HOLMES: But I think you are quite right, Miss de Vinne. Harrod’s is a great deal better in my opinion.
MISS DE VINNE: But I never go to Harrod’s, Mr. Holmes, in fact I hardly ever go to any big store, except for one or two things. But what has this got to do—
HOLMES: Well, in principle, I don’t care for them much either, but they’re convenient sometimes.
MISS DE VINNE: Yes, I find the Army and Navy stores useful now and then, but why on earth are we talking about shops and stores when the thing that matters is Lady Barton’s necklace?
HOLMES: Ah, yes, I was coming to that. (Pauses) I’m sorry, Miss de Vinne, but I’m afraid I can’t take up this case.
MISS DE VINNE: You refuse, Mr. Holmes?
HOLMES: I am afraid I am obliged to do so. It is a case that would inevitably take some time. I am in sore need of a holiday and only today my devoted friend Watson has made all arrangements to take me on a Mediterranean cruise immediately after Christmas.
WATSON: Holmes, this is absurd. You know that I merely—
MISS DE VINNE: Dr. Watson, if Mr. Holmes can’t help me, won’t you? You don’t know how terrible all this is for me as well as for Lady Barton.
WATSON: My dear lady, I have some knowledge of my friend’s methods and they often seem incomprehensible. Holmes, you can’t mean this?
HOLMES: Certainly I do, my dear Watson. But I am unwilling that any lady should leave this house in a state of distress. (Goes to door) Mrs. Hudson!
MRS. HUDSON: Coming, sir. (MRS. HUDSON enters)
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, be good enough to conduct this lady to Dr. Watson’s dressing room. She is tired and a little upset. Let her rest on the sofa there while Dr. Watson and I have a few minutes’ quiet talk.
MRS. HUDSON: Very good, sir.
(Exeunt MRS. HUDSON and MISS DE VINNE, the latter looking appealingly at DR. WATSON)
HOLMES: (Lighting cherry-wood pipe) Well, Watson?
WATSON: Well, Holmes, in all my experience I don’t think I have ever seen you so unaccountably ungracious to a charming girl.
HOLMES: Oh, yes, she has charm, Watson—they always have. What do you make of her story?
WATSON: Not very much, I confess. It seemed fairly clear as far as it went, but you wouldn’t let her tell us any detail. Instead, you began a perfectly ridiculous conversation about the comparative merits of various department stores. I’ve seldom heard you so inept.
HOLMES: Then you accept her story?
WATSON: Why not?
HOLMES: Why not, my dear Watson? Because the whole thing is a parcel of lies.
WATSON: But, Holmes, this is unreasoning prejudice.
HOLMES: Unreasoning, you say? Listen, Watson. This letter purports to have come from the Countess of Barton. I don’t know her Ladyship’s handwriting, but I was struck at once by its labored character, as exhibited in this note. It occurred to me, further, that it might be useful to obtain a specimen of Miss de Vinne’s to put alongside it—hence my tiresome inability to catch her name. Now, my dear Watson, I call your particular attention to the capital B’s which happen to occur in both specimens.
WATSON: They’re quite different, Holmes, but—yes, they’ve both got a peculiar curl where the letter finishes.
HOLMES: Point No. 1, my dear Watson, but an isolated one. Now, although I could not recognize the handwriting, I knew this notepaper as soon as I saw and felt it. Look at the watermark, Watson, and tell me what you find.
WATSON: (Holding the paper to the light) A. and N. (After a pause) Army and Navy … Why, Holmes, d’you mean that—
HOLMES: I mean that this letter was written by your charming friend in the name of the Countess of Barton.
WATSON: And what follows?
HOLMES: Ah, that is what we are left to conjecture. What will follow immediately is another interview with the young woman who calls herself Violet de Vinne. By the way, Watson, after you had finished threatening me with that nasty-looking revolver a little while ago, what did you do with the instrument?
WATSON: It’s here, Holmes, in my pocket.
