Scene 7

INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.

The fire crackles.

WATSON: A very Merry Christmas to you, Holmes!

HOLMES: ( Not quite a groan) Thank you, Watson.

Watson rubs his hands at the fire.

WATSON: Cheer up, old man. It’s supposed to be the season of goodwill.

( He shivers) It must be close to freezing out there. ( A moment) This is for you.

He gives him a small package.

HOLMES: Oh, my dear fellow.

He starts to unwrap it.

WATSON: Now you mustn’t open it until tomorrow.

HOLMES: I shouldn’t dream of it.

He puts it down.

HOLMES: How is Mrs. Watson?

WATSON: Very well, thank you. In her element. Mrs. Forrester - you remember, Mary’s old employer? She’s staying with us.

HOLMES: And her charming children?

WATSON: Oh yes. All three of them.

HOLMES: Congratulations on effecting your escape.

WATSON: ( Slightly ashamed of himself) I hope my motives weren’t as transparent to them as they are to you. I do find a little goes a long way, I must say. Gives one new respect for the patience of womankind.

HOLMES: ( Snorts-”respect” and “womankind” are not related terms in his book).

WATSON: I mustn’t stay away too long. They are guests, after all. And anyway, they’re eagerly awaiting the lurid details of your latest triumphs.

HOLMES: Well I’m sure your powers of invention will rise to the occasion.

WATSON: Oh - been quiet has it? What about the Hotel Cosmopolitan robbery? Haven’t they called you in on that?

HOLMES: I’m afraid you overestimate Scotland Yard’s eagerness to admit their inefficiency. Would you care for a drink?

WATSON: Thank you.

Holmes pours two drinks.

WATSON: You know, I’d never heard of this blue carbuncle until I read the report in The Times this morning. The word has a very different connotation for me.

HOLMES: And you accuse me of single-mindedness. ( Giving him his drink) Here. Your very good health.

WATSON: The compliments of the season.

HOLMES: ( Winces audibly)

WATSON: Sorry.

They drink. A moment.

HOLMES: A carbuncle is a precious stone, usually a garnet, cut in the en cabochon or domed-top shape, and invariably deep ruby red in colour.

WATSON: Ah, so that’s why this blue specimen is so valuable.

HOLMES: It’s unique. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in Southern China, just over nineteen years ago.

WATSON: The things you know.

HOLMES: It’s generally considered to be worth at least twenty-thousand pounds.

WATSON: Good God.

He drinks up and puts down his glass.

WATSON: Thank you. Look, it’s been good to see you, but I really ought to be getting along. Perhaps they’ll have tired themselves out by now.

HOLMES: Can you spare a few moments more?

WATSON: ( Not really) Well...

HOLMES: No, you’re quite right. Domestic responsibilities come first.

And it’s only a very minor investigation.

WATSON: ( Hooked) Investigation?

HOLMES: ( Chuckling) Before I tell you the story, have a look at this.

What do you think of it?

Holmes picks up and passes over the hat.

WATSON: Another gift?

HOLMES: Hardly. There are those in this bustling capital with good cause to wish me ill, but I fancy most of them have in mind something rather more drastic than insulting me with shabby items of headgear.

WATSON: Well then? ( Deliberately over the top) Does it have some deadly story linked to it? Is it the clue that will lead you to the solution of a mystery and the punishment of a terrible crime?

HOLMES: No, the matter is a perfectly trivial one.

WATSON: Oh.

HOLMES: It’s just 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.

WATSON: You’re right, it is shabby.

HOLMES: Look on it, not as a battered billycock, but as an intellectual problem. What can you deduce about its owner?

WATSON: Deduce? From this old felt?

HOLMES: You know my methods.

WATSON: Observation and deduction... Well... It’s an old, round hat with a brim.

HOLMES: Very good, Watson.

WATSON: ( Coughs meaningfully)

HOLMES: A thousand apologies, my dear fellow. Pray continue.

