"Indeed. Watson, I think we must have a ride in this sleigh. Will you see the head porter about booking it?"

I hoped he might invite me to go with them but he said nothing about that. Still, he seemed to be in a good temper again-although I couldn't see that it was from anything I'd told him.

"Miss Jessica, again I'm obliged to you. I may have yet another favour to ask, but all in good time."

I went reluctantly to join the s...o...b..llers as the two of them walked through the snow back to the hotel.

That afternoon, on our walk, they went past us on their way down the drive in Franz's sleigh. It didn't look like a pleasure trip. Franz's handsome face was serious and Holmes was staring straight ahead. Instead of turning up towards the forest at the end of the hotel drive they turned left for the village. Our walk also took us to the village because Father wanted to see an old man about getting a stick carved. When we walked down the little main street we saw the sleigh and horse standing outside a neat chalet with green shutters next to the church. I knew it was Franz's own house and wondered what had become of his pa.s.sengers. About half an hour later, when we'd seen about Father's stick, we walked back up the street and there were Holmes and Watson standing on the balcony outside the chalet with Eva, the maid from last year. Her fair hair was as curly as ever but her head was bent. She seemed to be listening intently to something that Holmes was saying and the droop of her shoulders told me she wasn't happy.

"Why is Silver Stick talking to her?"

Amanda, very properly, was rebuked for staring and asking questions about things that didn't concern her. Being older and wiser, I said nothing but kept my secret coiled in my heart. Was it Eva who pushed him? Would they lock her up in prison? A little guilt stirred along with the pleasure, because he wouldn't have known about Eva if I hadn't told him, but not enough to spoil it. Later I watched from our window hoping to see the sleigh coming back, but it didn't that day. Instead, just before it got dark, Holmes and Watson came back on foot up the drive, walking fast, saying nothing.

Next morning, Square Bear came up to Mother at coffee time. "I wonder if you would permit Miss Jessica to take a short walk with me on the terrace."

Mother hesitated, but Square Bear was so obviously respectable, and anyway you could see the terrace from the coffee room. I put on my hat, cape, and gloves and walked with him out of the gla.s.s doors into the cold air. We stood looking down at the rink, in exactly the same place as I'd been standing when they first spoke to me. I knew that was no accident. Square Bear's fussiness, the tension in his voice that he was so unsuccessful in hiding, left no doubt of it. There was something odd about the terrace, too-far more people on it than would normally be the case on a cold morning. There must have been two dozen or so standing round in stiff little groups, talking to each other, waiting.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?"

Square Bear looked at me, eyes watering from the cold.

"The truth is, my dear, I don't know where he is or what he's doing. He gave me my instructions at breakfast and I haven't seen him since."

"Instructions about me?"

Before he could answer, the scream came. It was a man's scream, tearing through the air like a saw blade, and there was a word in it. The word was "No." I turned with the breath choking in my throat and, just as there'd been last year, there was a dark thing in the air, its clothes flapping out round it. A collective gasp from the people on the terrace, then a soft thump as the thing hit the deep snow on the restaurant roof and began sliding. I heard "No" again and this time it was my own voice, because I knew from last year what was coming next-the slide down the steep roof gathering snow as it came, the flop onto the terrace only a few yards from where I was standing, the arm sticking out.

At first the memory was so strong that I thought that was what I was seeing, and it took a few seconds for me to realise that it wasn't happening that way. The thing had fallen a little to the side and instead of sliding straight down the roof it was being carried to a little ornamental railing at the edge of it, where the main hotel joined onto the annex, driving a wedge of snow in front of it. Then somebody said, unbelievingly: "He's stopped." And the thing had stopped. Instead of plunging over the roof to the terrace it had been swept up against the railing, bundled in snow like a cylindrical s...o...b..ll, and stopped within a yard of the edge. Then it sat up, clinging with one hand to the railing, covered from waist down in snow. If he'd been wearing a hat when he came out of the window he'd lost it in the fall because his damp hair was gleaming silver above his smiling brown face. It was an inward kind of smile, as if only he could appreciate the thing that he'd done.

Then the chattering started. Some people were yelling to get a ladder, others running. The rest were asking each other what had happened until somebody spotted the window wide open three floors above us.

