The Blue Carbuncle
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Dramatised for Radio by Bert Coules
After kicking off with A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of the Four, the BBC’s ground-breaking complete audio Canon moved on to tackle Doyle’s short stories in book publication order, so “The Blue Carbuncle”, which comes from the first collection The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, was one of the earliest episodes to be written and recorded. Looking back at the script now for this anthology, I don’t think it shows; I hope not, anyway. It’s true that everyone was feeling their way slightly, concerned about establishing a house style and laying down guidelines as to what we could and couldn’t do with the stories, but from the very beginning, the brief was to be ‘imaginatively faithful’, to be aware that a dramatisation had to be exactly that: dramatic. What was required - and on the whole what was expected, too, by a modern audience - was not simply the original prose text parcelled out to a bunch of different voices and tied together with a lot of straight-off-the-page narration, but a true recreation, a reinvention making full use of all the possibilities of a different medium. I’ll leave you to decide how well or otherwise I succeeded with this particular example.
Technical terms: a teaser is a short scene before the opening credits designed to establish the mood and hopefully to hook the audience. The sig is the signature tune, in our case a haunting solo violin passage from Mendelssohn’s Sonata, Opus 4 in F Minor. Int and Ext in the scene headings stand for Interior and Exterior, an important distinction, since the sound-picture of each as conjured by the acoustic, the effects, and the actors’ performances is markedly different. Cut to is the customary way of denoting the end of a scene in a script, though in production hard cuts are rare and tend to be used purely for an occasional shock effect: mixes or fades are more usual and help to create a seamless flow of action.
And that’s all you need to know, and probably more. Unleash your imagination and try to hear what you read; I hope you enjoy the experience.
This script is protected by copyright. For permission to reproduce it in any way or to perform it in any medium please apply to the author’s agent. Contact details can be found at bertcoules.co.uk
First broadcast on the BBC on January 2nd, 1991
THE CAST
in order of speaking
HOLMES: Sherlock Holmes.
WATSON: Doctor John Watson.
COLLECTOR: A female Salvation Army tin-rattler.
HORNER: John Horner. A rising young plumber, determined to go straight after his one lapse ten years ago.
MRS. HORNER: Alice, John Horner’s wife.
BRADSTREET: Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard. A determined detective.
RYDER: James Ryder. The upper-attendant (which is to say glorified dogsbody) at the rather ritzy Hotel Cosmopolitan. “What a shrimp it is... Not enough blood in him for felony.” (Holmes).
BAKER: Henry Baker. A once dignified, scholarly gentleman who has come down in the world and sought solace in drink. Now very hard-up and shabbily dressed, but retaining something of his old pride. Rather a sad figure.
WINDIGATE: The host of the Alpha Tavern in Bloomsbury, and typically bluff and outgoing.
1st ROUGH: On the London street.
2nd ROUGH: A chum of the above.
PETERSON: A member of the Corps of Commissionaires, a well-respected body in Victorian London. The higher end of the working class and almost certainly an ex-serviceman. A man with a keen sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.
BRECKINRIDGE: A goose-dealer at Covent Garden street market. A keen betting man with a short temper.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Sister of James Ryder, but a rather more balanced individual.
CONSTABLE: A constable with little to say for himself.
The Play
It is the 23rd of December, 1889.
TEASER. MUSIC: SOMETHING EERIE AND MYSTERIOUS.
Over it, perhaps with very slight echo:
HOLMES: (Close, intense) Look at it. Just see how it glints and sparkles. It is a nucleus and focus of crime. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. It’s a bonny thing.
The music swells into the opening sig.
Opening announcements.
The music fades into:
WATSON: (narrating): The winter of 1889 was bitterly cold. After dark, the stars shone stark and bright in a cloudless sky and the breath of the late-night Christmas shoppers blew out into smoke like so many silent pistol shots, while their footfalls rang out crisp and loud. But for all the inclement weather, there was a sense of collective goodwill in the air as if the people of the capital had agreed to lay aside their differences and petty squabbles for a few short days and unite in celebrating the season of forgiveness.
Scene 1
EXT. A BUSY LONDON STREET. LATE AFTERNOON.
Horse traffic, the buzz of people, the shouts of children, have faded up under the end of Watson’s narration.
Now, a Salvation Army brass band strikes up “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”.
After a few moments, a collecting lady rattles her tin. The music recedes a little.
COLLECTOR: Support the Mission, won’t you sir? A warm Christmas meal for the poor and needy.
HORNER: Yes, yes, of course. There.
He sorts through his small number of coins, donates one.
COLLECTOR: Lord love you sir. A Merry Christmas to you and your good lady.
