Lord Sidebottom and the Christmas Caper

When Lord Sidebottom arrives in New York, he quickly finds himself on the trial of a pair of bungling burglars....

Lord Sidebottom and the Christmas Caper.

By Jon Cronshaw

I.

New York City—a shimmering Eden of gas lights and snowflakes bedecked in resplendent holiday finery. The city pulsed with the energy of a steam engine: constant, relentless, and yet somehow imbued with a certain yuletide charm.

As I disembarked from the colossal airship, my steam-powered boots lightly touched the cobblestone pavement of the New York port, and I was greeted by a figure whose presence seemed to defy the industrial grime and hullabaloo of the harbour.

“Lord Sidebottom, I presume?” she said, extending a gloved hand towards me. Her poise was immediately striking, a stark contrast to the raucous energy that pervaded the docks.

“Indeed, and you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?”

“Florence Rutherford,” she replied with a smile that had a luminosity to rival the lamplights. “My father asked me to guide you through the city during your stay. But, in truth, it is an honour I requested myself.”

“Is that so?” I replied, intrigued. “May I enquire as to why?”

“I read about your recent escapade at the Royal Albert Hall. How you thwarted Doctor Quicksilver’s malevolent schemes.”

I felt a sudden blush creep upon my cheeks. “Ah, that little affair. I merely did what anyone else with a robot exoskeleton would do in such a circumstance.”

Her laughter was melodic, a delightful interruption to the din of steam engines and shouting aeronauts. “Shall we proceed? New York awaits, and I assure you, it has its own share of adventures to offer.”

As we commenced our promenade, her arm lightly tucked into mine, I sensed that this serendipitous meeting at a foreign port was but a prelude to yet another captivating escapade. And as we conversed about the wonders and peculiarities of this American city, I felt myself once more enthralled by the promise of impending adventure, this time in the company of a guide as extraordinary as the journey that lay ahead.

“May I say your city is as dazzling as any alchemical phosphor!”

“You haven’t seen half of it yet.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Christmas in New York is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”

“A challenge, Miss Florence? Ah, you underestimate me. I’ve bested pirate airships, foiled devious plots, and outwitted robot crab-monkeys. A Christmas in New York shall simply be a bauble on my tree of life experiences!”

Her laughter was infectious, and I found myself surrendering to the joyous spirit that seemed to pervade the very air of this city. But just as I was about to enquire as to the particulars of New York’s holiday offerings, a sharp cry echoed from a darkened alleyway.

“Help! Burglars! They’ve taken everything!”

My internal gears shifted from delight to high alert. A crime! On Christmas Eve! The very notion hurled a spanner into the clockwork of decency.

Florence turned to me. “What say you, Lord Sidebottom? Shall we give these burglars a taste of justice?”

“My dear Florence,” I said, adjusting the lapels of my overcoat, “justice is a dish best served hot—steam hot.”

Without another word, we quickened our pace towards the cry, my steam-powered boots puffing out clouds of vapour with each stride. As we rounded the corner into the alleyway, we encountered a sorrowful tableau. A small shop with its windows smashed, its merchandise strewn haphazardly about the pavement—or ‘sidewalk’ as our American friends are wont to say—and a distraught shopkeeper wringing his hands in despair.

“No sign of the culprits,” I observed, my eyes scanning the vicinity for any trace of movement.

“Indeed, it seems they have made a hasty exit,” Florence added, her eyes keenly inspecting the ransacked shop.

We approached the shopkeeper, a portly man in his fifties, whose face was flushed red.

“Sir, might you elucidate on the particulars of this heinous incident?” I enquired as gently as one can in such a situation.

“Oh, boy! It was a dreadful affair. They just stormed in, they did. Grabbed whatever they could and dashed out before I could even shout for help.”

“Did you see their faces?” Florence asked, her voice tinged with urgency.

“No, ma’am. They wore masks, they did. And gloves. They knew what they were about, that’s certain.”

“A professional job then,” I mused, taking note of the broken lock on the door, evidently forced open with some manner of crowbar. As I peered inside the shop, my eyes caught sight of various items left in disarray—knick-knacks, curiosities, and more tellingly, a collection of clocks whose hands had all stopped at precisely the same time.

“An electrical surge, perhaps?” Florence suggested, following my gaze.

“Possibly,” I replied. “But, then, why is that gramophone still operational?” I pointed to a corner where a gramophone sat, its horn still spinning in forlorn silence.

