is." Her voice was firm as she spoke the words. "I trust him a great deal more than I do your Mr. Blackthorn."

"Oh, very well. This way, please."

Holmes glanced in my direction, but I motioned toward a butler with a tray of beverages. "I believe I'll have a sip of wine."

The three of them disappeared into Dobson's study, while I took the wine and walked over to admire the view from the windows. By now, it was late afternoon and growing dark. Here and there, lights were beginning to come on.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" the young man standing next to me said.

"Certainly is," I agreed. "Do you live around here?"

"London." He held out his hand. "Erskine Childers. I'm a committee clerk in the House of Commons." He was a small, neat man, probably not quite out of his twenties. "That's my wife over there in the yellow dress."

"Watson. Medical doctor. I'm down from London, too."

"Dr. Watson? You're not the one who chronicles the cases of your friend, Sherlock Holmes, are you?"

"I've done that on occasion," I admitted, both gratified and embarrassed that he'd recognized my name.

"Well!" His face brightened. "I've been wanting to try some writing myself. I've joined the City Imperial Volunteers and expect to leave shortly for South Africa. I'm hoping to get a book out of it."

"I wish you luck. The war reports speak of heavy casualties."

"They won't want me in the front lines. I have a slight sciatic limp, acquired from long walks in the Irish countryside."

"You're from Ireland?"

He laughed. "On my mother's side. I spent much of my childhood in Wicklow."

Before we could speak further, we were interrupted by a late arrival, a large, barrel-chested man with a black beard. "Dr. Watson?" he inquired, his deep voice cutting through our conversation with an accent I couldn't place.

I caught a whiff of whiskey on his breath.

"That is correct. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Jules Blackthorn, and I am seeking a woman named

Elvira Ascott. The head butler said she arrived with you and Mr. Holmes."

"I believe she is busy at the moment," I replied, trying to prevent any sort of confrontation.

"It is very important that I see her at once!" His voice had risen so that Childers and a few others nearby were looking alarmed.

The balding butler who'd greeted us upon our arrival hurried forward and tried to calm him. Despite the apparent difference in their ages, the butler grabbed him from behind with a strong left arm, catching him in a half-nelson. Then he hurried him out of the room with a minimum of commotion.

Erskine Childers grinned and said, "It's nice having wrestlers on your staff."

Edgar Dobson appeared, followed by Elvira Ascott and Sherlock Holmes. "What is it, Samuels?"

The butler went to him for a whispered conversation, turning his face away from Holmes and Mrs. Ascott. Then Dobson said, "Forgive us for the slight altercation," and the party continued.

"Was that about me?" Mrs. Ascott asked. "I heard someone say Blackthorn had been here."

"No, no," our host assured. "It had nothing to do with you. I'd asked Jules to be our Father Christmas after dinner. Samuels said he'd been drinking too much and had to be removed."

Holmes had an accustomed twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps Dr. Watson could offer his services. He was Father Christmas for the Baker Street children just last evening."

I was so startled by his suggestion that I could only murmur, "I'm sure the costume wouldn't fit me."

"We'll try it after dinner," Dobson said. "If it's too big for you, I'm sure Samuels could fill the bill with a bit of padding."

The six tables had been set with six places each and, as the guests took their seats, I saw that thirty-five of the chairs were occupied. They'd accommodated me at the last minute, and only Jules Blackthorn was missing. I was at the table with Holmes and Mrs. Ascott, and we'd been joined by Erskine Childers and his wife, an attractive young woman with a pleasant smile. An older woman, a neighbor of Dobson's named Monica Selfridge, rounded out our table.

Elvira glanced over at the next table where their host seemed to be seated without a female companion.

"Is Mrs. Dobson here," she asked the neighbor.

"No, the poor dear died some years back. Edgar has been alone here since then."

Holmes was two seats away from me, with Elvira in between, so it was impossible for me to ask him what had transpired in the meeting with Dobson. Before I knew it, the first course was being served and we'd drifted into a discussion of sailing. "Two years ago, Erskine and his brother crossed the North Sea on a yacht," his wife told us, "all the way to the

Frisian Islands in Germany."

"And what did you find there?" Holmes inquired.

Childers gave a shrug. "Germans."

"As long as they weren't the French," the older woman commented.

"We have nothing to fear from France," Childers insisted. "It is

Germany who wants to invade and conquer us."

"Really?" Monica Selfridge drew in her breath. "I'm planning a trip there next summer. Will I be safe?"

"If we're not at war by that time."

"How would they invade us?" asked Holmes.

"By sea, of course. It's the only way. A fleet of small boats hidden among the Frisian Islands could cross the North Sea and land along our coast before we knew what was happening."

A sudden shudder seemed to pass through Elvira Ascott's body. "Please! I don't want to hear any more talk of war. It's bad enough to have a husband volunteer to fight the Boers..."

Childers was immediately interested. "I say! Is he down there already? I thought my group would be the first volunteers to go."

"He sailed last week," she said, looking more distressed by the moment. "I wish he were here with me now."

