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 armchair, 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 clue 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 had experience of such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that, of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, trivial though they were, there has been nothing criminal in three of them.”
“Precisely. You refer, I imagine, to the 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. Apparently he was carrying it home for his Christmas dinner. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a gang of roughs set upon him. One of them knocked off his hat, and he raised his stick to defend himself. But, just as he did so, a stout gentleman, who had been observing the scene from the other side of the street, rushed forward and charged into the midst of the group, knocking several of them to the right and left. He was, however, quickly overpowered, and received some very severe blows from the sticks of his assailants. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants, but the man, shocked at having his hat knocked off and his goose taken from him, had bolted down the street and disappeared. 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 hat and goose round 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 no signs of the original owner, and Peterson has just carried it off to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who had lost his Christmas dinner.”
“Had he any friends?”
“Only one or two; but I am a sociable man, and I don’t like to see a good goose go to waste. I made inquiries, but could hear nothing of the original owner. So I told Peterson to take the goose home and eat it, and I kept the hat.”
“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 discoloured. 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 discoloured 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 may be pronounced to be legitimate. 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 disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of foresight, as he so far relaxed his usual caution as to put it on. 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 endeavoured 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 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, grey 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 is therefore generally out 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 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 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 a 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 the twenty-second of December, 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 22nd 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 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 fail, I have other resources.”
“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 Gazette, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.”
“Very well, sir. And the 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 it 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 crystallised 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 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 rounds. 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 gloom. 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 low 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 been retaining 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 to recover 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; we could not be sure that it would keep. But I preserved the feathers, feet, and crop for you, so that you may see that it was your bird. It was a fine bird, and I have no doubt that a finer one still has been purchased to replace it.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker, with a sigh of relief.
“We have, then, only your hat to restore to you. Here it is. Pray take it.” He handed the hat to our visitor.
Mr. Baker took it, and, with a bow of thanks, crammed it upon his head.
“And now, Mr. Baker,” said Holmes, “there is one other little matter upon which I should like to ask your assistance. It is this: can you tell me where you got the goose which you were carrying on Christmas Day?”
“Certainly, sir. I had it from the Alpha Inn, near the Museum. They have a goose club there. Each of us pays so many pence a week, and we get our goose at Christmas.”
“I see. And now, Mr. Baker, I think that we have exhausted all the information which you can possess. I wish you a very good night.”
Our visitor had bowed and was turning to go, when Holmes, with a sudden movement, picked up the new goose which the commissionaire had brought, and offered it to him.
“There, Mr. Baker,” said he, “is your bird. Pray accept it.”
“Oh, sir, you are too generous!” stammered our visitor. He took the goose, and, with another bow, stumbled out of the room.
“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 it. 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,” he said.
“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.
“Yes. I was speaking only just now 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 our chain of evidence, 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 clue. We must endeavour to check it. The first thing is to find this Breckinridge.”
“Well, we can ask at Covent Garden.”
“Exactly. But I know the men there. I think I can find him.”
So we passed through the crowded streets, and so eventually into Covent Garden. It was still early in the morning, and the great market was already a scene of bustle and activity. We passed rows and rows of stalls, piled high with vegetables of all kinds, and with fruit from every clime. At last we came to the poultry stall of Mr. Breckinridge. He was a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers, and he was talking loudly to a boy who was trying to sell him some pigeons.
“No, sir, I will not!” he was saying. “My people are giving seven and six for pigeons, and I’m not going to give more. If you can’t take that, you can leave them.”
“They are prime, Mr. Breckinridge,” said the boy.
“So they are, but I’m not going to give more than seven and six.”
Holmes had stepped up to the stall, and was looking at the birds with the air of a connoisseur. “Fine birds, those,” he said.
“Fine birds they are, sir,” said Mr. Breckinridge.
“And I see you have some geese, too.”
“Yes, sir; but they are all sold.”
“Indeed! I wish I had known it. I wanted a good goose.”
“Well, sir, you could have had one yesterday. We had a hundred, and they were all gone by midday.”
“Indeed! A hundred! That’s a good number.”
“Yes, sir. We have a good name for geese.”
“I suppose you get them from the country?”
“Mostly. But we have some from London, too.”
“Ah, indeed! I know some of the London dealers. Which are they?”
“Well, there’s Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, and there’s Windigate, of the Alpha, and there’s—”
“Ah! Windigate, of the Alpha! I know him. He had some very fine geese the other day. Where did he get them from?”
Mr. Breckinridge looked rather surprised. “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 geese to Windigate, of the Alpha.”
“Well, then, I sold them to him.”
“You did? How many?”
“Two dozen.”
“Fine ones?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“And where did you get them from?”
To this question he gave no answer.
“Come,” said Holmes, “it is a matter of some importance. I am prepared to bet you five pounds that I can tell you where you got those geese from.”
The salesman chuckled. “Then you know a lot more about it than I do,” said he. “I’ve had a good many geese through my hands in the last few days, and it’s more than I could do to tell you where each of them came from.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you. Those geese came from Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road.”
“Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road!” he repeated, with a whistle of surprise. “Well, now, that’s good enough for me. Who are you, anyhow?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”
“Well, sir, if you know all that, you may as well know a little more. Those geese did not come from Mrs. Oakshott.”
“Indeed! From whom, then?”
“I got them from a woman named Miss Statchell, in Ryder Street.”
“Miss Statchell, in Ryder Street! You are sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“But there are hundreds of Ryder Streets in London.”
“This one is in Bloomsbury, near the Museum.”
“Precisely. And what is Miss Statchell like?”
“She is a small, dark person, very neat and quiet, and she keeps a poulterer’s shop.”
“I see. And what is her address?”
“117 Ryder Street.”
“Very good. And now, Mr. Breckinridge, I think that we have exhausted all the information which you can possess. I wish you a very good morning.”
Our salesman had been looking from one to the other of us with a puzzled expression upon his face, but at these words he broke into a hearty laugh. “Well, I never!” he cried. “To think that I should have been standing here all this time, and never have known that I was talking to Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” He took off his hat and bowed with mock solemnity. “I hope, sir, that I have given you no offence.”
“None whatever. And I trust that I have not been too inquisitive.”
“Not at all, sir. I am proud to have had a few words with you.” And so, with a final bow, he turned away, and we resumed our search.
“So, Watson,” said Holmes, when we were once more out in the street, “we have traced the matter to the very end, and we can now see the whole sequence of events. It is not a very abstruse affair, when all is said and done. The facts are these: James Ryder, who is the head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan, learned from Catherine Cusack, the Countess of Morcar’s maid, that the Countess possessed a very valuable blue carbuncle. He determined to steal it. He knew that John Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some robbery before, and he thought that if he could throw suspicion upon Horner, he would be safe himself. He therefore induced Horner to come to the hotel upon some pretext connected with the grate, and then, when Horner was out of the room, he forced open the bureau, took the jewel, and raised the alarm. Horner was arrested, and the jewel was not found upon him. So far, so good.
“The next point is, how did the jewel get into the goose? Ryder went to his sister’s house. His sister, Mrs. Oakshott, keeps a poultry farm in Brixton Road. Ryder knew that his sister was sending a consignment of geese to a dealer in Covent Garden, and he thought that if he could conceal the jewel in one of the geese, it would be safe from the police. He therefore went to his sister’s, and, choosing a fine large bird, he thrust the stone down its throat. He then took this goose to Covent Garden, and handed it over to Breckinridge, the dealer. Breckinridge sold it to Windigate, of the Alpha, and Windigate sold it to Mr. Henry Baker. And so the jewel passed from hand to hand, until it reached the crop of the goose which was bought by Mr. Henry Baker for his Christmas dinner.
“The only remaining point is, what became of the other twenty-three geese? Ryder had taken one goose from his sister’s flock. What became of the other twenty-three? We can imagine that he did not dare to take them all back to his sister, for fear of exciting suspicion. He probably sold them to some other dealer. But that is a matter of no importance to us now. The only thing that concerns us is to get the jewel back for the Countess of Morcar. And how are we to do that? There is only one way. We must find James Ryder.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I have his address. He lives at 117 Ryder Street, Bloomsbury. I shall go there at once.”
“And I will come with you.”
“No, Watson, I think not. I shall be glad of your help and counsel in the house, but I prefer to go alone to this man. It is possible that he may be desperate, and I would not wish to expose you to any danger. I think that I had better go alone.”
I had to be content with this, and to remain in Baker Street, while Holmes went off upon his mission. It was nearly nine o’clock when he returned. He was looking pale and worn, but there was a curious smile upon his lips.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “I have had a most remarkable evening.”
“And have you got the jewel?”
“I have it here in my pocket.” He drew from his pocket a small chamois-leather bag, and, opening it, he disclosed the blue carbuncle. It was a magnificent stone, as large as a pigeon’s egg, of a deep, sky-blue colour, and it scintillated with a thousand points of light.
“You have been very fortunate,” I said.
“I have, indeed. I have had a narrow escape. For a moment I thought that I was going to be arrested myself.”
“Arrested!”
“Yes. When I got to Ryder Street, I found that the house was empty. The birds had flown. I made inquiries, and I found that Ryder had left London that very morning. He had gone to Liverpool, and was sailing for America in the Cunard liner ‘Scythia.’ I rushed down to Euston, and I just caught the boat-train. I got to Liverpool just as the ‘Scythia’ was casting off her moorings. I sprang on board, and I found Ryder in his cabin. He was terribly frightened when he saw me, and he confessed everything. He had the jewel in his pocket. I took it from him, and I came back to London by the next train.”
“And what have you done with him?”
“Oh, I have let him go.”
“Let him go!”
“Yes. I think that he has had a lesson. He is out of the country, and he is not likely to return. Besides, it is not my business to administer justice. I leave that to the courts. My work is done when I have recovered the stolen property. And now, Watson, I think that we may dismiss the matter from our minds, and turn to more pleasant subjects.”
And that was the story of the adventure of the blue carbuncle.
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