As we puzzled over these details, I noticed something even more peculiar—water seeping out from under a door at the back of the shop.

“Sir, what lies beyond that door?” I asked.

“My storage, sir,” the shopkeeper replied. “Oh heavens, don’t tell me they’ve flooded it.”

With a sense of foreboding, I approached the door and opened it cautiously, revealing a room awash in ankle-deep water. A cursory inspection confirmed that nothing of value remained.

“Bizarre,” Florence remarked, lifting her skirt slightly to avoid the water. “Why would they flood the room?”

“A diversionary tactic? A means to cover their tracks? It’s difficult to say at this juncture,” I said, unable to disguise the frustration creeping into my voice. Despite the potential myriad clues and red herrings scattered nearby, we were no closer to identifying the miscreants or their whereabouts.

“I fear we’ve reached an impasse,” Florence conceded, her face tinged with disappointment. “The trail appears to have gone cold.”

“Or flooded,” I said, my thoughts racing. “But the culprits have made a huge mistake.”

Florence turned to me, her eyebrow cocked. “Oh?”

“They did not bargain for having Lord Sidebottom on their trail,” I declared as I retrieved my monocular lens to better inspect the scene. “The scoundrels may think they’ve made a clean getaway, but they underestimate the intricacies of steam-powered justice.”

The shopkeeper seemed to regain a measure of hope. “You think you can find them, sir?”

“I can’t make any promises, but rest assured, I have a certain knack for foiling nefarious schemes.”

Florence glanced at her pocket watch and her eyes widened. “Lord Sidebottom, we’re dreadfully late! The gala! We must make haste!”

The mention of the gala returned me to the reality of our social commitments, yet my mind was awash with questions, puzzles demanding to be solved. But, alas, social decorum beckoned.

We bid the shopkeeper farewell, promising to alert the authorities post-haste, and made our way back to the bustling streets.

As we hurried towards the venue of the gala, I couldn’t help but ponder the oddities of the evening. A robbery, flooded storage, stopped clocks, but no discernible motive or clue pointing towards the culprits. It was a mystery indeed, one that tugged at the very fibres of my intellectual curiosity.

II.

As we reached the imposing façade of the gala venue, Florence turned to me. “I must retreat for a short while, Lord Sidebottom. These social gatherings demand a touch of sartorial flair, even from a New Yorker.”

“Indeed, my dear,” I graciously conceded. “Please, take your time.”

With a smile, Florence departed, her heels clicking elegantly against the marble floor. “Don’t get into too much trouble without me,” she called back.

Left to my own devices, I prepared to step into the resplendent fray. The grand doors creaked open, offering a warm yet ostentatious welcome.

Inside, the gala was a visual and auditory symphony: the clinking of crystal, the laughter of well-heeled patrons, and above us, chandeliers hanging like constellations in a sky of velvet and gold. The aesthetic opulence was arresting, yet my thoughts were already miles away, navigating the labyrinthine twists of the earlier burglary.

“I do believe you’re Lord Sidebottom?”

A robust voice cut through my musings. Before me stood a gentleman of distinguished mien, his chest adorned with medals that spoke of military glory.

“Colonel Archibald Rutherford. I presume my daughter found you?”

“Indeed. A pleasure, Colonel,” I said, extending my hand for a gentlemanly shake. “It is good to finally make your acquaintance in person. Your daughter is a veritable gem—sharp, resourceful, and absolutely charming.”

“Good qualities. Inherited from her mother, no doubt.” He chuckled to himself. “I trust your voyage across the Atlantic was satisfactory?”

“Quite an adventure, Colonel. And yet it seems the escapades have followed me onto dry land.”

I recounted a carefully abridged tale of the afternoon’s mysterious events. There was no need to involve Florence prematurely in the story, and so I left her part in our escapade suitably vague.

The colonel listened with an intentness that spoke of a strategic mind, a man who grasped the undercurrents of situations both seen and unseen.

“I dare say, Lord Sidebottom, you’ve brought a touch of English intrigue to our New York festivities.”

“As have you, Colonel. An evening to remember,” I offered, raising my champagne flute in a gesture of shared confidentiality.

We sipped our drinks, a momentary pause as we both surveyed the room.

“Colonel, I must say the grandeur of this gala is truly befitting the spirit of New York—a chorus of opulence for, if I might add, a rather noble cause.” I gestured towards the gathered crowd, all awash in the glow of festive benevolence.