I watched Samuels carving roast beef for the main course, holding it with a fork in his right hand while he carved it perfectly with his left. The meat was delicious and, after the main course, Elvira excused herself.

I was able to lean across her chair and ask Holmes quietly, "Was an agreement reached?"

"She put him off, but promised a final decision before she returned to London this evening. I fear she is about to sign away something of value, although the price he offers seems fair enough."

The neighbor, Miss Selfridge, left our table and sat down at the piano. As she played some holiday carols, the waiters moved among the tables, serving an ice cream dessert in the shape of a Yule log. I was quite impressed, having never seen anything like it before. As I finished the last of it, our host came over to my seat and asked if I would try on the Father Christmas costume.

"Through that door," he instructed. "Samuels will show you."

The butler pointed me toward an unoccupied sitting room, where I found the costume draped across a chair. I removed my shoes, but left the rest of my garments in place, quickly determining that the baggy costume would slip on easily over them. A hat, with wig and beard attached, lay next to the suit and a pair of black boots stood on the floor. There was even a bed pillow included, should I need extra padding around my middle.

I was pulling the Father Christmas pants over my own, silently regretting that I'd allowed myself to be talked into this. Entertaining children was one thing. Parading around in this costume before adults, and strangers at that, was something entirely different. As I bent down to reach for the boots, my eye was attracted to a feather on the carpeting. Then I saw another a short distance away. And a third. I checked the pillow, but there was no rip in it.

The feathers formed a definite trail across the carpet to a door that I took to be a closet. At the door itself there were two more, and I could not resist the urge to turn the knob and open it.

That was how I came to find the bloodied body of Jules Blackthorn.

I instructed the butler to summon his master and Holmes at once. It was only a moment before he returned with them both. When I revealed my discovery in the closet, Dobson was shocked.

"How could this be? I thought he'd gone home." He turned to the butler. "Didn't he leave the house, Samuels?"

"I escorted him to the door myself, sir."

Blackthorn had been stabbed twice in the back. The trail of feathers was quickly explained when Holmes lifted the body slightly to reveal a slashed pillow beneath the dead man's stomach. It might have been the twin of the one that had been left out for my costume.

"I believe you should notify the local police at once," said Holmes. "They might wish to contact Scotland Yard as well."

"But who could have done this terrible thing?" Edgar Dobson wondered. "Did Blackthorn surprise a thief?"

"This was no thief's act," Holmes pointed out. "If the man really left the house, as your butler says, someone must have let him in again. I believe we can reasonably assume that person is the one who killed him."

While we awaited the arrival of the local constable, Dobson made the announcement to his assembled guests.

"I'm sorry to report, ladies and gentlemen, that there has been a serious accident to Mr. Jules Blackthorn, one of this evening's guests. The local constable has been summoned and I suggest that we await his arrival. I'll try to make you as comfortable as possible in the meantime. The waiters will pass among you with after dinner libations while Miss Selfridge entertains us with some additional carols."

A murmur ran through the three dozen guests and several insisted they had to be starting home. However, the arrival of brandy and cigars soon lured the male guests into the library, while the women stayed to be entertained by the music. As for Holmes and myself, we quickly found ourselves in our host's study, along with Elvira Ascott. "Please understand, Mrs. Ascott," Dobson told her, "that Blackthorn's death makes it more imperative than ever that we complete our transaction."

Holmes merely smiled at this. "Would you explain yourself, Mr. Dobson? It seems to me that Blackthorn was nothing more than a cohort of yours, sent to persuade Mrs. Ascott to adhere to your wishes regarding the sale of her land."

"Blackthorn was a principal in the sale. He was putting up a portion of the money for it. I know nothing of his motives. I do know that I am willing to take a worthless parcel of tidal land off your hands for a fair sum of money."

It was night now, and all we could see against the windows was our own reflection in the darkened glass. For a full minute, no one spoke, and then Elvira Ascott herself broke the silence.

"I will sell you the land, Mr. Dobson, just to be rid of it and put an end to this business."

"Not so fast," Holmes cautioned, holding up a hand. "I am acting in your best interests, Mrs. Ascott, when I beg you to delay your decision."

He slipped something, a small notebook, from his pocket and held it out to her. "Tell me...have you ever seen this before?"

She took the notebook and opened the cover. On the first page was the notation Boot, underlined. It was followed by a column of numbers, each having three digits.

Elvira Ascott shook her head. "I know nothing about this. What is it? To whom does it belong?"

"I found it under Blackthorn's body when I lifted it. I believe it slipped out of his pocket."

I studied the notations. "They seem to be a list of boot sizes."

"My dear friend," said Holmes, "have you ever seen boot sizes expressed in just three numbers like that?"

"What else could it mean?"

"I have a suspicion." He turned to our host. "Come now, Mr. Dobson.

Isn't it time you told us what you know about all this?" "I know nothing!" the man insisted.

Just then, we were interrupted by a knock at the study door. It opened just a crack, allowing Samuels, the butler, to announce the arrival of Constable Wallace.

As the door was closing again, Holmes called out, "Samuels, could you come in for a moment?"

