Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (6 page)

“You are certainly joking. Holmes.”

“Not in the least. Is it possible
that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they
are attained?”

“I have no doubt that I am very
stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did
you deduce that this man was intellectual?”

For answer Holmes clapped the hat
upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of
his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a
brain must have something in it.”

“The decline of his fortunes, then?”

“This hat is three years old. These
flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best
quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man
could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat
since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”

“Well, that is clear enough,
certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is
the foresight,” said he. putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of
the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one. it is
a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the
elastic and has not troubled to replace it. it is obvious that he has less
foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature.
On the other hand, he has endeavored to conceal some of these stains upon the
felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost
his self-respect.”

“Your reasoning is certainly
plausible.”

“The further points, that he is
middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that
he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean
cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is
a distinct 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 center 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 one thousand 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 22nd,
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 the 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
fails. 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 22IB 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 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.”