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 clue 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," l 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?"
"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."
"Did he not advertise?"
"No."
"Then, what clue 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."
"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 limecream,
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 odour 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."
"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."
"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."
"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."
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.
"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."
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 clue 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."
"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 tomorrow 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."
"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."
"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 tonight, or whether we should reserve it
for tomorrow. 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.
"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.
"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—"
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.
"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.
"'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 tonight. 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 commiting 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."