HORNER: Thank you.
MRS. HORNER: And to you.
COLLECTOR: Bless you ma’am. (Moving off) Support the poor at Christmas. Thank you sir, thank you...
MRS. HORNER: (Amused) Well, “sir”.
HORNER: Yes, “ma’am”? (He chuckles) Sounds good, don’t it? I suppose she gets more money that way.
MRS. HORNER: Now John, don’t be like that. Why shouldn’t you be shown a bit of respect?
HORNER: True enough. John Horner, plumber and builder by Royal Appointment, that’s me after today’s little job. Mind you, they was careful to call me in when Her Ladyship was out the way. Couldn’t have her clapping her eyes on a working man.
MRS. HORNER: But it paid well.
HORNER: Very handsome. Course I told them I ought to take less.
MRS. HORNER: You never did!
HORNER: That’s right - I never did.
MRS. HORNER: (Laughing) Get on with you.
HORNER: So I reckon we can treat the kids to a present apiece and have enough left over for a bit of something tasty for the table. It’s going to be a good Christmas, girl.
MRS. HORNER: Well, God bless the aristocracy.
HORNER: May they never learn to do their own plumbing.
BOTH: (Chuckle happily)
The moment is killed by a heavy hand clamping down on Horner’s shoulder.
BRADSTREET: John Terence Horner?
HORNER: Who wants to know?
BRADSTREET: Inspector Bradstreet, Scotland Yard.
MRS. HORNER: John!
HORNER: What do you want?
BRADSTREET: What I want, my friend, is you. You’re under arrest.
Cut to:
Scene 2
INT. A JAIL CELL.
The door is unlocked and thrown open.
BRADSTREET: In here please, Mr. Ryder.
RYDER: Inspector.
HORNER: Thank God you’re here, mate. He’ll tell you, copper, he was the one what engaged me.
BRADSTREET: Well sir?
RYDER: Oh yes. That’s him all right.
HORNER: See? I don’t know what all this is about, but you’ve got the wrong man.
RYDER: I was a fool to leave you alone in that room.
HORNER: Do what?
RYDER: I found the jewel-case all broken open, where you left it.
HORNER: (Going for him) You bloody liar!
Bradstreet grabs Horner and there is a brief struggle. Bradstreet throws Horner down.
BRADSTREET: Any more of that and I’ll have you chained. Understand?
HORNER: I am not a thief!
BRADSTREET: Clarke and Sons, Dealers in Gemstones, Holborn. March, eighteen seventy-nine.
HORNER: That was ten years ago! I’ve been straight since then. God’s truth.
BRADSTREET: Save your breath, Horner. There’s only one thing I want to hear from you: (Moving close) Where have you hidden the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle?
Cut to:
Scene 3
INT. A LONDON PUB.
Much merriment. Raucous singing of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”.
In a quieter corner Mr. Henry Baker drains his glass and plonks it down. He’s somewhat drunk but retains his dignity.
BAKER: Good night, landlord. The compliments of the season to you.
WINDIGATE: And to you, Mr. Baker. And to your good lady wife.
BAKER: (Unenthusiastically) Oh... yes.
WINDIGATE: I hope you enjoy your Christmas dinner.
BAKER: Assuredly, my good sir. Thanks to you.
He pats a bulky newspaper-covered parcel.
BAKER: Good night and good health to you. (Walks off unsteadily) Good tidings I bring... Good tidings I bring...
WINDIGATE: Take care, Mr. Baker. And a Merry Christmas.
BAKER: (Way off) Merry Christmas!
Cut to:
Scene 4
EXT. A QUIET LONDON SIDE STREET. 4 a.m.
Baker’s footsteps echo eerily as he approaches.
BAKER: We won’t go until we’ve got some, so bring some out here. Glad tidings I bring... (Suddenly wary) Who’s there? Come out into the light. (A moment) I warn you, I have a stick!
Suddenly, very close and menacing:
1st ROUGH: Hello, my friend.
BAKER: What? Who are you?
2nd ROUGH: He doesn’t know us, Harry.
1st ROUGH: We’re the poor and needy. How’d you like to give us a present?
BAKER: You’re nothing but a couple of roughs. Get out of my way, or I’ll summon a constable.
2nd ROUGH: (Taking it) Nice hat, this.
BAKER: Give that back at once!
2nd ROUGH: (Disgusted) ‘S’too big. (He flings it away with a grunt) Flies nice, though.
BAKER: My hat!
1st ROUGH: What’s in the parcel, then?
He grabs it.
BAKER: No!
2nd ROUGH: Oh, something precious, is it? Let’s have a butcher’s.