“Why, thank you, Lord Sidebottom. Yes, every year we endeavour to raise thousands of dollars for the local orphanage. These festivities may seem indulgent, but beneath the glittering surface lies a heart of philanthropic gold.”

“A noble cause indeed, Colonel,” I acknowledged. “In Britain, too, we grapple with the affliction of orphanhood. Many young souls, bereft of guidance, wander through life like ships devoid of compasses. I have always hoped that through invention and innovation, we will be able to revolutionise not just industry and travel, but also better the lives of these orphans.”

“Ah, invention and innovation—the twin engines of progress. Quite admirable, Lord Sidebottom. And what a lofty ideal to aspire to, particularly in the season of giving.”

“Indeed, Colonel. The spirit of Christmas is best reflected in the joy we can bring to the least fortunate among us. And it is my conviction that with technological advancements, we can gift them not just a momentary reprieve, but a lasting legacy.”

“Very well said, Lord Sidebottom. I sense that your visit to our city may yield benefits far beyond this evening’s entertainments.” The colonel raised his glass once more.

“Let us hope, Colonel, that tonight’s gala succeeds in its charitable aims. After all, what is a society but a reflection of how it treats its most vulnerable?”

“A sentiment as timeless as it is true, Lord Sidebottom,” the colonel concurred. “Here’s to a successful evening for a most worthy cause.”

We drank to that, the clinking of our glasses echoing the lofty sentiments that had framed our discourse.

“Lord Sidebottom, you mentioned a rather peculiar detail about the burglary—clocks and a flooded storeroom.”

“Indeed, Colonel. It was most uncanny. The clocks in the establishment had all been stopped, and the storeroom was a veritable lake.”

The colonel’s brow furrowed. “Now, that is curious. I recall reading about a pair of criminals incarcerated in Chicago. They had the odd modus operandi of flooding the homes they burglarised. Referred to themselves as the ‘Wet Bandits’—if memory serves me right. Escaped custody recently, so the papers said.”

“‘The Wet Bandits’? Interesting, indeed. That could be a most valuable clue, Colonel. I must—”

Before I could entertain this new theory further, the room hushed to a reverential quiet. Every eye turned towards the grand staircase where Florence was making her entrancing descent, dressed in an ensemble of extraordinary finery that would make even the most elaborate clockwork contraption seem dull. She was the epitome of elegance and grace.

I found myself momentarily captivated, a spectator to her allure. “Colonel, your daughter is a vision.”

“So she is,” he agreed, pride evident in his voice.

But before either of us could react further, a frenetic energy burst through the hall. A visibly flustered gentleman, who appeared to be one of the organisers, took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice tinged with unmistakable urgency, “I regret to announce that there has been a most grievous breach of trust this evening. The donations gathered for tonight’s charitable causes have gone missing.”

The room erupted in a cacophony of gasps and murmurs. Florence looked at me, her eyes widening, a mixture of shock and understanding passing between us.

The colonel tightened his jaw, exchanging a knowing glance with me.

At that very moment, my attention was drawn to a subtle but unmistakable detail—a steady flow of water creeping across the polished marble floor from the far end of the hall. “Colonel, do you see that?” I whispered, nodding discreetly towards the encroaching flood.

“Good heavens,” the colonel muttered, his eyes narrowing. “This is certainly no ordinary burglary.”

Before another word could be spoken, I caught sight of two masked figures darting from the opposite end of the hall, a swag bag slung over their shoulders, which quite obviously bore the signs of hasty pilfering. The Wet Bandits, no doubt.

“Excuse me, Colonel, duty calls,” I said tersely.

“As does it for me,” said Florence.

The crowd parted as Florence and I broke into a run, my steam-powered boots puffing clouds of vapour with each accelerated stride, her dress flowing elegantly behind her like a heroic cape.

The bandits had a head start, but what they didn’t have was a pair of indomitable spirits—and steam-powered boots.

III.

With a burst of urgency, Florence and I exploded through the elegant doors of the gala venue and onto the frosted streets of New York. The city’s winter chill was immediate and biting, but neither of us gave it a second thought. My steam-powered boots began their work, puffing out clouds of vapour that mingled with Florence’s frosty breath.

“There!” Florence pointed, her eyes sharp and focused. The fleeting shadows of the burglars danced in the distance, distorted by the glare of street lamps reflecting off the snowy ground.

