Writing for Fun
March 2018
Mystery (The Curious Case Of The Persistent Goose)- Jeff Kebbell
It was Christmas day. Mrs Hudson had lit the fire in my room and I lay in bed listening to the sounds filtering into the room from outside. There was a swish of passing hansom cabs in the snow, the cry of the paper seller and below the familiar bangs and clangs as dinner was being prepared and the young housemaid given instructions as to how to lay out the table for the gentlemen upstairs. Despite the day, it was with some reluctance that I arose and poured the now warm water from the pitcher to the hand basin, performed my ablutions and dressed. I chose a rather dashing bow tie that a niece had bought me and then ventured forth into the lounge that Holmes and I shared.
Our chambers did not change from one year to the next which suited us both, untidy yes, full of souvenirs, yes but now that my dear wife was gone these three years and our house sold, since I could no longer bear to live there, it was home. There was my section with the medical books and records and writing desk and Holmes with the chemical corner and acid-stained deal-topped table. There upon a shelf stood a row of formidable books of reference, the violin case and pipe rack, even the Persian slipper which contained the strong tobacco that forced me to open the window, whatever the weather, when it began to smoulder in Holmes’ pipe. With a smile of contentment I walked to my armchair by the fire to read the day’s paper before the call for breakfast came.
To my surprise, Holmes, already dressed and with his mouse-coloured dressing gown on, was looking out of the open window as through it came the sounds of the street I had listened to earlier but with the added sound of a goose honking. ‘Come here, Watson and tell me what you make of this,’ he said without turning around. I went to the window and looked out. There to my surprise, on the pavement below was a large white goose that was rapidly becoming a filthy grey colour with the slush cast from beneath the wheels of the cabs and drays passing by. It presented a rather brave figure as it was shouting its defiance to the world before becoming someone’s Christmas dinner – in fact two urchins were approaching it armed with cudgels and murderous intent. ‘Clear off you boys!’ shouted Holmes. ‘On second thoughts I’ll give you a shilling if you protect if ‘till I come down.’
‘Orl right Guv,’ shouted one and the two boys took up positions either side of it, as determined now to protect it, as they had earlier intended to kill it, for a shilling would buy a larger goose already plucked and it was by no means certain that they would overpower this formidable adversary who flapped its wings and hissed loudly at their approach.
‘Now Watson, what do you make of that?’
Careful not to show myself up, as so often happened at times like this, I carefully looked up and down the street, then at the pavement on which the defiant creature stood honking. There was absolutely nothing to lead me to disagree with my former prognosis and except for a sewer manhole cover that had no snow on it in front of the goose, due no doubt to bath water passing under it, nothing was out of place or amiss.
A large brougham went past and the driver flicked his whip at the bird which flinched under the lash but did not attempt to fly away. I felt quite confident as I replied, ‘That, Holmes, is a large domestic goose that has escaped its owner and the oven for a short while and if it wasn’t for the fact that I know Mrs Hudson has two large capons for dinner, I would suspect it was ours and a sense of decency has allowed it to bring notice to us of its escape.’
Holmes was not often given to mirth but my part humorous, part serious interpretation of the incident started him laughing and he continued to laugh until he was seated in his armchair. ‘Watson, my dear chap, you are priceless and could not be more wrong.’ To my annoyance and discomfort he started to laugh again but on seeing my embarrassment stopped. ‘I’m sorry old friend, forgive me, I meant no offence.’ Instantly mollified I muttered that it was not important and waited for the explanation. It was not forthcoming and Holmes went to the deal topped table and from a drawer under it removed a length of strong cord which he proceeded to tie into the form of a lasso.
‘If we are going to catch this bird, Holmes,’ I said, ‘we must pinion its wings as well as its neck which could inflict damage on our legs or arms.’
‘It is not my intention to touch the goose,’ said Holmes but he armed himself with a poker nevertheless and led the way out of the lounge and down the staircase into the hall below. It was not my intention either to approach the bird unarmed, so, putting on my Ulster, I picked out a heavy walking stick from the umbrella stand and Holmes got a soaked crust of bread from the scullery and we opened the door onto a typical Christmas scene.
One of the young rascals guarding the goose held out a hand as we approached but was told shortly to wait, while Holmes walked into the cobbled road and faced the creature. For a rather severe and cold man, his attitude to the bird was one of sympathy. He threw the crust in front of it and went up to the manhole. The bird was by now an object of pity but it kept its dignity eating the bread, yet watching us carefully all the while, its fine white feathers a foggy grey, frightened out of its wits but something special was keeping it on that spot when surrounded by predators. Holmes approached only as far as the manhole and carefully levered the lid up, peering into the tunnel below. ‘Come here Watson old fellow and look at this.’
I approached warily, not having his icy courage and too peered into the hole. As my eyes grew accustomed to the half-light I saw to my amazement the most astonishing thing – another goose, equally filthy, staring up at its only means of escape but unable to fly up and out of the stinking morass it found itself in.
Ever resourceful, Holmes dropped the noose he had made over the bird’s head and quickly drew it choking from the pit. Before the bird could attack, he removed the cord and we both quickly stepped back. The bedraggled geese went to each other and rubbed their heads and necks together then the second bird finished what I swear was half the crust the first hadn’t eaten. ‘What does this mean, Holmes?’ I started to say. ‘What in God’s name was it all about about?’
‘It’s called love, Watson,’ he said and went to the two boys. ‘Stay with the geese until they leave and my housekeeper will give you a florin to go with this shilling.’ He passed the coin to one of the boys and I could see that there was no chance whatsoever of them leaving until the birds had cleaned themselves and left.
Holmes led the way into the house and left a request with the housemaid to further feed the geese, then we made our way upstairs to the comfort of our living room and sat down in front of the fire.
I poured us both a whisky and soda and lit a small cigar. Holmes lit his pipe, not from the slipper I was pleased to note, as I did not want to open the window and I waited patiently for him to clear his thoughts and explain how he had managed to deduce so much from so little.
Holmes sipped the whisky and began. The first thing I noticed about the goose below was its whiteness, so perhaps I had the advantage over you to start with. It was a snow goose, a rare visitor to our shores let alone our towns. The inclement weather and gales we have been suffering recently must have blown them off course. There is no way, however, that one would stand on our pavements among one of its most feared enemies other than for a special reason. Geese mate for life, as do our humble pigeon and their love and loyalty is total, so I correctly deduced that its mate must be nearby, but where? The manhole cover was obviously the point of focus and when the street was silent at odd moments I could hear a faint reply to the bird’s call which could only be coming from the sewer. Even I, Watson, cannot imagine how the mate landed where it did. Perhaps it was chased into the outlet by a fox and losing its way, kept in touch with calls to the other bird’.
‘Holmes, you make it all sound so simple, yet I could not have begun to work it out as you did. May I congratulate you on your deductions and knowledge and thank you wholeheartedly on behalf of the geese. Well done!’
Holmes smiled and sucked reflectively on his pipe. ‘You know, Watson, that I do not have the softer emotions that are enjoyed by most people but the two most important things I have found through you are love and loyalty and I would have paid ten, nay fifty guineas, to see those birds fly free.’
We walked over to the window. A crowd had gathered and in time, the birds now having fed and preened themselves, rose into the air and flew together over the roof tops, a magnificent sight. ‘Bless you Holmes,’ I said.
‘He already has old friend. Come now I must pay off those young rascals now approaching our door.’