I
had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas,
with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging
upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the
right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at
hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a
very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked
in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested
that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.
"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you." "Not at all. I am glad to
have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial
one" -- he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat --"but there are points
in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction."
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire,
for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals.
"I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly
story linked on to it -- that it is the clew which will guide you in the solution
of some mystery and the punishment of some crime."
"No, no. No crime," said
Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of those whimsical little incidents which
will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within
the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm
of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place,
and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre
without being criminal. We have already had experience of such." "So much so,"
I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three
have been entirely free of any legal crime." "Precisely. You allude to my attempt
to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland,
and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson,
the commissionaire?"
(2)
"Yes"
"It is to him that
this trophy belongs." "It is his hat."
"No, no, he found it. Its owner is
unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an
intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting
at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock
on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was
returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham
Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with
a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached
the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little
knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised
his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants;
but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking
person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and
vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham
Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he
was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory
in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose." "Which
surely he restored to their owner?"
"My dear fellow, there lies the problem.
It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was
tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,
and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore
lost property to any one of them." "What, then, did Peterson do?" "He brought
round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest
problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when
there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it
should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat
of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."
(3)
"Did he not advertise?" "No." "Then, what clew could you have as to his identity?"
"Only as much as we can deduce." "From his hat?" "Precisely." "But you are joking.
What can you gather from this old battered felt?"
"Here is my lens. You know
my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who
has worn this article?" I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over
rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard
and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal
discolored. There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials
"H. B." were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer,
but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty,
and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt
to hide the discolored patches by smearing them with ink. "I can see nothing,"
said I, handing it back to my friend. "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything.
You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences." "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was
characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,"
he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and
a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the
man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also
that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now
fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes,
seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This
may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him." "My
dear Holmes!"
"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair
which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream.
These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by
the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house."
(4)
"You are certainly joking, Holmes." "Not in the
least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable
to see how they are attained?" "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must
confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this
man was intellectual?" For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came
right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a question
of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain must have something
in it." "The decline of his fortunes, then?" "This hat is three years old. These
flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality.
Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford
to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has
assuredly gone down in the world." "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But
how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?" Sherlock Holmes laughed.
"Here is the foresight," said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop
of the hat-securer. "They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it
is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic
and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now
than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand,
he has endeavored to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them
with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect." "Your
reasoning is certainly plausible." "The further points, that he is middle-aged,
that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime cream,
are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining.
The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the
barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odor of lime-cream.
This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, gray dust of the street but the
fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most
of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that
the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of
training."
(5)
"But his wife -- you said that she
had ceased to love him." "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see
you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have
been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection." "But he might be a bachelor."
"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember
the card upon the bird's leg."
"You have an answer to everything. But how
on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?"
"One tallow
stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I
think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into
frequent contact with burning tallow -- walks upstairs at night probably with
his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got
tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"
"Well, it is very ingenious,"
said I, laughing; "but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed,
and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste
of energy." Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed
cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
"The goose, Mr.
Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped. "Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to
life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round
upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face. "See here, sir!
See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his hand and displayed upon the
centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than
a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric
point in the dark hollow of his hand. Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By
Jove, Peterson!" said he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what
you have got?" "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though
it were putty."
(6)
"It's more than a precious stone.
It is the precious stone."
"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!"
I ejaculated.
"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that
I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely
unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000
pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price."
"A
thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped down into a
chair and stared from one to the other of us. "That is the reward, and I have
reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which
would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover
the gem."
"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,"
I remarked.
"Precisely so, on December 22d, just five days ago. John Horner,
a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's jewel-case. The
evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes.
I have some account of the matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers,
glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and
read the following paragraph:
"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner,
26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22d inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue
carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the
effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar
upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the
grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had
finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which,
as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was
lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner
was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his
person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having
heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into
the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled
frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a
previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate
refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner,
who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at
the conclusion and was carried out of court.