“Those scoundrels won’t outrun us,” I declared, adjusting the settings on my boots for maximum speed. Florence, in her high heels, seemed to keep pace with ease, her every stride a testament to her agility and determination.

As we turned a corner into a narrow, dimly lit alley, the burglars knocked over a stack of crates in a futile attempt to obstruct our path.

We skirted past and the chase led us onto a bustling avenue alive with the city’s nocturnal activities, steam carts and revellers weaving in chaotic harmony.

“Mind the traffic!” Florence warned, pulling me back just in time to avoid a speeding carriage.

“Ah, the perils of modern transportation,” I muttered, a little flushed from the close call but otherwise undeterred.

Before we knew it, we found ourselves crashing through the swinging doors of an all-night diner filled with surprised patrons and the tantalising aroma of fried food and fresh coffee.

“Excuse us, pardon us,” Florence chimed as we weaved through the maze of tables, trays, and astonished waiters.

I couldn’t help but marvel at her grace under pressure, manoeuvring her gown through the diner without so much as a snag.

“Don’t suppose we have time for a quick coffee?” I asked, narrowly dodging a platter of hot apple pie.

“In your dreams, Lord Sidebottom,” Florence retorted, a playful grin adorning her face. “The only thing we’re serving tonight is justice!”

And, so, we continued, each obstacle only fuelling our determination, the thrill of the chase coursing through our veins.

But as we emerged back on the streets, the crowds made it all but impossible to keep sight of our assailants.

“Lord Sidebottom,” Florence called out between breaths. “Your portable periscope!”

“A capital idea!” I exclaimed, flipping open my satchel to retrieve the collapsible device—a telescopic marvel of brass and glass. Extending it to its full length, I took a quick panoramic view. “Ah, there they are!”

This enabled me to maintain a prudent distance while keeping the two miscreants in sight.

After winding through alleys festooned with twinkling lights and the aroma of roasting chestnuts, we reached a secluded courtyard, well hidden from the prying eyes of the law.

It was a curious place—almost a sanctuary in the heart of a bustling metropolis, shrouded in both shadow and an air of derelict grandeur. I couldn’t help but think it a fitting stage for the upcoming confrontation. The burglars seemed to sense this, too, as they hesitated, looking back and forth, finally realising they had run out of escape routes.

Florence and I exchanged a glance, a silent agreement that this chase would soon come to its climactic end. We moved in, our steps measured.

But just as we were about to corner them, one of the burglars produced a small, spherical object from his coat pocket.

“Smoke bomb!” I shouted, covering my face with my arm.

A loud pop resonated, followed by a thick, billowing cloud of smoke that enveloped the courtyard, shrouding everything in an impenetrable haze.

Coughing and spluttering, we waited for the smog to dissipate.

When it finally did, the courtyard stood empty. Our adversaries had vanished into thin air.

“Blast!” I muttered, scanning the area for any sign of them. “Those fiends are craftier than I thought.”

Florence began to sift through the lingering mist, her eyes focused on the ground. “We mustn’t lose hope, Lord Sidebottom. There might still be clues.”

I nodded, joining her in the search. Then something caught my eye—a small, rectangular object lying near the cobblestone pathway. It was a book of matches, still clean and warm, as though it had been dropped only moments before.

I studied it keenly, the soft glow of a nearby gas lamp revealing its details. The cover bore an intricate engraving—a bell, ornately patterned with cogs and gears, all rendered in brass hues. Above it, in an elegant, flowing script, were the words ‘The Brass Bell Tavern’.

“Look at this,” I said, handing it over to Florence.

She examined the matchbook with a discerning eye. “I recognise this place. It’s somewhat exclusive, but known for its, shall we say, colourful clientele.”

“It seems we have our next destination,” I said, my eyes meeting Florence’s. “If this matchbook is as freshly dropped as its warmth suggests, the trail might still be hot.”

“Lead the way, Lord Sidebottom. For the night is still young, and justice does not have a curfew.”

IV.

Stepping into The Brass Bell Tavern was akin to walking into a mechanical wonderland—one where brass and wood coalesced into a fascinating ensemble of gears, levers, and pulleys. The atmosphere was rich with the aroma of ale, tinged with hints of pipe smoke. Gas lamps adorned the walls, their flickering glow illuminating ruddy-cheeked patrons and intricate mechanisms alike. At the centre of it all, a grand clock with rotating cogs and whirling dials stood as if a sentinel, a guardian of both time and secrets.

“Are we ready, Lord Sidebottom?” Florence queried, her eyes alight with keen expectation.