WATSON: The lining used to be of red silk. No maker’s name... Ah, the initials “H.B” scrawled on the inside. It’s cracked, exceedingly dusty, daubed with ink here and there to hide the discoloured patches, and the brim has been pierced for a hat-securer, though the elastic’s missing. It’s a very ordinary black hat. I can see nothing.

HOLMES: On the contrary Watson, you can see everything, as you just proved with that excellent description. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You’re too timid in drawing your inferences.

WATSON: Well what inferences can you draw?

HOLMES: The man is highly intellectual. That’s obvious, of course. He was fairly well-to-do, although within the last three years he has fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression. This, taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some malign influence at work upon him, possibly drink. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.

WATSON: ( Disbelief) My dear Holmes!

HOLMES: He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect. He is a man who 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. ( A moment) Also, it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.

WATSON: ( Amused) Surely you’re joking?

HOLMES: Not in the least. Can you truly not see how I arrived at these conclusions?

WATSON: I’ve no doubt I am very stupid.

HOLMES: Watson.

WATSON: Well then, how did you deduce that this man is intellectual?

HOLMES: It’s a question of cubic capacity. Put the hat on.

WATSON: ( Puzzled) Very well.

He does so, and it comes down over his eyes.

( Exclaims in amusement)

HOLMES: You see? Or rather, you don’t see.

Watson removes the hat.

WATSON: It’s huge.

HOLMES: And a man with so large a brain must have something in it.

WATSON: The decline of his fortunes?

HOLMES: This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. And it’s of the very best quality. You remarked that the lining was once excellent, and look at the band: ribbed silk. If this man could afford so expensive a hat three years ago but has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.

WATSON: Perhaps he just prefers wearing an old hat. He may well have a wardrobe full of new ones.

HOLMES: A favourite hat would be merely well-worn. This one is positively repellent.

WATSON: Yes, I noticed that. All right. But what about the foresight and the moral retrogression?

HOLMES: Here is the foresight.

WATSON: The holes for the hat-securer?

HOLMES: They’re never sold on hats, they have to be ordered specially.

Hence, foresight - he went out of his way to take precautions against the wind. And less foresight now than previously, because-WATSON: Because he hasn’t bothered to replace the broken elastic. And you see that as moral retrogression?

HOLMES: A weakening nature. On the other hand - and again, as you pointed out - he’s attempted to hide these stains with ink, so he hasn’t entirely lost his self-respect. That he’s middle-aged with grizzled hair, lime-creamed and recently cut, you can see from a close examination of the lower lining.

WATSON: And out of training? Ah, I’ve got it: he perspires copiously.

Something else I learnt when I had it on.

HOLMES: Exactly. And finally, the matter of the gas. Five tallow stains can hardly come by chance. Tallow stains mean tallow candles. Are you satisfied?

WATSON: Well, you have an answer for everything. No, wait a minute: how on earth do you know his wife has ceased to love him?

HOLMES: When I see you, my dear Doctor, with a week’s accumulation of dust on your hat, and when Mrs. Watson allows you to go out in such a deplorable state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.

WATSON: ( Triumphantly) He might be a bachelor!

HOLMES: ( Chuckling) Look at this label.

WATSON: “For Mrs. Henry Baker”. Well?

HOLMES: It was tied to the leg of the goose.

WATSON: ( Completely thrown) What goose?

HOLMES: The goose that Mr. Henry Baker - H.B. - was taking home as a peace offering to his wife.

WATSON: Well, I think you might have mentioned that before I started.

A frantic knock at the door. It bursts open.

PETERSON: Mr. Holmes!

HOLMES: Peterson! What have you found this time?

PETERSON: ( Approaching) No, no, sir. The goose! The goose!

HOLMES: What of it, man? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?

PETERSON: See here, Mr. Holmes. See what my wife found in its crop!

He unwraps tissue paper from a small object.

WATSON: Good heavens, Peterson.

HOLMES: ( Whistles) This is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you’ve got?

PETERSON: It cuts into glass as though it were putty. It’s some sort of precious stone.

HOLMES: It’s more than a precious stone. Just at the present, it’s the precious stone.

WATSON: It’s the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle.

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