"Her window. Mrs. McEvoy's window."

"He fell off Mrs. McEvoy's balcony, just like last year."

"But he didn't ..."

At some point Square Bear had put a hand on my shoulder. Now he bent down beside me, looking anxiously into my face, saying we should go in and find Mother. I wished he'd get out of my way because I wanted to see Silver Stick on the roof. Then Mother arrived, wafting clouds of scent and drama. I had to go inside, of course, but not before I'd seen the ladder arrive and Silver Stick coming down it, a little stiffly but dignified. And one more thing. Just as he stepped off the ladder the gla.s.s doors to the terrace opened and out she came. She hadn't been there when it happened but now in her black fur jacket, she stepped through the people as if they weren't there, and gave him her hand and thanked him.

At dinner that night she dined alone at her table, as on the other nights, but it took her longer to get to it. Her long walk across the dining room was made longer by all the people who wanted to speak to her, to inquire after her health, to tell her how pleased they were to see her again. It was as if she'd just arrived that afternoon, instead of being there for five days already. There were several posies of flowers on her table that must have been sent up especially from the town, and champagne in a silver bucket beside it. Silver Stick and Square Bear bowed to her as she went past their table, but ordinary polite little nods, not like that first night. The smile she gave them was like the sun coming up.

We were sent off to bed as soon as we'd had our soup as usual. Amanda went to sleep at once but I lay awake, resenting my exile from what mattered. Our parents' sitting room was next to our bedroom and I heard them come in, excited still. Then, soon afterwards, a knock on the door of our suite, the murmur of voices, and my father, a little taken aback, saying yes come in by all means. Then their voices, Square Bear's first, fussing with apologies about it being so late, then Silver Stick's cutting through him: "The fact is, you're owed an explanation, or rather your daughter is. Dr. Watson suggested that we should give it to you so that some time in the future when Jessica's old enough, you may decide to tell her."

If I'd owned a chest of gold and had watched somebody throwing it away in a crowded street I couldn't have been more furious than hearing my secret about to be squandered. My first thought was to rush through to the other room in my nightdress and bare feet and demand that he should speak to me, not to them. Then caution took over, and although I did get out of bed, I went just as far as the door, opened it a crack so that I could hear better, and padded back to bed. There were sounds of chairs being rearranged, people settling into them, then Silver Stick's voice.

"I should say at the start, for reasons we need not go into, that Dr. Watson and I were convinced that Irene McEvoy had not pushed her husband to his death. The question was how to prove it, and in that regard your daughter's evidence was indispensable. She alone saw Mr. McEvoy fall and she alone heard what he shouted. The accurate ear of childhood-once certain adult nonsenses had been discarded-recorded that shout as precisely as a phonograph and knew that strictly speaking it was only half a shout, that Mr. McEvoy, if he'd had time, would have added something else to it."

A pause. I sat up in bed with the counterpane round my neck, straining not to miss a word of his quiet, clear voice.

"No-something. The question was, no what? Mr. McEvoy had expected something to be there and his last thought on earth was surprise at the lack of it, surprise so acute that he was trying to shout it with his last breath. The question was, what that thing could have been."

Silence, waiting for an answer, but n.o.body said anything.

"If you look up at the back of the hotel from the terrace you will notice one obvious thing. The third and fourth floors have balconies. The second floor does not. The room inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. McEvoy had a balcony. A person staying in the suite would be aware of that. He would not necessarily be aware, unless he were a particularly observant man, that the second-floor rooms had no balconies. Until it was too late. I formed the theory that Mr. McEvoy had not in fact fallen from the window of his own room but from a lower room belonging to somebody else, which accounted for his attempted last words: "No ... balcony."

My mother gasped. My father said: "By Jove ..."

"Once I'd arrived at that conclusion, the question was what Mr. McEvoy was doing in somebody else's room. The possibility of thieving could be ruled out since he was a very rich man. Then he was seeing somebody. The next question was who. And here your daughter was incidentally helpful in a way she is too young to understand. She confided to us in all innocence an overheard piece of adult gossip to the effect that the late Mr. McEvoy had a roving eye."