They begin to tear off the paper.
The object is revealed.
The roughs are impressed.
1st ROUGH: Well now, that’s what I call a handsome present. Go down a treat, that will.
BAKER: Very well. I gave you fair warning. Much as I deplore violence...
2nd ROUGH: Oh - we’d better give it back to him, Harry. He’s got a stick!
BAKER: Take that!
He swings back his stick with a grunt - and puts it straight though a shop window.
BAKER: Oh my good God.
A frozen moment. Then the roughs burst out laughing.
1st ROUGH: Congratulations, me old chum. Welcome to the wrong side of the law.
Suddenly, from a distance:
PETERSON: Here! What’s going on?
2nd ROUGH: It’s a copper!
BAKER: Oh no.
1st ROUGH: Shift yourself Fred!
The roughs drop the parcel and run off.
PETERSON: (Still off) That’s right. Get off out of it!
BAKER: Oh my life.
He gathers himself together and runs.
PETERSON: (Approaching) Not you! I didn’t mean... (To himself) Oh God. (Calling) What about your hat?
His foot catches the partly-wrapped bundle.
PETERSON: What the devil’s this?
He picks it up with a grunt. It’s not light. He pulls aside the wrapping.
PETERSON: Good Lord.
A solo violin flourish takes us to:
Scene 5
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET. 8 a.m.
A fire blazes. Holmes is barely awake.
PETERSON: ...so, to cut a long story short, Mr. Holmes-
HOLMES: Yes, do that by all means, my dear fellow.
PETERSON: Yes, well, as I say, to cut a long story short... I brought both items straightway round to you as soon as I could. Knowing as how you’re always interested in any little problems.
HOLMES: Yes. Quite right. (He yawns, involuntarily) Excuse me, Peterson.
PETERSON: It’s not too early for you sir? I mean I could come back again later on.
HOLMES: (It’s not that interesting) No, no! (He makes an effort) Very well, Commissionaire. You’ve told me the story in admirable detail, pray unveil the trophies.
BAKER: The trophies? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, the hat, you’ve seen that.
HOLMES: Yes, I’ve seen that. But what exactly do you have wrapped up in yesterday’s Echo, second edition?
BAKER: Well, sir...
He clears his throat and, in the manner of a magician producing a rabbit, pulls away the paper wrapping from the mysterious object.
A moment.
HOLMES: (Laughs) Oh my dear fellow, I congratulate you. That is a most unimpeachable goose.
PETERSON: There’s no call to congratulate me, Mr. Holmes. It’s not mine. Look here, there’s a label:
He indicates a label tied to the bird’s leg.
HOLMES: “For Mrs. Henry Baker”.
PETERSON: The old gent what run off last night - mistaking me for a constable, like I said - well, he must have been taking it home. And you see my problem, sir.
HOLMES: Your problem is the price of your honesty, Peterson. A lesser man would be counting his good fortune.
PETERSON: Well that’s as maybe. But I know my duty, and that’s to return both the hat and the bird. But how, Mr. Holmes? That’s the question.
HOLMES: How indeed. Do you sincerely want my advice as to what to do with the goose?
PETERSON: Well, yes sir, I do.
HOLMES: Take it home, cook it and eat it.
PETERSON: Mr. Holmes!
HOLMES: There are... (He sniffs) signs that delay would be unwise.
Holmes lifts the package and gives it to Peterson.
PETERSON: Well, perhaps...
HOLMES: Most definitely. It is high time for it to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose. I trust you and Mrs. Peterson will enjoy it.
PETERSON: But the rightful owner, sir!
HOLMES: (Moving off) You may leave him - and his hat - to me.
He opens the door.
HOLMES: (Approaching) Good morning to you, Peterson.
PETERSON: (Moving slowly off) Well, er... and to you, sir. And a very Merry Christmas to you.
HOLMES: (Grunts a reply)
The door shuts.
(Sighs)
Cut to:
Scene 6
INT. A JAIL CELL.
BRADSTREET: I’m rapidly running out of patience with you, Horner.
HORNER: (Wearily) Look, Mr. Bradstreet. If I knew where it was, I’d tell you. But I’ve never laid eyes on it, my word on the book.
BRADSTREET: Your word?
HORNER: Can I see my wife?
BRADSTREET: Oh it’s prisoner’s privileges you’re wanting, is it? Listen Horner, the Countess of Morcar’s been pulling strings. I’ve got the Commissioner looking over my shoulder, and I don’t like that one little bit. Where’s that jewel?
Cut to:
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.
