Scene 13

EXT. COVENT GARDEN STREET MARKET. EVENING.

Still busy with last-minute shoppers.

The tireless barrel-organ operator is still churning out his carols.

But the first thing we hear is:

BRECKINRIDGE: ( Curt) Yes?

HOLMES: Good evening. It’s a cold night. Sold out of geese, I see.

BRECKINRIDGE: Let you have five-hundred tomorrow morning.

HOLMES: That’s no good.

BRECKINRIDGE: Well he’s got some over there.

HOLMES: Ah, but I was recommended to you.

BRECKINRIDGE: Who by?

HOLMES: The landlord of the Alpha Inn.

BRECKINRIDGE: ( Instantly suspicious) I sold him a couple of dozen.

HOLMES: Fine birds, too. Now: where did you get them from?

BRECKINRIDGE: Now then mister, what’s all this about? Let’s have it straight, now.

HOLMES: It’s straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.

BRECKINRIDGE: Well I’m not going to tell you.

HOLMES: I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.

BRECKINRIDGE: Warm? You’d be warm if you were as pestered as I am.

WATSON: Pestered, Mr. Breckinridge?

BRECKINRIDGE: When I pay good money for a good article, there should be an end of the business; but it’s “where are the geese?” and “who

did you sell the geese to?” and a lot more besides. You’d think they were the only geese in the world, the fuss that’s been made over ‘em.

HOLMES: Well I have no connection with any other people who have been making enquiries.

BRECKINRIDGE: Makes no odds to me who you’re connected with. I didn’t tell them and I won’t tell you.

HOLMES: Just as you like. I’m sorry, Watson, the bet’s off.

WATSON: The bet? ( Falling in) Oh, right. Too bad.

BRECKINRIDGE: Bet? What bet?

HOLMES: I have a fiver on it with my friend here, that the bird I ate was country bred. Isn’t that right, Watson?

WATSON: Absolutely. And I say I know a town-bred bird when I taste one.

BRECKINRIDGE: Got it from the Alpha, did you?

HOLMES: From Mr. Windigate’s own hands.

BRECKINRIDGE: Then you’ve lost your fiver. Those geese was town bred.

HOLMES: They were nothing of the kind.

BRECKINRIDGE: I say they were.

HOLMES: I don’t believe you.

WATSON: Come on, Holmes, don’t be a sore loser. ( To Breckinridge, confidentially) He’s always like this. Won’t take anyone’s word for anything.

HOLMES: Please, Watson. Mr. Breckinridge, you’ll never persuade me that those birds were town bred.

BRECKINRIDGE: Do you want to bet?

HOLMES: No, I’d just be taking your money.

BRECKINRIDGE: How much?

HOLMES: A sovereign.

BRECKINRIDGE: Done. Look here, Mr. Cocksure.

He gets a large ledger from under the stall, plonks it on the counter and flips the pages.

BRECKINRIDGE: This is a list of my suppliers. Country folk first, then town. There. What does that say at the top of the page?

HOLMES: “Mrs. Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road”.

BRECKINRIDGE: Town, right? And what’s the latest entry?

HOLMES: “Twenty-four geese at seven-and-six”.

BRECKINRIDGE: Thank you. And underneath that?

HOLMES: “Sold at twelve shillings each to... Mr. Windigate, Alpha Inn, Bloomsbury”.

BRECKINRIDGE: Right. So what do you say now?

HOLMES: ( Exclaims in disgust)

He fishes out a sovereign and slams it down.

HOLMES: Good night to you.

He strides away.

WATSON: You see? Terrible loser. ( As he moves rapidly off) Holmes! I say! What about my fiver?

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