“Indeed, readiness is ever the twin of fortuity,” I affirmed.

Florence and I glided through the venue, weaving our way past intricate booths and well-embellished tables, the tavern’s layout providing ample cover. And there, almost concealed in a booth replete with velvet and brass, were two men, fervently huddled in quiet discourse.

“At the base of the grand oak, you reckon?” the first queried, stroking a suspiciously curled moustache.

“Aye, right when the Winter Festival is in full swing,” the second concurred, a malicious grin stretching across his face. “We strike at midnight.”

Florence’s elbow nudged mine. “I know exactly where they mean. A beloved New York landmark during the holiday season.”

Just as we savoured this glimmer of hope, both men jerked their heads around, eyes widening when they landed on our faces.

“Blast! We’ve been spotted.”

The men hopped to their feet and bolted to the exit.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Florence seized my arm, and we navigated back through the busy tavern, narrowly dodging the automaton waiters and startled drinkers.

As we stepped outside, the weight of our discovery—and our newfound vulnerability—settled upon us.

“They undoubtedly know our identities now,” Florence observed, her breath visible in the chilly night air.

“A setback, albeit an enlightening one. But worry not—this is merely the interval, not the finale.”

Florence’s eyes met mine. “Then let’s ensure the next act is one for the history books.”

We had scarcely resumed our composure when Florence, her eyes narrowed and ever-observant, gestured down the cobblestone street. “Look, there they are!” she whispered, pointing at two shadowy figures in the distance. Their heads bobbed conspicuously, snowflakes swirling around them. “Central Park—that must be where they intend to carry out whatever scheme they’ve concocted. It’s the heart of the Winter Festival.”

“Ah, the grand oak they spoke of,” I mused. “It’s the centrepiece of the festival, laden with ornaments and surrounded by well-wishers. A spectacle indeed—but one that may harbour a diabolical plot.”

“Lord Sidebottom, I believe it’s up to us to prevent this scheme from coming to fruition. We can’t let them ruin the festival and tarnish the spirit of the season.”

“Then let the chase continue, and may the gears of justice turn in our favour,” I declared, already taking off in the direction of Central Park, my steam-powered boots propelling me forward with unanticipated verve.

Florence followed, her heels deftly navigating the icy pavement. We were a blend of agility and determination, undeterred by the chilly winds that bit through our attire. From the alleys of the tavern district to the grand promenades leading into the park, we pursued the scoundrels with unyielding resolve.

As we neared Central Park, the sounds of merriment grew louder—carollers singing, children laughing, and the distant harmony of a brass band. The atmosphere was festive, oblivious to the malevolent intent that threatened it.

“We must tread carefully,” I advised as we entered the park, its grand oak now in sight, shimmering with lights and ornaments. “Our quarry is cunning, and they know we’re after them.”

“Indeed,” Florence agreed, scanning the surrounding area for any signs of the villains. “They may have prepared some sort of diversion or trap. We’ll need to be both swift and cautious.”

And so we advanced, eyes peeled and senses heightened, ready to foil whatever dastardly deeds were afoot. But as we closed in on the grand oak, its festive lights casting a surreal glow on the snow-covered ground, I was keenly aware that time was running out. Our next moves would determine not only the fate of the Winter Festival but also the very essence of the season’s spirit.

A cursory glance at my pocket watch confirmed the urgency of our situation. “It’s just past nine. We have three hours until the stroke of midnight,” I announced, eyes scanning the now-emptying park. The crowds had begun to disperse as the evening’s festivities drew to a close.

“Three hours to prepare for whatever mischief they’re planning,” Florence mused. “That tree is the linchpin of their plot, I’m sure of it.”

“So what’s the plan?” I enquired, a sense of urgency sharpening my tone.

Florence’s lips curved into a resolute smile. “We secure the area, set traps for those brigands, and stand vigilant until the clock strikes midnight. We can’t let them execute their scheme.”

“An excellent plan. With the park clearing out, we’ll have better freedom of movement.”

Just as we were about to focus on setting our traps, I noticed a solitary figure in the distance, her form draped in shawls and surrounded by a flutter of pigeons.

“Excuse me for a moment, Florence,” I said, detouring towards the woman. “Local eyes and ears can be quite informative.”

As I approached, the woman seemed not at all startled by my sudden presence. Her eyes were a striking shade of blue, wise yet tinged with a certain melancholy. The pigeons around her seemed to regard her as one of their own.