HOLMES: Then, having left my own in my bedroom, I think I’ll borrow it, if you don’t mind.
WATSON: But surely, Holmes, you don’t suggest that—
HOLMES: My dear Watson, I suggest nothing—except that we may possibly find ourselves in rather deeper waters than Miss de Vinne’s charm and innocence have hitherto led you to expect. (Goes to door) Mrs. Hudson, ask the lady to be good enough to rejoin us.
MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Very good, sir.
(Enter MISS DE VINNE)
HOLMES: (Amiably) Well, Miss de Vinne, are you rested?
MISS DE VINNE: Well, a little perhaps, but as you can do nothing for me, hadn’t I better go?
HOLMES: You look a little flushed, Miss de Vinne; do you feel the room rather too warm?
MISS DE VINNE: No, Mr. Holmes, thank you, I—
HOLMES: Anyhow, won’t you slip your coat off and—
MISS DE VINNE: Oh no, really. (Gathers coat round her)
HOLMES: (Threateningly) Then, if you won’t take your coat off, d’you mind showing me what is in the right-hand pocket of it? (A look of terror comes on MISS DE VINNE’S face) The game’s up, Violet de Vinne. (Points revolver, at which MISS DE VINNE screams and throws up her hands) Watson, oblige me by removing whatever you may discover in the right-hand pocket of Miss de Vinne’s coat.
WATSON: (Taking out note-case) My own note-case, Holmes, with the ten five-pound notes in it!
HOLMES: Ah!
MISS DE VINNE: (Distractedly) Let me speak, let me speak. I’ll explain everything.
HOLMES: Silence! Watson, was there anything else in the drawer of your dressing table besides your note-case?
WATSON: I’m not sure, Holmes.
HOLMES: Then I think we had better have some verification.
MISS DE VINNE: No, no. Let me—
HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson!
MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Coming, sir.
HOLMES: (To MRS. HUDSON off) Kindly open the right-hand drawer of Dr. Watson’s dressing table and bring us anything that you may find in it.
MISS DE VINNE: Mr. Holmes, you are torturing me. Let me tell you everything.
HOLMES: Your opportunity will come in due course, but in all probability before a different tribunal. I am a private detective, not a Criminal Court judge. (MISS DE VINNE weeps)
(Enter MRS. HUDSON with jewel case)
MRS. HUDSON: I found this, sir. But it must be something new that the doctor’s been buying. I’ve never seen it before. (MRS. HUDSON leaves)
HOLMES: Ah, Watson, more surprises! (Opens case and holds up a string of pearls) The famous pearls belonging to the Countess of Barton, if I’m not mistaken.
MISS DE VINNE: For pity’s sake, Mr. Holmes, let me speak. Even the lowest criminal has that right left him. And this time I will tell you the truth.
HOLMES: (Sceptically) The truth? Well?
MISS DE VINNE: Mr. Holmes, I have an only brother. He’s a dear—I love him better than anyone in the world—but, God forgive him, he’s a scamp … always in trouble, always in debt. Three days ago he wrote to me that he was in an even deeper hole than usual. If he couldn’t raise fifty pounds in the course of a week, he would be done for and, worse than that, dishonored and disgraced forever. I couldn’t bear it. I’d no money. I daren’t tell my mother. I swore to myself that I’d get that fifty pounds if I had to steal it. That same day at Lady Barton’s, I was looking, as I’d often looked, at the famous pearls. An idea suddenly came to me. They were worn only once or twice a year on special occasions. Why shouldn’t I pawn them for a month or so? I could surely get fifty pounds for them and then somehow I would scrape together the money to redeem them. It was almost certain that Lady Barton wouldn’t want them for six months. Oh, I know I was mad, but I did it. I found a fairly obscure little pawnbroker quite near here, but to my horror he wouldn’t take the pearls—looked at me very suspiciously and wouldn’t budge, though I went t
o him two or three times. Then, this afternoon, the crash came. When Lady Barton discovered that the pearls were missing I rushed out of the house, saying that I would tell the police. But actually I went home and tried to think. I remembered your name. A wild scheme came into my head. If I could pretend to consult you and somehow leave the pearls in your house, then you could pretend that you had recovered them and return them to Lady Barton. Oh, I know you’ll laugh, but you don’t know how distraught I was. Then, when you sent me into that dressing room, I prowled about like a caged animal. I saw those banknotes and they seemed like a gift from Heaven. Why shouldn’t I leave the necklace in their place? You would get much more than fifty pounds for recovering them from Lady Barton and I should save my brother. There, that’s all … and now, I suppose, I exchange Dr. Watson’s dressing room for a cell at the police station!
