The Case of The Lighthouse Chandelier 1

A Sherlock Holmes short story © Christoffer Petersen

It was, I must declare, a wholly inhospitable place. I accompanied my esteemed friend Sherlock Holmes to the south coast of England without complaint. Although on arriving at Dover Priory train station, and upon taking what might once have been a fine hansom cab – now desperately in need of attention – to the start of a pitted and winding track, I rather regretted my decision. It was raining. And while I do not begrudge inclement weather, provided one has the proper attire, I do not enjoy spending prolonged periods under it. Holmes, on the other hand, after inspecting the ruts and tracks in the mud at the head of the path, appeared most chipper on what he called our little stroll to the lighthouse. A stroll, it was not, and I wondered if the hansom driver had not ruined his cab, ferrying one too many fares to the track and back again. Holmes assured me it was not so, although a flash of light in his eye suggested I was not entirely wrong, either.

‘Since building the South Foreland lighthouses, this one has fallen somewhat into disrepair.’

Holmes said this as the track climbed over a hillock from which vantage point we could look down upon Rosehead Lighthouse, the steep cliffs just below it, and the steps winding between the rocks to a narrow stone bridge leading to the lighthouse door. I will admit to being rather taken by the sight, and distracted, albeit momentarily, from the drizzle of rain plaguing our progress.

‘Impressive, in a rather neglected way, don’t you think?’ Holmes said, and he pointed out the lighthouse’s slight list to the west, adjusting the beam of the light by a degree or two.

It was, I agreed, impressive, and we looked upon it for a few minutes, perhaps longer, before Holmes suggested we continue our progress and get out of the rain. I took the opportunity, before reaching the steps to quiz Holmes about our purpose, something he had been loath to talk about on the train for fear, he said, of inciting rumour and further robbery.

‘It is the latter that concerns us, of course, Watson,’ he said. ‘The lighthouse was robbed for the last time on Thursday.’

‘The last time?’ I said, but Holmes did not truly elaborate.

‘Yes, and it is unfortunate that we should arrive so many days later, but with that matter of the Percivals requiring more attention than the case merited, we have been delayed.’

‘Only three days, Holmes,’ said I, thinking that arriving on the Monday having received a summons on the Friday was quite a speedy response, especially in light of the appalling conditions of the latter part of the journey. Holmes had suggested the cab driver might return for us in the afternoon and received a rather dispirited we shall see in response. I might have opted to pay a retainer, preferring not to be stranded at the lighthouse overnight, should we be terribly unlucky. But Holmes’s enthusiasm was rather infectious, and I gained a little warmth in the details of the case as he described them to me.

‘The Rosehead Lighthouse is one of the older lighthouses following the coast to South Foreland. And as you have seen, Watson, it is the least desirable of them all. Certainly the least frequented. It is supposed that Rosehead will cease in operation before the end of the century. But not before leaving its mark upon the local populace and Jeremiah Hawkshaw, the current owner.’

‘Owner?’ I exclaimed.

‘Why, yes, dear Watson. Hawkshaw owns Rosehead. It was a strange inheritance, and no doubt the result of a poor wager made in a smoky den. Hawkshaw comes from money, of which he is not shy to use plenty of it on opium. Which explains, too, his failure to uphold the running of the lighthouse, and to appoint a resident keeper. But that is beside the point. The point of the tale, and our purpose in examining the truth of it, is to determine what is become of the chandelier.’

‘A chandelier in a lighthouse?’

It was my second exclamation in as many minutes and Holmes chuckled in that throaty way of his when I amuse him. I let it pass, of course, as his mirth was well founded, just as I was equally perplexed about why a chandelier should be hanging from the ceiling of a lighthouse at the end of a lonely track, leading to an even lonelier perch looking out upon a bleak and uninviting grey sea. I couldn’t imagine anyone visiting Rosehead, and unless the non-existent keeper had fancies above his station, nor did I think a chandelier was an affordable or even practical lighting fixture for a lighthouse and I said so.

‘Quite,’ Holmes said. ‘Of course, you are forgetting, indeed neglecting, the source of Hawkshaw’s wealth. His family is in the glass business, and, as you may recall, when the glass tax forced businesses to move to Ireland, a few English companies set up shop on the Emerald Isle. Not so the Hawkshaws. They suffered for it, of course. But when the tax shifted to products made of glass, not the raw materials themselves, the Hawkshaws adapted. They reused their glass and created some fabulous candlelit chandeliers.’

‘Fabulous?’

‘In all senses of the word, Watson. The most fabled of which is the Thurston Chandelier, which was, until Thursday night, preserved in the Rosehead Lighthouse. According to the Hawkshaws, it was commissioned by Richard Thurston in 1832, thirteen years prior to the abolishment of the glass tax.’

‘That’s over fifty years ago, Holmes,’ I said.

‘Fifty-two years, to be precise. I could give you the number of days if desired, but I rather think that after half a century, twenty-four days are neither here nor there.’

‘And for how long has the chandelier been hanging in the lighthouse?’

‘Shortly after Jeremiah Hawkshaw won the lighthouse. Some six years ago. Or so he says. He was at once vague and rather relaxed when we talked. As was I.’

‘Holmes!’

‘Yes, yes, Watson. Don’t trouble yourself with any unnecessary worries. I told you the Percival case required more attention than I wished to give it, and I required a little attention too, if I was going to resolve the missing elements of what had become a rather trying little case.’

‘You required opium to open your mind to a missing detail, I suppose?’ I said, thinking that it was the preferable reason for Holmes visiting an opium den.

‘Far from it, Watson,’ Holmes said. ‘I required the opium to forget all the details. If only for a short while. An escape, of sorts, to let my mind wander. Of course, it wandered only so far as a discourse with Hawkshaw, the results of which have led us to this place, at this time, three days after the robbery.’

Holmes stopped when we reached the first of the steps cut out of the stone.

‘After you, Watson,’ he said, and he stepped to one side to let me pass.