The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle Read online

  “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 to-morrow morning.”

  “That's no good.”

  “Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”

  “Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

  “Who by?”

  “The landlord of the Alpha.”

  Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”

  “Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”

  To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.

  “Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now.”

  “It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”

  “Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!”

  “Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”

  “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?&cnq; and “What will you take for the geese?” One would think they were the only geese i
n 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 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 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 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 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.