“Evening, madam,” I greeted respectfully. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen two men of a suspicious nature lurking about, would you?”

The woman regarded me carefully, as if weighing the sincerity of my query. Finally, she spoke, her Scottish brogue soft but clear. “No, I can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that, but I’ve got plenty of eyes.” She gestured to her feathery companions. “They can help keep a lookout. Criminals you’re after, is it?”

“Indeed,” I confirmed, the urgency of our mission making me more candid than usual. “They intend to disrupt the Winter Festival, and we mean to stop them.”

She nodded. “Very well. My little friends and I will keep our eyes peeled for any miscreants. Should we spot anything untoward, I have ways of sending word.”

“Your assistance is most appreciated,” I expressed, tipping my hat slightly. “We appreciate all the help we can get.”

“Go along, then,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Save your festival. We’ll watch the night.”

With a sense of gratitude, I returned to Florence. “An extra set of eyes,” I murmured, updating her quickly.

“The more the merrier,” Florence said, looking towards the pigeon lady with a nod of approval.

Now reassured that we had an additional layer of surveillance, we promptly set about our task, each fuelled by a blend of adrenaline and a sense of duty to protect the festivities that were so integral to the season’s charm.

I reached into my overcoat and extracted an assortment of mechanical gadgets—spring-loaded nets, alarm-triggered noisemakers, and even a smoke dispenser with a scent of peppermint. “For that festive touch,” I quipped as I worked, meticulously installing the devices around the base and lower branches of the grand oak.

Florence, meanwhile, had a set of tiny bells and fine wire, which she strung between the trees and lampposts surrounding the grand oak. “If anyone tries to sneak past us, this will give us fair warning,” she explained. “The traps are almost ready. Those felons won’t stand a chance.”

“Exquisite! Your knowledge of this landscape has provided invaluable tactical advantage, while my array of contraptions, each crafted from odds and ends in this very park, shall render our adversaries utterly bamboozled.”

With our traps set and the area as secure as we could make it, we took our positions. I found a secluded spot that offered a good vantage point of the grand oak and the surrounding area. Florence chose to hide near the tree, both to spring our traps and to intervene more directly should the need arise.

The minutes ticked away slowly, each second stretching out as if deliberately testing our patience. I took another glance at my pocket watch—a quarter to the hour.

A sudden rustle snapped both of us to attention. Florence and I exchanged a quick glance. She subtly gestured towards the direction of the sound, her eyes wide with anticipation.

A stray cat darted out from a bush, as innocent in its nocturnal frolics as we were determined in our vigilance. We resumed our vigil, each minute seeming to pass slower than the last.

Finally, the clock’s hands pointed to midnight, and the chimes began to ring out, their peals echoing through the frosty air.

We both held our breath, our eyes peeled for any signs of movement. The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity, the tension almost palpable in the rimy air.

A flicker of movement caught my eye—a shadow slinking towards the grand oak from the opposite side.

“It’s time,” I mouthed silently to Florence. With each chime that reverberated through the air, we knew that the decisive moment was upon us.

V.

Just as predicted, the burglars sauntered into the clearing, evidently pleased with themselves. The moustachioed miscreant led the way, carrying a small bag that clinked ominously as if filled with nefarious devices.

The second stepped onto a hidden pressure plate, activating one of our spring-loaded boxing gloves that shot out from a snow-covered bush. It struck him square in the jaw, causing him to pirouette in a circle before landing bottom-first in a snowbank.

“What was that?” the other one exclaimed, rushing to his companion’s aid.

“Never mind, you buffoon. Keep going. We’re almost at the tree.”

They advanced cautiously now, eyeing the surroundings suspiciously. Their caution, however, betrayed them as the leader stepped on another concealed trap.

This one launched a small net upward.

For a split second, he was caught, flailing about like a marionette whose strings had been cut. But with a great yank, he tore the net and stumbled forward.

The duo reached the base of the grand oak.

Just as the other burglar extended his hand to place something at the root of the tree, a mechanical claw shot up from the ground, attempting to grab his wrist. He jerked back just in time, narrowly escaping its grasp. “Curse it all, Harold, we’re being foiled at every turn. Whoever’s doing this is a regular Houdini!”

“Or an Edison,” Harold pondered, scratching his head in bemusement. He knelt next to a fine length of wire. “Say, Marvin, what do you think this is?”