My father began to laugh, then stifled it. My mother said "Well" in a way that boded trouble for me later.

"Once my attention was directed that way, the answer became obvious. Mr. McEvoy was in somebody else's hotel room for what one might describe as an episode of galanterie. But the accident happened in the middle of the morning. Did ever a lady in the history of the world make a romantic a.s.signation for that hour of the day? Therefore it wasn't a lady. So I asked myself what group of people are most likely to be encountered in hotel rooms in mid-morning and the answer was ..."

"Good heavens, the chambermaid!"

My mother's voice, and Holmes was clearly none too pleased at being interrupted.

"Quite so. Mr. McEvoy had gone to meet a chambermaid. I asked some questions to establish whether any young and attractive chambermaid had left the hotel since last Christmas. There was such a one, named Eva. She'd married the under porter and brought him as a dowry enough money to buy that elegant little sleigh. Now a prudent chambermaid may ama.s.s a modest dowry by saving tips, but one look at that sleigh will tell you that Eva's dowry might best be described as, well ... immodest."

Another laugh from my father, cut off by a look from my mother I could well imagine.

"Dr. Watson and I went to see Eva. I told her what I'd deduced and she, poor girl, confirmed it with some details-the sound of the housekeeper's voice outside, Mr. McEvoy's well-practised but ill-advised tactic of taking refuge on the balcony. You may say that the girl Eva should have confessed at once what had happened ..."

"I do indeed."

"But bear in mind her position. Not only her post at the hotel but her engagement to the handsome Franz would be forfeited. And, after all, there was no question of anybody being tried in court. The fashionable world was perfectly happy to connive at the story that Mr. McEvoy had fallen accidentally from his window-while inwardly convicting an innocent woman of his murder."

My mother said, sounding quite subdued for once: "But Mrs. McEvoy must have known. Why didn't she say something?"

"Ah, to answer that one needs to know something about Mrs. McEvoy's history, and it so happens that Dr. Watson and I are in that position. A long time ago, before her first happy marriage, Mrs. McEvoy was loved by a prince. He was not, I must admit, a particularly admirable prince, but prince he was. Can you imagine how it felt for a woman to come from that to being deceived with a hotel chambermaid by a man who made his fortune from bathroom furnishings? Can you conceive that a proud woman might choose to be thought a murderess rather than submit to that indignity?"

Another silence, then my mother breathed: "Yes. Yes, I think I can." Then, "Poor woman."

"It was not pity that Irene McEvoy ever needed." Then, in a different tone of voice: "So there you have it. And it is your decision how much, if anything, you decide to pa.s.s on to Jessica in due course."

There were sounds of people getting up from chairs, then my father said: "And your, um, demonstration this morning?"

"Oh, that little drama. I knew what had happened, but for Mrs. McEvoy's sake it was necessary to prove to the world she was innocent. I couldn't call Eva as witness because I'd given her my word. I'd studied the pitch of the roof and the depth of the snow and I was scientifically convinced that a man falling from Mrs. McEvoy's balcony would not have landed on the terrace. You know the result."

Good-nights were said, rather subdued, and they were shown out. Through the crack in the door I glimpsed them. As they came level with the crack, Silver Stick, usually so precise in his movements, dropped his pipe and had to kneel to pick it up. As he knelt, his bright eyes met mine through the crack and he smiled, an odd, quick smile unseen by anybody else. He'd known I'd been listening all the time.

When they'd gone Mother and Father sat for a long time in silence.

At last Father said: "If he'd got it wrong, he'd have killed himself."

"Like the ski-ing."

"He must have loved her very much."

"It's his own logic he loves."

But then, my mother always was the unromantic one.

THE CHRISTMAS CLIENT.

Edward D. Hoch.

WHILE SUCH MASTERS OF THE FORM as Edgar Allan Poe and O. Henry became famous having written only short stories, and Arthur Conan Doyle had little success with Sherlock Holmes until he produced short stories, it has been virtually impossible for an author to earn a living as a short story writer during the last half century or more, but Edward D. Hoch was a rare exception. He produced more than nine hundred stories in his career, his most famous being "The Oblong Room" (1967), for which he won the Edgar Award, and "The Long Way Down" (1965), in which a man goes out the window of a skysc.r.a.per but doesn't land until hours later; it was the basis for a two-hour episode of the television series McMillan and Wife. "The Christmas Client" was first published in Holmes for the Holidays, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Waugh (New York, Berkley, 1996).

