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 any one 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 clew 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 horsey-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 500 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 sha’n’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 22. 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 dare say 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 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 gaslight
that every vestige of color 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 endeavoring 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 cosey room rather than in this windswept
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 mantel-piece 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 color 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.”
[Illustration: “‘HAVE MERCY!’ HE SHRIEKED”]
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.
“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. I’ll 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
Horner were 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.”
Adventure VIII
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It
is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are wide-spread
rumors as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser as a rule, and as the clock on the mantel-piece showed
me that it was only a quarter past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”
“What is it, then—a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis
at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their
beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.