“Probably another blasted contraption. But they won’t stop us,” Marvin declared, brandishing the small device he still held in his hand. “Cut it.”

Harold shrugged and snipped the wire with his pocket knife. A moment later, two paint tins swung violently from branches above, attached to long ropes.

One hit Harold, the other struck Marvin.

The force of the blow sent them spiralling through the air, finally landing with a thud on the snowy ground.

Florence and I could not contain our laughter. “Oh, Lord Sidebottom, those paint tins were absolutely inspired.”

“I’m rather fond of them myself,” I admitted, chuckling.

Groaning, the two burglars staggered to their feet, clearly dazed. Harold took a step and stumbled over a collection of miniature toy cars that we had strewn on the ground.

As he flailed, arms windmilling for balance, he knocked into Marvin, who also found his feet betrayed by the tiny vehicles. Both collapsed once more into the snow.

“Their resilience is truly astounding,” Florence observed.

“I’m starting to wonder if they’re even human,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Even an automaton would’ve conceded defeat by now.”

As if cued, an iron suspended from another branch of the grand oak landed squarely on Marvin’s head with a dull clang.

I cringed with a tinge of guilt at the cruelty of that particular contraption.

Marvin sat up, bleary-eyed, an impression of the iron visibly denting his hat and quite possibly his cranium. “What…what hit me?”

“An iron will, my good sir,” I said, watching as Florence retrieved the strange device Marvin had dropped in his daze.

Despite their apparent invulnerability, I found myself growing increasingly uneasy. “I must admit, their unyielding disposition is starting to concern me.”

“It’s as if they’re impervious to pain. What could possibly be fuelling such tenacity?”

“Whatever it is, we have to put an end to this farce before their plan reaches its deplorable climax.”

Florence looked at the device in her hands. “Do you think this is what they planned to use?”

“Perhaps,” I said, studying it. “But first, let’s ensure that they’re—”

Before I could finish, a noise from behind caught our attention. We turned just in time to see Marvin rising once more, this time brandishing a pistol. “Enough of this. You may have won the battles, but the war ends now!”

As he pointed his pistol with sinister precision, I realised that, despite our mechanical triumphs, we were utterly defenceless.

“If it isn’t our shadowy pursuers,” Harold said, joining his partner’s side, a switchblade flashing in his grip. “You’ve been a real thorn in our sides, you have.”

Harold lunged at me.

I sidestepped, and with a flick of my wrist, I sent the knife flying. We clashed, fists against fists. As we fought, Florence, with astonishing agility, tackled Marvin, somehow wrestling the pistol from his hands and flinging it into a nearby shrub.

But just when it seemed the tide was turning in our favour, Harold caught the back of my knees, sending me headlong to the ground.

“Well, well, it seems the tables have turned.” Harold grinned maliciously, lifting his knife from the ground.

He raised his blade, and as the second chime resonated through the frosty air, all seemed lost.

Just then, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the grand oak. Pigeons fluttered around her as if forming a feathery halo.

“Oi! You two!” she called out, holding up a bag. “Fancy a snack?”

Before either Harold or Marvin could react, she hurled handfuls of birdseed onto them.

A symphony of coos erupted from above. Her avian army descended, each pigeon zeroing in on the sprinkled feed now clinging to the burglars’ garments.

The men flailed wildly, desperately swatting at the birds that pecked and picked at them with unyielding vigour.

“Attack, my darlings! Show them no mercy!” The woman cackled, obviously delighted by the chaos she’d orchestrated.

Taking advantage of the pandemonium, Florence scrambled to her feet, pulling me up with her.

I smiled at the pigeon woman, still amazed by the surreal intervention. “My dear, you’ve saved us in the nick of time. How could we ever—”

But she waved us off. “No need for thanks. Just stop whatever villainy is afoot. These two will be busy for a while.”

As we sprinted towards the grand oak, I couldn’t help but look back. The woman was receding into the shadows, her pigeon entourage still busy meting out their feathery justice to a thoroughly bewildered Marvin and Harold.

We reached the tree, and Florence immediately set to work disarming the ominous device Marvin had been carrying. But just as she seemed to master the contraption, cutting a wire with a snip, a clock in the distance struck midnight.

“Did we stop it?” Florence asked, anxiety lining her voice.

“I believe so,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It appears that—”

A sudden click interrupted me. We turned to find Marvin and Harold, who had somehow disentangled themselves from their avian assailants.

Marvin held something in his hands. A second, far more menacing device. A red glow rippled ominously on its surface.