The tall butler entered the room with some reluctance, his eyes downcast. "Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to ask you about the pillow that went with the Father Christmas costume. I assume it was used if the wearer of the costume needed more girth up front."

"That's correct."

"And the pillow came from one of the upstairs bedrooms?"

"What has this got to do with Blackthorn's murder?" Edgar Dobson wanted to know. "Of course the pillow came from a bedroom, probably one of the guest bedrooms. Why do you ask?"

"Because when the killer stabbed Blackthorn and ripped the pillow, he had to replace it. He had to go up to the second floor of this house and procure another pillow, so the original slashed one could be hidden. That is not something a guest would do, nor one of the servants hired for the party. Certainly your cooks were far too busy in the kitchen at meal time."

"Are you accusing me..."

"You seemed to be very involved with your guests during the crucial period. There's also the question of your size. If we assume the two men tussled before Blackthorn was fatally stabbed, it seems unlikely you could have overpowered him, Mr. Dobson. Whereas we have seen Samuels here do exactly that this very evening."

The butler's face had gone white at those words. He uttered an oath and turned toward the door, but Holmes was already upon him.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"It was you who killed him, you who replaced the torn pillow. But the police are here now, and your conspiracy is at an end!"

I was astounded by this turn of events. "Holmes, are you telling us the butler did it?"

Holmes ripped away the flesh-colored skullcap and fake hair, revealing the head of a much younger man.

"Only in a sense, Watson. You see, Samuels the butler is really William Ascott, engaged not in fighting the Boers, but in swindling his wife out of her land."

It was not until later, when he was explaining it all to a devastated Elvira Ascott, that I learned the full story from Holmes. Edgar Dobson had been arrested along with Ascott, and we were at the station awaiting the last train back to London when Holmes repeated what he'd told the police.

"My first clue to your husband's involvement was your meeting with Jules Blackthorn at the ballet on the very day that Dobson had made his offer for your land. You insisted you'd not told Dobson of your plans, yet this bogus solicitor was there to accost you. It seemed to me that only your husband, who'd planned to accompany you, knew in advance that you'd be at the ballet. When you said his group of volunteers had only recently departed, and after Erskine Childers indicated he believed he was in the first group, leaving just after New Year's, I began to wonder. Was it possible that your husband was still secretly in London, and his New Year's departure was the reason Dobson wanted the land deal completed before that date?"

"I...I can't believe that was the case. What did William hope to accomplish?"

"He and Edgar Dobson had entered into a conspiracy with Blackthorn to get that land from you, one way or another. I regret to say this, Mrs. Ascott, but the conspiracy may have existed more than a year ago, even before your marriage."

A sob caught in her throat at his words. "You mean he married me to gain control of that piece of worthless property?"

"It was not worthless to him. Blackthorn was offering a good deal of money for the land. But William learned, to his sorrow, that even in the case of your death, the land would pass to your sister's children in America."

"Do you believe he would have killed me for it?"

"Thankfully we never had to face that question."

"But how did you know the butler was really my husband?"

"There were a number of things. Chief among them was my observation that he frequently averted his face when in your presence. Even with the false hair and makeup he used in his days as an amateur actor, he feared recognition. Then there was the obvious fact that he was left-handed, demonstrated when he was cutting the meat and when he grabbed Blackthorn with his left hand. In the photograph of your husband that you showed us, he was tall like Samuels and he was firing a pistol with his left hand."

"If Blackthorn was in league with them, why was he killed?" I asked.

"Dobson said it was because they were taking too long to complete the transaction. Blackthorn had been patient for a year, and now his orders were to force you to sign the contract by any means possible. Your husband opposed that. This evening, when he forcibly removed Blackthorn from our presence, instead of showing him to the door, he took him to that sitting room and stabbed him, using the pillow to protect himself from blood stains. Then, of course, he had to replace the pillow for the Father Christmas costume."

"But why was William disguised as a butler in the first place?"

"I believe he'd grown truly fond of you during the year of your marriage. As I indicated, he opposed the use of any force against your person, and insisted on being present while you were at Dobson's house. The butler disguise seemed most practical for his purpose and, indeed, he did protect you from Blackthorn."

"Why were they so anxious to buy that worthless land from me?" Elvira Ascott wanted to know.

"It wasn't worthless to Dobson. It provided him with a connecting link to the sea. Any boats bringing men to Dobson's estate needed that strip of land to deliver the men without raising a premature alarm."

"Boats?"

"Blackthorn was an agent of the German government. He carried a list of the boat numbers in his notebook. The word 'boot' means 'boat' in

German."

"You mean Germans would have been landing here?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "In large numbers. Our dinner companion tonight, Mr. Childers, suggested that very thing. He was more correct than he knew. But, here, I believe our train is approaching at last!"

Ascott and Dobson were convicted of murder and conspiracy, and the German angle to the investigation was never made public. It was not until three years later that our dinner companion, Erskine Childers, wrote a fictionalized version of his suspicions involving a German invasion titled The Riddle of the Sands. It became his most successful novel.