Cut to:
Scene 8
EXT. COVENT GARDEN STREET MARKET. MIDDAY.
Traders shouting, people milling about.
A barrel-organ plays yet another Christmas carol.
Breckinridge’s angry monologue doesn’t give the person he’s talking to any opportunity to butt in.
BRECKINRIDGE: Now listen. I told you last night and I’m telling you again now: I come by that merchandise fair and square, and I’ll not have anyone saying otherwise. You got no call snooping round here prying into my business. Who I sell my goods to, that’s private between them and me, see? If you wanted one, you should have got here earlier. Don’t you know it’s Christmas? Now clear off out of it.
Cut to:
Scene 9
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.
As before.
Glass chinks as Watson pours a drink.
WATSON: Here you are Peterson. Drink this.
PETERSON: (Weakly) Thank you, Doctor.
He drinks, splutters and coughs. Eventually:
PETERSON: That’s better.
WATSON: Sit there for a moment. Get your breath back.
PETERSON: You are sure, Mr. Holmes? You wouldn’t say it if you weren’t sure, would you?
HOLMES: (Occupied, a little off) Perfectly sure. The reward was announced today. One-thousand pounds.
WATSON: You’re a rich man, Peterson.
PETERSON: The shock’ll kill my Elsie.
HOLMES: Then you’d better break it to her gently.
He finishes what he’s been writing.
HOLMES: There. (Approaching) You see, Watson? Our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much less innocent aspect. Here is the gem, the gem came from the goose, and the goose came from the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I bored you.
WATSON: And now we must locate him. What were you writing?
HOLMES: “Found at the corner of Goodge Street and the Tottenham Court Road, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221b Baker Street.” That is clear and concise.
WATSON: Very. But will he see it?
HOLMES: He’s sure to keep an eye on the papers. Don’t forget, he’s a poor man; the loss must have been a heavy one. Peterson, are you recovered?
PETERSON: Yes, Mr. Holmes.
HOLMES: Good. Run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.
PETERSON: Which ones, sir?
HOLMES: Oh, The Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s Gazette, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.
PETERSON: Very well, sir. And the stone?
HOLMES: Ah, yes. I shall keep the stone.
PETERSON: Ah.
HOLMES: And Peterson, stop off on your way back and buy a goose. We must have one to give to Mr. Baker this evening.
PETERSON: Certainly sir. Er...
Holmes fishes out a coin, passes it over.
HOLMES: Here’s a sovereign.
PETERSON: Mr. Holmes. (Moving off) Thank you very much, gentlemen. (Stopping at the door) A thousand pounds...
The door shuts.
WATSON: He won’t forget this Christmas in a hurry. (A moment) Holmes?
HOLMES: (Lost in the jewel) Look at it, Watson. Just see how it glints and sparkles. It is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? It’s a bonny thing.
WATSON: What will you do with it? Are you going to tell the police that it’s been found?
HOLMES: All in good time, my dear Doctor. All in good time.
Cut to:
Scene 10
INT. A JAIL CELL.
Keys and mechanism jangle as the door is unlocked.
BRADSTREET: Someone to see you, Horner. In here.
HORNER: Alice!
BRADSTREET: (Moving off) You’ve got two minutes. (Low, to her) Remember what I said.
The door bangs shut.
HORNER: (Going to her) Thank God you’re here.
MRS. HORNER: Oh John.
They embrace.
HORNER: What did he mean? What did he say to you?
MRS. HORNER: I’m supposed to ask you where you stashed it.
HORNER: So that’s why they let you see me.
MRS. HORNER: Why don’t you tell them, John?
HORNER: What?
MRS. HORNER: They said it’ll be easier for you if you do.
A frozen moment.
HORNER: You think I did it. You really think-
MRS. HORNER: Oh John! How could you be such a fool?
Cut to:
Scene 11
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.
The fire, as usual. The door opens.
HOLMES: Ah, come in, Doctor. I was beginning to think you were going to miss the excitement.
WATSON: Unfortunately, my patients haven’t yet learned to be ill only between the hours of nine and five-thirty.
He warms himself. Holmes pours him a drink.
HOLMES: Here. Some restorative medicine.
WATSON: Thank you. The compli - Your very good health.
He knocks it back, appreciatively.
WATSON: That’s excellent.
The doorbell rings.
HOLMES: Mr. Henry Baker. He’s admirably punctual.
WATSON: Do you think he did have anything to do with the robbery?
HOLMES: Why speculate? Soon, we shall know.
WATSON: What about the man Bradstreet’s arrested? Is he innocent?
HOLMES: I can’t tell.
WATSON: He has a wife and two children.
HOLMES: And a previous conviction.