“We told you,” Marvin sneered. “The war ends now.”

As he went to press the button, Florence leapt forward with a scream, tackling Marvin to the ground, sending the device careening through the air before it shattered, gears and cogs spilling into the snow.

Harold snatched up his knife and approached menacingly, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.

Florence and I looked at each other, and I realised that despite our previous ingenuity, we might be out of options.

Suddenly, an idea flashed into my mind. Clicking my heels together, I activated the small, hidden mechanisms within my boots.

The boots detached from my feet and launched forward, propelled by tiny steam-powered rockets. They collided with Marvin and Harold with astounding force, sending both men flying backwards into the snow, momentarily stunned.

“Thought I’d give them the boot,” I said, chuckling.

I quickly retrieved my boots and put them back on my stockinged feet. “I’ve always said that a gentleman should never underestimate the value of good footwear.”

Just then, a cacophony of sirens wailed through the chilly air. Policemen burst into the clearing, led by the pigeon lady.

“Miss Florence!” the lead officer called. “What in damnation is going on here?”

“We’ve caught your burglars, Inspector,” she said, gesturing towards the dishevelled Marvin and Harold. “I suggest you search them thoroughly. They’ve been up to some devilish deeds.”

The police officers quickly subdued the criminals. They were frisked, and, much to everyone’s satisfaction, a bag of money was found in their possession.

The inspector shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I never. These two are the culprits behind the gala theft. And possibly more. They’ll be spending a long time behind bars.”

As the officers led them away, Florence turned to me. “It seems we’ve averted catastrophe.”

I nodded, watching as the enigmatic pigeon woman vanished into the shadows, her birds flocking around her as she retreated into the night. “Yes, but we had some extraordinary help this time.”

The inspector approached us. “Lord Sidebottom, Miss Florence, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve done the city a great service tonight.”

I smiled, looking at Florence. “No need for thanks, Inspector. Doing what’s right is reward enough. Though, I dare say, another gala could be in order—without the uninvited guests.”

The inspector laughed. “I’ll drink to that!”

VI.

After ensuring that Marvin and Harold were securely in the custody of the police, Florence and I made our way back to the gala, which was now in the process of being tidied up. The glittering chandeliers had dimmed, but the festive spirit, though slightly tarnished, remained.

“Ah, Lord Sidebottom, Florence, you’ve returned!” exclaimed Colonel Archibald, who was overseeing the clean-up. “We were quite concerned when you vanished.”

“Apologies for our abrupt departure, Colonel. Duty called.”

“And duty has been duly fulfilled,” added Florence, gesturing to the bag of recovered money.

“You’ve retrieved the stolen funds!” The colonel’s eyes widened in disbelief and gratitude.

“Indeed, Colonel. Christmas shall not be robbed of its cheer this year,” I proclaimed, handing over the bag.

“This is splendid news. Absolutely splendid. But, tell me, what was the plot with that grand oak tree? I’ve heard rumblings from the police, but the details are rather confusing.”

I glanced at Florence before responding. “Well, Colonel, it’s a question to which we might never have a full answer. Some mysteries are perhaps best left unsolved.”

Florence, however, shook her head and interjected. “Actually, Father, I believe I’ve pieced it together. You see, the grand oak marks one of the main water lines that runs through the city. The device they were planning to plant would have ruptured the line, causing a flood. A flood that would not only ruin Christmas for the whole city, but would also create enough chaos to cover even grander larcenies.”

The colonel’s eyes widened. “A flood? On Christmas? What dreadful men! But thanks to you both, that disaster has been averted.”

“Indeed, Colonel. But the real spirit of Christmas is not so easily drowned,” I said.

Florence smiled. “Even the darkest plans can’t quench the light of goodwill and cheer.”

“Beautifully said, both of you,” the colonel beamed. “Now, might I interest you in some eggnog? I think we’ve all earned a bit of Christmas comfort.”

“We’d be delighted, Colonel,” I responded, as we followed him towards a table adorned with holiday treats.

As we sipped our sweet beverage, I looked at Florence and felt a deep sense of contentment. Here we were, basking in the warmth of good deeds done and crises averted.

“To Christmas, and to the hope it brings,” the colonel toasted, raising his glass.

“To Christmas,” we echoed, clinking our glasses together.

Merry Christmas!

What did you think of the story? I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Should I write more stories with Lord Sidebottom?

Let me know.

Jon