The Christmas Client.

EDWARD D. HOCH.

IT WAS ON CHRISTMAS DAY OF THE year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day, and when we heard her on the stair I a.s.sumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.

"A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes."

"On Christmas Day?" I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption, and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I'd been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.

"My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day it must be a matter of extreme urgency-either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson."

Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build, with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake. "Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my dear friend Dr. Watson."

The man shook my hand too and spoke in a soft voice. "Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir, and I-I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days."

As he spoke I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke. "Please be seated," Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. "Now tell us what brought you out on Christmas Day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church up in Oxford."

Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. "Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?"

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford's Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried, and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today."

"Are you a wizard?" Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.

Holmes, for his part, casually reached for his pipe and tobacco. "Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket I can see a small pamphlet on which the author's name is given as Reverend Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today the ticket would not still be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also on the front of your pamphlet I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of pa.s.sing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?"

"What about the unpleasant experience?" I reminded Holmes.

"You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor's pants are sc.r.a.ped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London."

"You're correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes," Charles Dodgson told him. "I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago but I-I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater."

"And what brought you to London this day?"

Dodgson took a deep breath. "You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What I am about to say is highly embarra.s.sing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an-any moral wrong."

"Go on," Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.

"I am being blackmailed." He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none he continued. "Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I-I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents I sometimes did nude studies." His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.

"My G.o.d, Dodgson!" I exclaimed before I could help myself.

He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired. Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he'd just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, "Was this after you had taken holy orders?"

"I sometimes use 'Reverend' before my name but I am only a deacon. I nev-never went on to holy orders because my speech defect makes it difficult for me to preach. Some-sometimes it's worse than this. I also have some deafness in one ear."

"Tell me about the pictures. How old were the girls?"

"They were usually prep.u.b.escent. I took the photographs in all innocence, you-you must realize that. I photographed adults, too, people like Ellen Terry and Tennyson and Rossetti."

"With their clothes on, I trust," said Holmes with a slight smile.

"I know what I did was viewed with distaste by many of my acquaintances," our white-haired visitor said. "For that reason I abandoned photography some eight years ago."

"Then what is the reason for this blackmail?"

"I must go back to 1879, when I published my mathematical treatise Euclid and His Modern Rivals. Although the general public paid it little heed, I was pleased that it caused something of a stir in mathematical circles. One of the men who contacted me at the time was a professor who held the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities. We became casual friends and he learned of my photographic interests. Later, af-after I'd ceased my photography, he apparently did some picture taking of his own. I was at the beach in Brighton this past summer when I met a lovely little girl. We chatted for a time and I asked if she wouldn't like to go wading in the surf. I carried some safety pins with me and I used them to pin up her skirt so she co-could wade without getting it wet."

I could restrain myself no longer. "This is perversion you speak of! These innocent children-"

"I swear to you I did nothing wrong!" he insisted. "But somehow this former friend arranged to have me photographed in the very act of pinning up the little girl's skirt. Now he is using these pictures to blackmail me."

"What brought you to London today," Holmes asked, "and what unpleasantness brought you here to seek my help?"

"The professor contacted me some months ago with his threats and blackmail. He demanded a large sum of money in return for those pictures taken at the beach."

"And what made him believe that a retired mathematics instructor, even at Oxford, would have a large sum of money?"

"I have ha-had some success with my writing. It has not made me wealthy, but I live comfortably."

"Was your Euclid treatise that successful?" Holmes chided.

"Certain of my other writings ..." He seemed reluctant to continue.

"What happened today?"

"The professor demanded that I meet him here at Paddington Station, with one hundred quid. I came down from Oxford on the noon train as instructed, but he was not at the station to meet me. Instead I was a.s.saulted by a beggar, who pushed me down in the street after handing me an odd message of some sort."

"Did you report this to the police?"

"How could I? My rep-reputation-"

"So you came here?"