WATSON: He’s continued to protest his innocence. Suppose he’s not the thief. What sort of Christmas are his family going to have?
HOLMES: I’m interested in facts, not suppositions. Come in!
The door opens. There was no knock - Holmes’s timing is impeccable.
BAKER: Good evening, gentlemen.
HOLMES: Mr. Henry Baker, I presume?
BAKER: Correct, sir.
He closes the door.
HOLMES: Pray come and sit by the fire, Mr. Baker. It’s a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter.
BAKER: (Approaching) Thank you, Mr..?
HOLMES: Holmes. And this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
WATSON: Good evening, sir.
BAKER: Doctor. (Sits) I saw your advertisement in The Echo, gentlemen.
HOLMES: Excellent. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?
BAKER: Yes sir, that is undoubtedly my hat. I thought never to see it again. Or my specimen of ansa ansa domesticus.
HOLMES: Ah yes, your goose. I’m afraid we were compelled to eat it.
BAKER: To eat it!
HOLMES: Yes. It would have been no use to anyone had we not done so.
BAKER: Oh dear.
WATSON: Chin up, Mr. Baker. Look on the sideboard.
BAKER: The sideboard, sir? (He looks around) Ah!
HOLMES: I presume that that goose, which is about the same weight-
WATSON: And perfectly fresh.
HOLMES: – will answer your purpose equally well?
BAKER: (With a sigh of relief) Oh certainly, certainly.
HOLMES: Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, if you so wish..?
BAKER: (Laughing) They might serve as relics of my adventure, but beyond that, I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me.
HOLMES: Here is your hat then.
WATSON: (Lifting it) And here is your bird.
BAKER: (Rising) Thank you, gentlemen.
HOLMES: By the way...
BAKER: Mr. Holmes?
HOLMES: Would it bore you to tell me where you got the other goose from? I am something of a fowl-fancier, and I have seldom seen a better-grown bird.
BAKER: Certainly sir. (Taking his bird) Thank you, Doctor. There are a few of us who frequent a particular tavern near the British Museum - we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand... studying.
HOLMES: Quite so.
BAKER: Yes. Well, this year, our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose-club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were to receive a bird at Christmas.
WATSON: An admirable arrangement.
BAKER: Indeed, sir. For one such as I, to whom shillings are not so plentiful as once they were, it was a Godsend. And then to have both bird and headgear snatched from my person... (He pulls himself together) Well, enough of that.
HOLMES: And what is the name of this excellent hostelry?
BAKER: Ah yes. The Alpha Inn.
HOLMES: Thank you.
WATSON: A very good evening to you, Mr. Baker.
He opens the door.
BAKER: (Going) Goodnight Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson.
HOLMES: Goodnight.
BAKER: And the compliments of the season to you both.
HOLMES: (Grunts)
WATSON: And to you, sir.
He closes the door and returns.
WATSON: Well. It’s quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Poor old soul. Why was he so embarrassed about his studies?
HOLMES: I fancy he values the Museum as much for its warmth and its comfort as for its books. (A moment. Then suddenly all action) Now, Doctor, what are your plans for the evening? Is Mrs. Watson standing anxiously in the window, awaiting your return to home and hearth?
WATSON: Not now I’ve told her what happened this morning. She knows you far too well. “Tell Mr. Holmes I’d appreciate having you back by the New Year,” she said.
HOLMES: (Laughs delightedly) Splendid! Come along then.
Cut to:
Scene 12
INT. THE ALPHA INN. EVENING.
Crowded and noisy. More carol-singing.
WINDIGATE: Evening, gents. What’s your pleasure?
WATSON: Two glasses of your best beer, please landlord.
WINDIGATE: Straight away, sir.
HOLMES: Your beer should be excellent if it’s as good as your geese.
WINDIGATE: (Surprised) My geese?
HOLMES: Yes. I was speaking only half-an-hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose-club.
WINDIGATE: Oh, I see, yes. But them’s not my geese.
WATSON: Indeed? Whose then?
Cut to:
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?
Cut to:
Scene 14
EXT. A QUIETER CORNER. EVENING.
The hum and bustle of the market is now slightly muted.
WATSON: Well done, Holmes!
HOLMES: Thank you for your contribution. A masterly performance. Your after-dinner recitation tomorrow should be excellent. What is to be? “Billy’s Rose”? “Christmas Day in the Workhouse”?
WATSON: Please. (A moment) “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”.
HOLMES: (Laughs)
WATSON: All right, all right. Look, how did you know that that would work?
HOLMES: When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and a sporting paper protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him with a bet.
