Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he. “This is a treasure indeed. I suppose you know what you have there?”

  “Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I broke in.

  “The very same,” Holmes replied. “I ought to know this stone’s size and shape. Haven’t I been reading about it in The Times every single day? The countess says she will give whoever finds it a thousand pounds.”

  “If I remember rightly,” I put in, “the countess lost the stone at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.”

  “That’s right,” said Holmes. “It was on December twenty-second—just five days ago. The police have arrested a plumber named John Horner. I have the story here, I think.”

  He found the page he was looking for. He read the news story out loud.

  JEWEL ROBBERY AT

  HOTEL COSMOPOLITAN

  John Horner, a plumber, was arrested today. The police say he stole a jewel from the jewel case of the Countess of Morcar. The jewel is known as the blue carbuncle.

  Horner was arrested because of a story told by James Ryder. Ryder works for the hotel. Ryder said that he took Horner to the Countess of Morcar’s room to fix a pipe. That was on the very day of the robbery.

  Ryder stayed in the room for a while. But he was called away. Horner was left in the room alone.

  When Ryder got back, Horner was nowhere around. But the dresser had been forced open. A jewel box was lying on the dressing table. The box was empty.

  The police say that Horner put up a fight when he was arrested. “I didn’t do it!” Horner had cried. But Horner had once served time for robbery. So the judge put him in jail while the Court waited for proof. When Horner heard that he was not free, he fainted.

  “Hmm,” said Holmes. “So much for what the police know.” He threw the paper to one side. “Well, well, Watson! The question now is this: How did the stone get out of the box and into the bird?

  “Here is the stone. The stone came from the goose. The goose came from Henry Baker. So now, we must set ourselves to find Henry Baker.

  “Give me a pencil, please. And that slip of paper.” Holmes wrote this note:

  Found. At the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by coming to 221B Baker Street at 6:30 this evening.

  “There. That’s clear.” Holmes handed the paper to the doorman. “Here, Mr. Peterson. Please see that this note is put in all the evening papers. The Globe. The Star. The Evening News. The Echo. And any other newspapers you can think of.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Peterson. “And the stone?”

  “Ah, yes. I will keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson—just buy a goose on the way back. We must have another bird to take the place of the one your family is now eating.”

  After Peterson left, Holmes picked up the stone. He held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” he said. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it makes crimes happen. Every good stone does.”

  “Do you think this man Horner took the stone?” I asked.

  “I cannot tell,” replied Holmes.

  “What about Henry Baker?” I went on.

  “I think Henry Baker probably had nothing to do with it,” Holmes said. “But I shall find out for sure as soon as Henry Baker answers my ad. Until then, I can do nothing.”

  “In that case,” said I, “I shall keep going on my rounds. I have sick people to visit. I’ll come back tonight, if I may. I’d like to see how this all will end.”

  “I’ll be glad to see you,” said Holmes. “Stay for dinner at seven.”

  It was six thirty before I found myself back in Baker Street. As I got near the house, I saw a tall man waiting. The tall man and I entered together.

  Holmes rose from his seat. “Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” he said. “Please take this chair by the fire. You look cold. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

  “Yes, sir. It is my hat.”

  “About the bird,” Holmes went on. “I’m sorry, but we had to eat it.”

  “To eat it!” Mr. Baker half rose from his chair. He was very upset.

  “Yes. The bird would have spoiled had we NOT eaten it. But here is another goose instead. It is about the same size as the other. Won’t it do just as well?”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” said Mr. Baker.

  Sherlock Holmes looked at me. I could tell Mr. Baker had passed the test. It was clear that he knew nothing about the jewel.

  “There is your hat, then. And there is your bird,” said Holmes. “By the way, could you tell me where the other goose came from? I have never tasted a better goose.”

  “It came from the Alpha Inn,” Baker replied. “I go there almost every night. This year the owner started a goose club. My friends and I gave a few pennies each week. Then at Christmas we each got a goose. The rest of the story you know. I thank you very much, Mr. Holmes, for all you have done.”

  Mr. Baker bowed to us and went on his way. Holmes closed the door after him. “So much for Henry Baker. Are you hungry, Watson?”

  “Not very,” I answered.

  “Then let’s save dinner until later. We can follow up this clue while it is still hot.”

  It was a bitter-cold night. We put on our overcoats and wrapped up our throats. Outside the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky. Our breaths looked like smoke. Our steps rang sharply on the pavement.

