textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/DOYLE/bluecar.txt

                                                                            
                                      1892                                  
                                                                            
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES                             
                                                                            
                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE                   
                                                                            
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle                        
-                                                                           
  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 bat, 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," 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?"                                     
  "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 discoloured. 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 discoloured 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 be 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 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 endeavoured 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 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 L1000 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 22nd, just five days ago. John Homer, 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 Homer, 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 Hornerup 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 Hornersome little time, but had finally         
been called away. On returning, he found that Hornerhad 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 Hornerwas 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 Homer, 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. Homer, 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 Horneris 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 I 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 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 menbra 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 ruddyfaced, 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 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 bead 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 22nd. 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 L100 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.                                    
  "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 colour 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 endeavouring 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 basketchair. 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 colour 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 Homer, 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            
Hornerin 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 Hornerhad 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. Ill 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 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 Hornerwere 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."                                            
-                                                                           
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                              -THE END-