WATSON: Do we have to go out to Brixton? How much longer is this trail going to stretch?
HOLMES: Remember Watson, a man will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence.
WATSON: Oh, so you do think he’s innocent?
HOLMES: Well, it’s possible. Wait a moment. Look.
Slightly distant, raised voices sound from Breckinridge’s stall.
BRECKINRIDGE: Right, I’ve had enough of you and your geese. If you show your face here again, I’ll set the dog on you, see if I don’t.
RYDER: But all I want to know is - (who you sold them to...)
BRECKINRIDGE: Did I buy them off you? Did I sell them to you?
RYDER: No, of course not.
BRECKINRIDGE: Then it’s none of your business, is it? Now be off.
RYDER: But Mrs. Oakshott told me to ask you.
BRECKINRIDGE: You can ask the King of Proosia for all I care, I’ve had enough. Are you going?
RYDER: Don’t hit me, don’t hit me! (He comes closer to us, calling back:) I didn’t mean no harm! Honest I didn’t! It’s just that one of them was mine, that’s all... Mine...
HOLMES: (Suddenly close) Good evening.
Ryder jumps out of his skin.
RYDER: Who are you? What do you want?
HOLMES: I couldn’t help overhearing. I think that I could be of assistance to you.
RYDER: You? Who are you? How could you know anything about it?
HOLMES: It’s my business to know what other people don’t know. My name is Sherlock Holmes.
RYDER: (Whimpers)
A violin passage takes us to:
Scene 15
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.
The fire still blazes merrily.
HOLMES: (Cheerily) Here we are! The fire looks very seasonal in this weather.
WATSON: You look cold, sir.
HOLMES: Perhaps that accounts for your silence during the cab journey.
RYDER: Well, I... That is to say...
HOLMES: Quite. Now then! Pray tell me who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.
RYDER: My name is John Robinson.
HOLMES: (Sweetly) No, no, the real name. It’s always awkward doing business with an alias.
RYDER: (Groans)
He collapses into a chair.
HOLMES: Yes, do please take a seat. You too, Watson.
WATSON: (Sitting) Thank you.
HOLMES: (Sitting with a sigh) Isn’t this cosy? Oh - I believe you were going to tell us your name.
A moment.
RYDER: My real name is James Ryder.
HOLMES: Precisely so. Watson, you saw the account in the papers?
WATSON: (Realising) You’re the head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.
RYDER: Yes sir, yes I am. The business there - it’s upset me terribly.
HOLMES: I’m sure it has. Now: you’re interested in some geese?
RYDER: Oh, yes sir.
HOLMES: Or rather, I fancy, in one particular goose. White, with a black bar across its tail.
“Ryder quivers with emotion.”
RYDER: Oh sir! Can you tell me where it went to?
HOLMES: It came here.
RYDER: Here?
HOLMES: Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. It laid an egg after it was dead.
RYDER: (Whimpers)
HOLMES: The bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. (Suddenly cold as ice) The game’s up, Ryder.
RYDER: No! No...
He staggers to his feet, swaying perilously.
He knocks the fire-irons to the hearth. They clatter.
(Reacts with a start)
Watson rises and catches him.
WATSON: Hold up man, or you’ll be in the fire.
HOLMES: That’s it, Watson, give him an arm back into his chair.
WATSON: (Doing so) There. Easy, now.
A moment.
RYDER: (Pants weakly)
HOLMES: Look at him. He’s not got enough blood in him for felony. What a shrimp it is, to be sure. Give it some brandy, Doctor.
WATSON: Very well.
He pours some, passes it across.
WATSON: Here.
RYDER: (Almost inaudibly) Thank you.
He drinks, splutters, quietens down.
HOLMES: Now, Ryder. I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need. You had heard of this blue gemstone of the Countess of Morcar’s, and - (contrived a plan to steal it...)
RYDER: It was Her Ladyship’s waiting-maid told me about it. Cathy - Catherine Cusack. She put me up to it! She said if I got it, she would... she would...
He can’t go on.
HOLMES: Yes. So what did you do? Somehow or other, you knew that this man Horner had been concerned in some such matter before. You made some small job in my lady’s room and sent for him. Then you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate individual arrested.
Ryder “throws himself down upon the rug and clutches at Holmes’s knees.”
RYDER: For God’s sake have mercy! Think of my father! My mother! It would break their hearts!
WATSON: For goodness’ sake, man.
RYDER: I never went wrong before! I never will again, I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh don’t bring it into court! Say you won’t!
HOLMES: (Very angry) Get back into your chair! It’s very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor man Horner, in prison for a crime of which he knew nothing.