HOLMES: Well, Watson?
WATSON: What an extraordinary story, Holmes!
HOLMES: Yes, indeed. (Turning to MISS DE VINNE) Miss de Vinne, you told us in the first instance a plausible story of which I did not believe a single word; now you have given us a version which in many particulars seems absurd and incredible. Yet I believe it to be the truth. Watson, haven’t I always told you that fact is immeasurably stranger than fiction?
WATSON: Certainly, Holmes. But what are you going to do?
HOLMES: Going to do? Why—er—I’m going to send for Mrs. Hudson. (Calling offstage) Mrs. Hudson!
MRS. HUDSON: (Off) Coming, sir. (Enters) Yes, sir.
HOLMES: Oh, Mrs. Hudson, what are your views about Christmas?
WATSON: Really, Holmes.
HOLMES: My dear Watson, please don’t interrupt. As I was saying, Mrs. Hudson, I should be very much interested to know how you feel about Christmas.
MRS. HUDSON: Lor’, Mr. ’Olmes, what questions you do ask. I don’t hardly know exactly how to answer but … well … I suppose Christmas is the season of good will towards men—and women too, sir, if I may say so.
HOLMES: (Slowly) “And women too.” You observe that, Watson.
WATSON: Yes, Holmes, and I agree.
HOLMES: (To MISS DE VINNE) My dear young lady, you will observe that the jury are agreed upon their verdict.
MISS DE VINNE: Oh, Mr. Holmes, how can I ever thank you?
HOLMES: Not a word. You must thank the members of the jury … Mrs. Hudson!
MRS. HUDSON: Yes, sir.
HOLMES: Take Miss de Vinne, not into Dr. Watson’s room this time, but into your own comfortable kitchen and give her a cup of your famous tea.
MRS. HUDSON: How do the young lady take it, sir? Rather stronglike, with a bit of a tang to it?
HOLMES: You must ask her that yourself. Anyhow Mrs. Hudson, give her a cup that cheers.
(Exeunt MRS. HUDSON and MISS DE VINNE)
WATSON: (In the highest spirits) Half a minute, Mrs. Hudson. I’m coming to see that Miss de Vinne has her tea as she likes it. And I tell you what, Holmes (Looking towards MISS DE VINNE and holding up note-case), you are not going to get your Mediterranean cruise.
(As WATSON goes out, carol-singers are heard in the distance singing “Good King Wenceslas.”)
HOLMES: (Relighting his pipe and smiling meditatively) Christmas Eve!
CURTAIN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
Arthur Conan Doyle
ALTHOUGH WRITTEN IN THE VICTORIAN ERA, the Sherlock Holmes stories lack the overwrought verbosity so prevalent in the prose of that era and remain as readable and fresh as anything produced in recent times. Having created the greatest character in the history of English literature, it is astonishing that Arthur Conan Doyle believed his most important works of fiction were such historical novels and short story collections as Micah Clarke (1889), The White Company (1891), and Sir Nigel (1906). He was further convinced that his most significant nonfiction work was in the spiritualism field, to which he devoted the last twenty years of his life, a considerable portion of his fortune, and prodigious energy. “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” was first published in the January 1892 issue of The Strand Magazine; it was first collected in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (London, Newnes, 1892).
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
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 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 de
ar 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 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.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 37
