Cynthia Manson (ed) (6 page)

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 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 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 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 for 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?’ 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 7
s
. 6
d
.’ ”

“Quite so. There you are. And
underneath?”

“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the
Alpha, at 12
s
.’ ”

“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 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.