RYDER: I’ll fly, Mr. Holmes. I’ll leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.
HOLMES: Hmm. We’ll talk about that. But first, I want to hear a true account of this matter. How came the stone into the goose and the goose onto the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.
RYDER: Oh Mr. Holmes. Sir.
HOLMES: Get on with it.
RYDER: (Collecting himself) Well, it happened just like you said. As soon as Horner had gone, I smashed open the jewel-case and got the stone. Then I ran out to the street and found a constable. When we got back to the hotel, the old lady - that is, Her Ladyship - had got back and was screaming the place down. Course a constable wasn’t good enough for her, she had to have an Inspector at the very least.
HOLMES: Friend Bradstreet of B Division.
RYDER: Yes... Proper put the wind up me, he did. Made me identify Horner.
HOLMES: Where was the gem while you were perjuring yourself at Scotland Yard?
RYDER: In my pocket. As soon as I could get away I high-tailed it for my sister’s house. In Brixton.
WATSON: Mrs. Oakshott.
RYDER: That’s right. All the way there, every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective, ready to put the finger on me. The sweat was pouring down my face by the time I got there.
We move to a flashback:
Scene 16
EXT. THE BRIXTON ROAD. EVENING.
Ryder knocks frantically at a door. It opens.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Why Jem! Hello.
RYDER: Hello Maggie.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Whatever’s the matter with you, Jem? Are you sick?
RYDER: There’s been some trouble at work, Maggie.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: What have you been and done?
RYDER: Nothing! It’s just upset me, that’s all.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Well you better come in. Come on.
RYDER: Right. Yes.
The street fades under:
RYDER: (Over) I told Maggie I wanted to get a bit of air, and I went through to the backyard and tried to think what it would best to do.
The background has mixed to:
Scene 17
EXT. THE BACKYARD. EVENING.
Two dozen geese are milling about, happy in their ignorance of imminent doom.
RYDER: (Over) I sat there, looking at the geese that my sister fattens up for the market. And suddenly, an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
HOLMES: (Over, contemptuously) Ha.
A sudden flurry from the geese.
RYDER: Come here, you... Stand still, you stupid bird! (He corners it) Ah, now I’ve got you...
An anguished squawk from his victim.
RYDER: Keep still, blast you. That’s it. Now, look what your Uncle Jem’s got for you, then...
RYDER: (Over) I caught one of the geese: a fine big one, with a barred tail, and I thrust the stone as far down its throat as I could reach with my finger. Then the bird gave a gulp and I felt it pass down into its crop.
RYDER: That’s right. Let’s see ‘em find it in there, then.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: (Off) Jem! What are doing with that bird?
RYDER: (A guilty start) What? Ah!
He loses his grip on the goose and it escapes to join the others. They welcome it back honkily.
RYDER: Oh no...
MRS. OAKSHOTT: What on earth were you up to?
RYDER: Well, er... You said you’d give me one for Christmas. I was just feeling which one was the fattest.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Oh, we’ve got one set aside for you. Jem’s bird, we call it. We’ve been feeding it up special.
RYDER: But...
MRS. OAKSHOTT: What?
RYDER: Well if it’s all the same to you, Maggie, I’d rather have that one. The one with the barred tail.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: But yours is a good three pound heavier.
RYDER: (Desperately) No, I really like that one.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Well, if you’re sure.
RYDER: And I’ll take it now.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: But... Oh very well. Kill it and take it with you.
RYDER: Thank you, Maggie, thank you. Come here, you brute...
He attacks the geese. They retaliate.
We move back to the present:
Scene 18
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.
A match flares as Holmes lights a pipe.
RYDER: Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and carried the bird off to my place in Kilburn. Then I got a knife and cut it open. My heart turned to water - there was no sign of the stone.
And again to a flashback:
Scene 19
EXT. THE BRIXTON ROAD. EVENING.
As before.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Jem! Whatever now?
RYDER: (Pushing past her) ‘Scuse me, Maggie.
MRS. OAKSHOTT: Well!
Mix to:
Scene 20
EXT. THE BACKYARD. EVENING.
Not a goose to be heard. The back door flies open. A long pause.
RYDER: (Yells in anguish. Then sobs.)
Back to the present:
Scene 21
INT. THE SITTING-ROOM AT 221b BAKER STREET.
As before.
RYDER: They’d gone. They’d all gone.
WATSON: To Breckinridge’s of Covent Garden.
HOLMES: And there had been more than one with a barred tail.
