The Blue Carbuncle (Musaicum Christmas Specials). Arthur Conan Doyle

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      “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 7s. 6d.’”

      “Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

      “‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the ‘Alpha,’ at 12s.’”

      “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!”

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