The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Read Free

I still managed to nod and tip my hat to a few acquaintances, wishing them the compliments of the season. Even the browning of the snow, thrown upon the sidewalks by the passing frost-covered hansoms could not dampen my spirit.
    “It’s a Halcyon day for certain!” cried I, happily.
    Holmes turned to me with a question in his eyes. I recollected that his knowledge of literature, while not ‘nil’ as I once thought, was surely limited when it came to Greek mythology. “I refer of course, to the legend of the kingfishers, for who the gods granted seven days on either side of the winter solstice when storms would not disturb their caring for their winter-hatched clutch.” I explained.
    Holmes nodded. “I am aware of the legend, Watson. I once spent a fine winter holiday during my college years working on a monograph about the common threads of the various celebratory practices of the solstices. Although never printed, my professor remarked that it was the last word upon the subject. What you are forgetting is that the gods turned Alcyone into a bird as punishment for his hubris of referring to himself as Zeus. The gods can be cruel, as can the creatures of Prometheus. Evil does not pause for the holidays.”
    I shook my head in exasperation until I recalled the mission upon which we had set out. Soon enough our steps led us from Oxford Street into the medieval tangle near Soho Square. Holmes’ unerring knowledge of the London byways, however, quickly steered us clear of this labyrinth, from which we emerged to find ourselves on Endell Street. Once it crossed Long Acre, this transformed into Bow Street proper, where the New Bow Street Police Court had been constructed over a decade earlier. The building’s bulk, punctuated by four stories of windows, seemed to loom out into the street, while its distinctive white outside lights were dimmed for the day. When I had first visited this establishment to visit the erstwhile beggar Hugh Boone, my companion was already well known to the Force, and similarly, the two constables at the door simply saluted him and waved him past. Inside, we were greeted by a tall, stout official dressed in a standard issue frogged jacket and peaked cap, however he had also whimsically added a sprig of holly to the top button of his jacket.
    “Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! What can I do for you, gentleman, on this fine morn?” said he, cheerily.
    “Ah, Bradstreet, excellent,” said Holmes. “I am glad to find that you are on duty. May we have a word?”
    “Certainly. Mr. Holmes. My office?”
    Holmes nodded and we followed him down the stone-flagged passage to a large room, with a huge ledger upon the table, a telephone projecting from the wall, and a large black board covered in chalk diagrams regarding the connections between various individuals, presumably regarding a case Bradstreet was investigating.
    The inspector sat down behind his desk, while I sank into one of the chairs to rest my leg after our ramble of several miles across London. Holmes, however, had gravitated to the chalkboard where he briefly studied the diagrams. After a moment, he turned away and perched on the other chair, the chalk drawings apparently forgotten.
    Before Holmes could begin, the inspector hazarded a guess regarding our errand. “I reckon, Mr. Holmes, that you are here about the good doctor that we have locked in our cells.”
    Holmes arched his eyebrows. “Indeed. You are spot on, Bradstreet. I should like to see Dr. Lowe.”
    “Would you now?” the inspector smiled genially at Holmes. “I thank you for that request, Mr. Holmes. I hope you are willing to confirm it if asked?”
    Holmes leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at the inspector. “Ah, I see. Exactly how much did you bet Lestrade that I would come a calling? A sovereign?”
    “Two,” chuckled the inspector. “But how could you tell?”
    “When you led us into your office, I noticed a small scrap of paper sticking out of