RYDER: There were two. Maggie told me she couldn’t ever tell them apart. I went to Breckinridge as fast as I could run, but not one word would he tell me about where they’d gone. I went back again and again - and to Maggie’s too, to see if she knew. She thinks I’m going mad. Sometimes I think she’s right. And now... and now I am a branded thief, without hardly having touched the wealth I sold my character for. God help me! God help me! (Sobs)
A long moment.
HOLMES: Get out.
RYDER: What, sir?
HOLMES: Get out.
RYDER: Oh, heaven bless you.
HOLMES: No more words. Get out!
Panting heavily, Ryder rises.
RYDER: I, er...
But he thinks better of it, and bolts for the door. He opens it, scoots through, slams it behind him. A moment.
HOLMES: (A weary sigh)
WATSON: Well, well. My dear Holmes.
HOLMES: I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
He relights his pipe.
HOLMES: I suppose I am compounding a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. Send him to jail now and you make him a jailbird for life. (A throwaway) Besides, it’s the season of forgiveness.
WATSON: Holmes, you amaze me sometimes.
HOLMES: I’m delighted to hear it. (Springing up) Come on - get your hat.
A violin passage takes us to:
Scene 22
INT. A JAIL CELL.
Clanking keys as the door is unlocked.
HORNER: Now what? More questions?
BRADSTREET: You’re free to go.
HORNER: What?
BRADSTREET: Come on, come on.
HORNER: But what’s happened?
BRADSTREET: You’ve got this gentleman to thank.
HOLMES: Good evening, Horner.
HORNER: Do I know you sir?
HOLMES: My name would perhaps be familiar to you.
HORNER: Well then..?
HOLMES: It’s of no importance. I suggest you leave before the worthy Inspector changes his mind.
HORNER: Yes, yes, right. (Leaving) God bless you sir, whoever you are.
HOLMES: (Grunts a reply)
BRADSTREET: (Calling off) Constable, take Mr. Horner up and give him his belongings.
CONSTABLE: (Off) Sir. This way.
And they’re gone. A moment.
BRADSTREET: Mr. Holmes, I swear I still don’t know how you persuaded me to do that.
HOLMES: Really, Bradstreet. You have the stone, you have the Commissioner’s good grace, and you have my assurance that I’m on the trail of the true thief. What more do you want?
BRADSTREET: Well, a little hard and fast evidence wouldn’t come amiss.
HOLMES: My dear fellow. It’s Christmas.
Cut to:
Scene 23
EXT. A LONDON STREET. THE EARLY HOURS.
If we can take it, a Salvation Army band two streets away plays one last carol.
Slightly distant, a hansom cab goes by, the horse’s hooves crisp in the cold air.
Then:
HOLMES: (Approaching) My apologies for keeping you waiting, Doctor.
WATSON: It was worth it to see the expression on Horner’s face when he came out. Well done, Holmes.
HOLMES: (A vocal shrug)
WATSON: No, I mean it. There he was, off back to his family and friends... Did my heart good.
HOLMES: I await with interest your heart-wringing prose version.
WATSON: Really, old man. Can’t you let it drop for a second? (A moment) Well. I must be getting home. It’s certainly been a Christmas Eve to remember. And tomorrow I dare say I’ll even find the children tolerable.
Holmes says nothing.
Watson breaks the silence.
He rubs his hands together, ready to leave.
WATSON: Ah well. Goodnight, then.
Holmes desperately wants him to stay.
He drops the mask for the barest moment:
HOLMES: Watson. Wait.
Watson stops dead.
To him, the plea was unmistakeable.
He’s not sure how to handle this.
WATSON: Holmes?
And neither is Holmes.
A moment.
Way off, Big Ben strikes the quarter.
Watson looks at his pocket-watch.
WATSON: Good Lord. I’d no idea it was so late. Early.
HOLMES: Watson...
An awkward silence. Watson takes charge.
WATSON: Holmes... this is damnably rude of me, but... well, I know you dine very late, as a rule.
And Holmes realises what he’s doing and is grateful for it. The mask goes back up.
HOLMES: Absolutely true, Doctor. Are you about to tell me that I’m ruining my digestion?
WATSON: Actually, I was wondering if Mrs. Hudson might stretch to providing for two.
HOLMES: For two?
WATSON: Mary will have gone to bed hours ago. The whole household. I realise it’s a dreadful imposition.
HOLMES: I believe I can tolerate it.
WATSON: Thank you, Holmes.
And again, the mask disappears...
HOLMES: Thank you, my friend.
But not for long. After a moment:
HOLMES: Come along, Doctor. Faces to the north and quick march!
They begin to walk, their footsteps echoing in the early-morning stillness.
The scene is overtaken by the closing sig.
Closing announcements.
The music ends.