(7)
"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the
paper. "The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from
a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road
at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much
more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from
the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad
hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must
set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part
he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers.
If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."
"What will you say?"
"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the corner
of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same
by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."
"Very. But will he see it?"
"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the
papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared
by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted
the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of
his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his
attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and
have this put in the evening papers."
"In which, sir?"
"Oh, in the Globe,
Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News Standard, Echo, and any others that
occur to you."
"Very well, sir. And this stone?"
"Ah, yes, I shall keep
the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back
and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place
of the one which your family is now devouring."
(8)
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against
the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles.
Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the
devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a
bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks
of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic
of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite
of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders,
a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake
of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty
a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my
strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."
"Do
you think that this man Horner is innocent?"
"I cannot tell."
"Well,
then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with
the matter?"
"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably
more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine
by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement."
"And you
can do nothing until then?"
"Nothing."
"In that case I shall continue
my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have
mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."
"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the
way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine
its crop."
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past
six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I
saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin
waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just
as l arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes's room.
(9)
"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising
from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which
he could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is
a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than
for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat,
Mr. Baker?"
"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."
He was a large man
with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping
down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks,
with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes's surmise as to his
habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff
or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and
gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage
at the hands of fortune.
"We have retained these things for some days," said
Holmes, "because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address.
I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."
Our visitor gave a
rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they
once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted
me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money
in a hopeless attempt at recovering them."
"Very naturally. By the way, about
the bird, we were compelled to eat it."
"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose
from his chair in his excitement.
"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone
had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which
is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?"
"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.
"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own
bird, so if you wish --"
The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be
useful to me as relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly
see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me.
No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the
excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard."
(10)
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way, would
it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl
fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose."
"Certainly, sir," said
Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. "There
are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum -- we are to be found
in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some
few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were
duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for
a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical
pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.
"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the door behind
him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are
you hungry, Watson?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I suggest that we turn
our dinner into a supper and follow up this clew while it is still hot."
"By all means."
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped
cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless
sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol
shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors'
quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford
Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which
is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses
of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
"Your beer should be
excellent if it is as good as your geese," said he.
"My geese!" The man seemed
surprised.
"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker,
who was a member of your goose club."
(11)
"Ah! yes,
I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."
"Indeed! Whose, then?"
"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."
"Indeed? I know
some of them. Which was it?"
"Breckinridge is his name."
"Ah! I don't
know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house.
Good-night.
"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat
as we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have so homely
a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will
certainly get seven years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence.
It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt but, in any case, we
have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end.
Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"
We passed across Holborn, down
Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of
the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a
horsy-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy
to put up the shutters.
"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
"Sold out
of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.
"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."
"That's no good."
"Well,
there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."
"Ah, but I was recommended
to you."
"Who by?"
"The landlord of the Alpha."
"Oh, yes; I sent him
a couple of dozen."
"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them
from?"
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.
"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, "what
are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."
"It is straight enough.
I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."
"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"
"Oh, it is a matter of no importance;
but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle."
(12)
"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good
money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where
are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for
the geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the
fuss that is made over them."
"Well, I have no connection with any other
people who have been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't
tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on
a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred."
"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the salesman.
"It's nothing of the kind."
"I say it is."
"I don't believe it."
"D'you
think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was
a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred."
"You'll never persuade me to believe that."
"Will you bet, then?"
"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll have a sovereign
on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."
The salesman chuckled
grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.
The small boy brought round a
small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath
the hanging lamp. "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that
I was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one left
in my shop. You see this little book?"
"Well?"
"That's the list of the
folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country
folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big
ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of
my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."
"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road -- 249," read Holmes.
"Quite so. Now turn
that up in the ledger."
Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are,
'Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier."
(13)
"Now, then, what's the last entry?"
"'December 22d. Twenty-four geese at 7s.
6d.'"
"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"
"'Sold to Mr. Windigate
of the Alpha, at 12s.'"
"What have you to say now?"