  Fifteen minutes later we were at the Alpha Inn. Holmes asked for two glasses of beer. The owner brought them to us.

  “Your beer should be wonderful if it is as good as your geese,” said Holmes to the owner.

  “My geese?”

  “Yes. I was talking just a while ago to Mr. Henry Baker. He was in your goose club, I think.”

  “Ah, yes! I see. But you see, sir, them’s not OUR geese. I got two dozen of them from a man named Breckinridge. He sells meat over at Covent Garden.”

  “I thank you,” said Holmes. “Here’s to your health, sir. Good night.”

  We went out again into the frosty air. “Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” Holmes said as he buttoned his coat.

  We zigzagged through the back streets. Soon we were in the Covent Garden market. We saw the name Breckinridge on one of the largest stalls. The owner was a horsey looking man. He had a sharp face. He and a small boy were just closing up.

  “Good evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes. “You are sold out of geese, I see.”

  “I can let you have five hundred geese in the morning,” the man replied.

  “That won’t do,” said Holmes. “I want the same kind of geese you sold to the Alpha Inn. They were fine birds. Where did you get them?”

  To my surprise, the question made Breckinridge angry.

  “Now then, mister,” he said. “What is all this about? I haven’t heard anything else all day. ‘Where did you get all the geese? Who did you sell the geese to?’ You would think they were the only geese in the world. People are making such a fuss about them.”

  “Well, I have nothing to do with the others who have been asking,” Holmes said. He sounded as if he did not care very much about it. “You won’t tell us. So we’ll have to call off the bet. You see, I’ve bet five pounds those Alpha Inn geese were raised in the country.”

  “Then you will lose,” said Breckinridge. “Those geese were raised here in town.”

  “You’ll never make me believe that.”

  “Will you bet, then?” Breckinridge asked.

  “That would just be stealing your money,” answered Holmes. “But I’ll take you on.”

  Breckinridge laughed. He called the small boy to his side. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.

  “Now, then, Mr. Know-It-All,” he went on. “You see this little book? This is the list of folks from whom I buy. The numbers tell where to find them in the big book. See this page? It’s in black ink. Those are my country goose-raisers. See this list in red?
Those are my town people. Now, look at that third name. Just read it to me.”

  Holmes read. “Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road. Number 249.”

  “Quite so. Now look up that number in this big book.”

  Holmes turned a page. “Here you are. Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road. Eggs and Birds.”

  “Now,” said Breckinridge. “What is the last thing it says there? ‘December twenty-second. Twenty-four geese. At seven and a half shillings. Sold to the Alpha Inn at twelve shillings.’

  “Well? What do you say now?” Breckinridge asked.

  Holmes turned red. He took a coin from his pocket. He threw it down on the table. He turned away with an air of disgust.

  We walked a little way down the street. Then Holmes began laughing to himself. “I saw a horse-racing form in that man’s pocket,” he said. “You can always use a bet with a man like that. It’s the sure way to get what you want. We are near the end, Watson. Let’s go home for dinner. We can visit Mrs. Oakshott tomorrow.”

  Just then there were shouts behind us. We turned. There was trouble back in Mr. Breckinridge’s stall! Breckinridge was yelling at a little rat-faced man. “I’ve had enough of you and your geese!” he shouted. “I wish you were all dead. Get away or I’ll set the dog on you! Get out! Out!”

  “Ha! This may save us that visit to Mrs. Oakshott tomorrow!” said Holmes. “Come, Watson. Let’s see who this fellow is.”

  Holmes and I walked fast. Soon we were right behind the little man. Holmes touched the man’s back. He jumped. His face turned white. “Who are you? What do you want?” he cried.

  “Excuse me,” said Holmes. “But I couldn’t help hearing your questions about the geese. I believe I can help you.”

  “Who are you? And how can you know anything of this?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know things. I know you’re looking for a goose. The goose was grown by a Mrs. Oakshott. It was then sold to Breckinridge. He in turn sold the goose to the Alpha Inn. The owner of the Alpha sold the goose to a Mr. Henry Baker.”

  “Oh, sir, you’re just the person I need!” the little man cried.

  “In that case, come over to my place,” said Holmes. “It’s better to be warm while we talk. Before we go, will you tell me your name?”

  The man looked to one side. “John Robinson,” he said.

  “No, no, the REAL name,” Holmes said sweetly.

  Red spots came into the man’s white face. “Well, then,” said he. “My real name is James Ryder.”

