Mr. Baker had large, rounded shoulders, a massive head, and an intelligent face that sloped down to a pointy, grayish-brown beard. His red nose and cheeks, plus the slight tremor of his hand, reminded me of Holmes’ suspicion that the man had a drinking problem. Baker’s worn black coat was buttoned high, and his collar was turned up against the cold. Thin wrists poked out of his coat sleeves, and there was no sign of a shirt underneath. His appearance gave the impression of a well-educated man who had fallen on hard times.
"We’ve kept these things a few days," Holmes said, "and looked in the newspaper for an ad in the Lost and Found section. Why didn’t you advertise?"
Our visitor looked ashamed. "Money isn’t so easy to come by these days," he said. "I figured the thugs who attacked me also took my hat and the bird. I didn’t want to spend more money in a hopeless attempt to recover them."
"Naturally. By the way, we had to eat the bird."
"You ate it?" said our visitor, half rising from his chair.
"Yes, it would have spoiled otherwise. But we have another goose for you. It’s the same weight and perfectly fresh. Will that do?"
"Oh certainly, certainly," Mr. Baker said with a sigh of relief.
"We still have the feathers, feet, and the gullet of your original bird, if you wish━"
The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They are no use to me except as souvenirs of my misadventure," he said. "No, sir, but I thank you. I’ll just take this new bird as a replacement."
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply at me and gave a slight shrug.
"Here’s your goose and your hat," Holmes said. "By the way, where did you get the other bird? I like good poultry, and I haven’t seen a better goose."
Baker stood and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. "My friends and I frequent the Alpha Inn. This year Windigate, the owner, started a goose club. We pay a little bit every week, and at Christmas we each get a bird. I was all paid up, but you know the rest. I’m indebted to you, sir. This knitted cap doesn’t fit my age or style." He switched hats and, with comical pomposity, bowed solemnly and strode off.
"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," Holmes said after the door closed. "It’s obvious he knows nothing about the Blue Carbuncle. Are you hungry, Watson?"
"Not particularly."
"Let’s skip dinner and follow this clue while it’s still hot."
"By all means," I agreed.
It was bitterly cold, so we put on woolen scarves and heavy coats. Outside, the stars shone in a cloudless sky, while the breath of the passersby blew out like gun smoke. Our footsteps echoed crisp and loud as we swung through Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and onto Oxford Street. Fifteen minutes later we were at the Alpha Inn, a small corner bar. Holmes pushed open the door and ordered two beers from the ruddy-faced, aproned bartender.
"Your beer will be excellent if it’s as good as your geese," Holmes said.
"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.
"Yes. I just met a member of your goose club."
"Oh, I see. But they aren’t our geese," the bartender said.
"Whose are they then?"
"We buy them from a salesman in Covent Garden."
"I know some of them. Which one was it?" Holmes asked casually.
"Breckinridge is his name."
"Hmm, I don’t know him," said Holmes, tipping the bartender. "Well, here’s to your good fortune, sir. Good night."
"Let’s find Mr. Breckinridge," said Holmes as we left the bar and went out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson, there’s a goose at one end of this mystery, but at the other end is a man who will spend seven years in jail unless we prove his innocence."
"We may discover he’s guilty," I said.
"Yes, but we know something the police don’t. It may be his only chance. Let’s follow this lead to the end!"
We crossed Holborn Street and strode through a zig-zag of slums to Covent Garden Farmer’s Market. The largest stall said "Breckinridge," and inside, a man with a horselike face was helping a boy close up for the night.
"Good evening, sir. Cold, isn’t it?" said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
"Sold out of geese, I see." Holmes pointed to the bare slabs of marble.
"There’ll be more tomorrow morning," said Breckinridge.
"That's no good," Holmes said.
"Well, try the next stall." The man pointed.
"But you were highly recommended by the bartender at the Alpha Inn," Holmes said.
"Oh yes, I sent him a couple of dozen."
"Fine birds. Where did you get them?" Holmes asked.
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.
"All right, mister." He glared and folded his arms. "What do you want?"
"Simply I’d like to know who sold you the geese you gave to the Alpha."
"I won’t tell you!"
"Oh well, it’s not important. But why are you so angry?"
"You'd be angry too if you’d been pestered about it as much as I have. Everyone has been coming and asking me, ‘Where are those geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell them to?’ You’d think they were the only geese in the world for all the fuss."
"Well, I have no connection to those people," Holmes said. "But if you won’t tell me, the bet is off, that’s all. I wagered good money that the bird I ate was country bred."
"Then you’ve lost your money. It was town bred," snapped Breckinridge.
"I know poultry, and it was nothing of the kind," Holmes scoffed.
"I’ve been selling birds since I was a boy. 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?"
"I’d just be taking your money because I know I’m right." Holmes reached into his pocket. "But I’ll bet this coin."
The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill."
The boy brought over a thin notebook and a fat accounting ledger, and opened them under a hanging lamp.
"Now then, Mr. Know-it-all," the salesman said. "See this little book? It lists my suppliers. See that third name? Read it."
"‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road,’" read Holmes.
"A town address obviously. Now find the next-to-last page in that ledger."
Holmes found it.
"Now what’s the last entry?"
"‘December 22, twenty-four geese purchased from Mrs. Oakshott,’" Holmes read.
"And underneath?" the salesman prompted.
"‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha.’"
"What do you say now?" said Breckinridge.
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply embarrassed. He threw his coin down and turned away like a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off, he stopped and laughed silently.
"Ah, Watson, the horse-racing sheet sticking out of his pocket told me he likes to gamble. We couldn’t have paid him to tell us, but we got all our information by making a bet. Well, Watson, the end is near. Do we see this Mrs. Oakshott tonight or tomorrow? It’s clear someone else━"
He stopped talking suddenly. A loud commotion had broken out in the stall we’d just left.