Sherlock Holmes looked
deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the
slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words.
A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless
fashion which was peculiar to him.
"When you see a man with whiskers of that
cut and the 'Pink 'un' protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by
a bet," said he. "I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of him,
that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him
by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing
the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether
we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it
for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should --"
His
remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall
which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing
in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp,
while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking
his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.
"I've had enough of you and your
geese," he shouted. "I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering
me any more with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott
here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese
off you?"
"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little
man.
"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."
"She told me to ask you."
"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had enough of
it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away
into the darkness.
(14)
"Ha! this may save us a visit
to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes. "Come with me, and we will see what is to
be made of this fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged
round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched
him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that
every vestige of color had been driven from his face.
"Who are you, then?
What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.
"You will excuse me," said
Holmes blandly, "but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put
to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you."
"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"
"My name is
Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know."
"But you can know nothing of this?"
"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You
are endeavoring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton
Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."
"Oh,
sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the little fellow
with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can hardly explain to you how
interested I am in this matter."
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which
was passing. "In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than
in this wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go farther,
who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting." The man hesitated for an instant.
"My name is John Robinson," he answered with a sidelong glance.
"No, no; the
real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward doing business with an
alias."
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
he, "my real name is James Ryder."
"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel
Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything
which you would wish to know."
The little man stood glancing from one to the
other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether
he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the
cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing
had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion,
and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within
him.
(15)
"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as
we filed into the room. "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look
cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before
we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became
of those geese?"
"Yes, sir."
"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It
was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested -- white, with a black bar
across the tail."
Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can
you tell me where it went to?"
"It came here."
"Here?"
"Yes, and
a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you should take an interest
in it. It laid an egg after it was dead -- the bonniest, brightest little blue
egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum."
Our visitor staggered
to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked
his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with
a cold brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.
"The game's up, Ryder," said
Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back
into his chair, Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity.
Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
it is, to be sure!"
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the
brandy brought a tinge of color into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened
eyes at his accuser.
"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs
which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still,
that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard,
Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar's?"
"It was Catherine
Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling voice.
"I see -- her ladyship's
waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too
much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very
scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making
of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had
been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more
readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady's
room -- you and your confederate Cusack -- and you managed that he should be the
man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm,
and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then --"
(16)
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion's
knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think of my father! of my mother!
It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I
swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's
sake, don't!"
"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very
well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."
"I will fly, Mr. Holmes.
I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down."
"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next
act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market?
Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety."
Ryder passed
his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,"
said he. "When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best
for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the
police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was
no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission,
and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived
in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every
man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it
was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton
Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told
her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into
the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.
"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving
his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways
of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would
be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to
go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought
of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment
be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I
was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling
about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how
I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
(17)
"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese
for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I
would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was
a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds -- a fine
big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust
the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp,
and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As
I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.
"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.
"'Well,' said I,
'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.'
"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you -- Jem's bird, we call it.
It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them, which makes one
for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.'
"'Thank you, Maggie,'
says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd rather have that one I was handling
just now.'
"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we fattened
it expressly for you.'
"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it
now,' said I.
"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is
it you want, then?'
"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle
of the flock.'
"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'
"Well,
I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn.
I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing
like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose.
My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that
some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird rushed back to my sister's,
and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.
(18)
'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.
"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'
"'Which dealer's?'
"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'
"'But was there
another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as the one I chose?'
"'Yes,
Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.'
"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry
me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word
would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night.
Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.
Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now -- and now I am myself a branded thief,
without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help
me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his
hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes's finger-tips upon the edge of the table.
Then my friend rose and threw open the door.
"Get out!" said he.
"What,
sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"
"No more words. Get out!"
And no more words
were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door,
and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
"After all, Watson,"
said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the
police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another
thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse.
I suppose that I am commuting a felony. but it is just possible that I am saving
a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send
him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season
of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem,
and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the
bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will
be the chief feature."
by Arthur Conan Doyle |
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