work at £2 a week, when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and
sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money,
but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting, and sat day
after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my
ghastly face, and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew
my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in
Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar,
and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about
town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that
I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.
“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £700
a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional
advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of
repartee, which improved by practice, and made me quite a recognized
character in the city. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver,
poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take
£2.
“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
and eventually married, without any one having a suspicion as to my
real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the city. She
little knew what.
“Last Monday I had finished for the day, and was dressing in my room
above the opium den, when I looked out of my window, and saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with
her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms
to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated
him to prevent any one from coming up to me. I heard her voice
down-stairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off
my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and
wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But
then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and
that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening
by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by
the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag
in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few
minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead
of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his
murderer.
“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring, and confided it to the Lascar at a
moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”
“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.
“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and
I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter
unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who
forgot all about it for some days.”
“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”
“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to
hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”
“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be
taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared
the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”
“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and
consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”
Adventure VII
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch
was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy
and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked
in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the
chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one” (he jerked his thumb in
the direction of the old hat), “but there are points in connection with
it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”
I seated myself in his arm-chair 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 clew 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 discolored. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For
the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several
places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discolored patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to
reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than
it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon
evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at
work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife
has ceased to love him.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary
life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged,
has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and
which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which
are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by-the-way, that it is extremely
improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid; but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was
intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question
of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have
something in it.”
“The decline of his fortunes, then?”
“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came
in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of
ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy
so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he
has assuredly gone down in the world.”
“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and
the moral retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he, putting
his finger upon the little disk 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 odor 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 in-doors 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 up-stairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said
just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done, save
the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through
the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get
a fairer view of the man’s excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out
his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the
dark hollow of his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he,
“this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”
“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were
putty.”
“It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.
“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It
is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the
market price.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair, and stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the ‘Hotel Cosmopolitan,’” I
remarked.
“Precisely so, on December 22d, just five days ago. John Horner,
a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:
“‘Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22d inst. abstracted from
the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the
blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his
evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room
of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery, in order that
he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the
bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in
which, as it afterwards transpired, the countess was accustomed to keep
her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly
gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone
could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine
Cusack, maid to the countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of
dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given
against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with
the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown
signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the
conclusion, and was carried out of court.’
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence
of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of
a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our
little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less
innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and
the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat
and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now
we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman, and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do
this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly
in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this 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 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 every one
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 arm-chair, 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.”