  “That’s right,” said Holmes. “You work at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Step into this cab, Mr. Ryder. I shall soon be able to tell you everything you want to know.”

  The little man looked at Holmes. He was not sure if this was wonderful or terrible. At last he got in. Half an hour later we were back in Baker Street. Not one word had been said during our drive.

  “Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily. “That fire looks very nice. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Please take that chair by the fire. I’ll just put on my slippers.… Now! You want to know what happened to your goose?”

  “Oh yes, sir!”

  “It came here. And quite a goose it was too. I don’t wonder that you want to know about it. It laid an egg, after it was dead. The brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here.”

  Holmes opened his safe. He held up the blue carbuncle. It shone out like a star. Ryder stared. He did not move.

  “The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly.

  At that, Ryder started to faint. “Help him to his chair, Watson!” cried Holmes. “Give him a dash of brandy! There. He’s starting to come to.”

  The brandy brought some color back to the man’s face. “I know almost everything,” said Holmes.

  “Your plan was pretty low, wasn’t it? You knew Horner had once served time in jail. So you knew the police would pick him up first. So what did you do? You made up some small job in the countess’s room. Then you sent Horner in to do it. When Horner was done, you took the jewel. Then you called the police. Then you—”

  Ryder threw himself on the rug. “Don’t turn me in!” he begged. “I have never done wrong before.”

  “Get back into your chair!” said Holmes. “It’s all very well for you to be sorry now. But you thought nothing of sending Mr. Horner to prison.”

  “I’ll leave England, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Hum! We will talk about that,” Holmes said. “But now let’s have it. How did the stone get into the goose? How did the goose get sold? Tell us the truth, man. It’s your only hope.”

  Ryder licked his lips. “I will tell you how it happened,” said he. “The police arrested Horner. But I knew I must get the stone away at once. At any time the police might search me. There was no safe place in the hotel.

  “So I made for my sister’s place. She is married to a man named Oakshott. She raises geese for market.

  “All the way to my sister’s, I thought every man I met was a policeman. It was a cold night. But sweat was running down my face. My sister said I looked sick. I took my pipe and went out into the yard. I wondered what would be best to do.

  “I made up my mind to go to Kilburn. I knew a man there. Name of Maudsley. He went to the bad and has just served time. I knew Maudsley could help me sell the jewel.

  “But how could I be safe? The police might stop me at any moment. They would find the stone on me. I stood looking down at the geese. Then the idea came to me.

  “My sister had promised me the pick of her geese for my Christmas present. I would have my goose now. And that’s how I would carry the stone to Kilburn!

  “I caught one of the geese. It was a fine big white one, with a bar on its tail. I took it to the back of the yard. I opened its beak. The bird put up a fight. But I got the stone into it.

  “Just then the goose jumped from my arms. It ran back to the others. And I had to catch it again.

  “I walked all the way to Kilburn with the goose. My pal laughed until he choked at what I had done. Then we cut open the goose. My heart turned to water. There was no sign of the stone! I knew there had been some terrible mistake.

  “I ran back to my sister’s. There was not a goose in sight! My sister had taken them all to market. She had sold them to Breckinridge.”

  “ ‘Was there another goose like the one I killed?’ I asked her.

  “ ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘There were two geese with bars on their tails. I never could tell them apart.’

  “Well—you know the rest.”

  Ryder suddenly began to cry.

  There was a long silence. It was broken only by the sound of Holmes’s fingers, tapping. Then my friend got up. He threw open the door.

  “Get out!” said he.

  “What, sir? Oh, bless you!”

  “No more words. Get out!”

  And no more words were needed. There was a crash on the stairs. Then a door banged. Then we heard footsteps running away.

  Holmes reached for his pipe. “I look at it this way, Watson,” he said. “The police do not pay me to do their work. The countess will have her toy. The case against Horner can go nowhere unless Ryder speaks against him.

  “That man will not go wrong again. He is too afraid. Send him to jail now and you make him a jailbird for life. Besides, it is the season to forgive.

  “Now I think it’s time we looked into another bird. Let’s hope our dinner won’t start us on another wild-goose chase.”

  Judith Conaway is a full-time freelance writer and all-around creative person. She specializes in writing educational and audiovisual materials and is the author of Random House’s four Funny Face reading workbooks. She is also a weaver, a puppet maker, and the author of three craft books. Ms. Conaway lives in New York City.

  Lyle Miller has been illustrating juvenile books for the past ten years while also doing advertising and magazine work. Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes is his first book for Random House. Mr. Miller lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
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