Happy Christmas, sweet Poppy. As you, Michael and my stubborn husband refuse to join us to celebrate at Burleigh Manor, I’ve arranged for the Cheadles’ cook to make a proper Christmas dinner. I know you shall not supply the sustenance.
Of course, I would not prepare dinner. I almost laughed out loud. Sherlock had said once that he could never be a proper husband to me. I was certain I’d never be a normal, suitable wife. I could barely manage to properly steep a pot of tea.
I knew the Cheadle brothers’ cook and the men she worked for. They were employed by my uncle’s solicitor, Mr. Havershal. They lived in a run-down century-old home in Holburn, a very tall and ugly edifice that they kept talking about renovating into a law office of their own should they ever leave Mr. Havershal’s employ. Their home was dingy with smoke and dirt and sadly in need of a hand of repair. The window frames barely boasted the last remnant of paint and the iron fence was red with rust. Their culinary talents were even less impressive than my own, but they did employ a few servants, one of whom was a plump Irish woman named Fiona McMonagle, who cooked and baked.
I was surprised Mrs. McMonagle had stayed on there for there was no comfort or joy or cosiness in that house. It certainly wasn’t gold coins or sterling that kept her there, for though the Cheadle brothers were excellent barristers, very sharp practitioners, they were miserly in the highest degree. She toiled and moiled, but perhaps her pitiable earnestness belied her goal to accumulate enough money before her gray hairs thinned to baldness and her strength failed her. I think she hoped to buy a place of her own, rent out private rooms, and sit, content, by a tiny fire burning in the grate to gladden her spirits, just as Mrs. Hudson did. Mrs. Hudson, Victor Trevor’s former housekeeper, had been caught up in a blackmail scheme orchestrated by her husband against Victor’s father, but Sherlock had befriended her because of her assistance in bringing that case to a close. Now she owned a building on Baker Street and rented out rooms for an income.
I continued reading Aunt Susan’s note as I walked toward the dining room.
There will be everything from goose to Christmas pudding and all the trimmings in between waiting for you when you, Michael and Ormond have finished your work for the day. I shall miss you, Poppy.
Love,
Aunt Susan.
P. S. Gifts from your uncle and I are in the morning room and on the tree. Presents from your parents, however, are waiting for you at Burleigh Manor until your next visit, which my sister urges you to plan soon!
I pivoted and turned to walk down the hallway to Aunt Susan’s morning room. I surveyed the beautifully-wrapped presents that were stacked on her piano. I sat down at the piano, placed my hands on the keys, and pecked out The Sussex Carol, the only Christmas carol I did not fumble over. My hands could hold a scalpel steadily, but my fingers turned into sailor’s knots on the ivories. I had almost finished the first stanza when I heard Uncle say, “Happy Christmas, Poppy.”
I turned my head and saw him standing near the door. “And to you, Uncle.”
He strode across the room and pecked me on the cheek. “You worked rather late.”
“I had a room full of patients, Uncle. For the very first time! I should be glad of it, but the reasons for it bring me no joy.”
“I know,” he sighed. “The queue today curled round the hospital and The Square was more crowded than a prison yard during a hanging.”
I cringed at the reference. I had attended two hangings with Sherlock and wanted no reminders of those occasions.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” he said.”I was amazed Mrs. McMonagle actually found her way through the fog to deliver it. And Genabee is making everything ready for us now.”
“I thought Genabee was spending the day with her family.”
“She did. But yesterday she kindly offered to help out here this evening. She’s a good girl.”
And she is not unaware of your kindness and generosity, I thought. She will be compensated handsomely for her loyalty and inconvenience.
“Thank heavens she made it here in one piece,” Uncle said. “Most people stayed in today, whether they could have a proper dinner or not. One of the doctors at St. Bart’s said the only reason he would have Christmas dinner was because the servants to whom he had given duck and plum pudding were willing to share.”
I nodded in understanding. As I had traveled home, I could barely see my hand in front of my face. People were actually asking where they were and house numbers were indecipherable.
“Go wash your face and hands now and come to dinner. Michael and Sherlock are waiting.”
“Sherlock? Sherlock is here? But I didn’t even hear Little Elihu bark.”
Uncle laughed. “Oh, he and Sherlock have become fast friends since your last adventure when that madman attacked the two of you. Elihu saved your lives, remember?”
How could I forget? The serial killer we had tracked down was about to kills us both when my dog sank his teeth into him.
“I invited Sherlock to dinner, Poppy. He was in the lab most of the day and I thought I should see if he had any plans with Mycroft, which he did not. And he was obviously not going home to spend the holiday with Sherrinford and his family. That isn’t a problem, is it?”
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
“Good. We were just having a port in the library. Now go get ready for dinner.”
When he left, I rose to go up to my room, but the array of gifts tempted me. I had to open at least one to brighten my spirits.
I unwrapped a package
