[adapted]

by
Arthur Conan Doyle

I went to visit my friend Sherlock Holmes on the second morning after Christmas. I wanted to wish him a happy holiday. He was lying on the sofa in a purple robe. A pipe-rack was close by on his right, and a pile of messy morning newspapers, clearly just read, was next to him. Beside the sofa was a wooden chair. On the back of the chair hung an old and very worn felt hat. It was in bad shape and had several cracks. A magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers were on the seat of the chair. It looked like the hat had been hung there for him to study.

“You are busy,” I said. “Maybe I’m bothering you.”

“Not at all. I’m happy to have a friend to talk to about what I’ve found. This case is very small,” he said, pointing to the old hat, “but there are parts of it that are interesting and even a little useful.”

I sat in his armchair and warmed my hands by the fire. It was very cold outside, and the windows were covered in frost. “I guess,” I said, “that this hat, plain as it looks, has some dark story behind it—maybe it’s a clue that will help you solve a mystery or catch a criminal.”

“No, no. No crime here,” Sherlock Holmes said with a laugh. “Just one of those odd little things that can happen when four million people are all living close together in one big city. With so many people, anything can happen, and we often get little puzzles that are strange and interesting, even if they’re not about a crime. We’ve seen things like this before.”

“So much so,” I said, “that out of the last six cases I’ve written down in my notes, three had no crime at all.”

“Exactly. You’re talking about my work with the Irene Adler papers, the strange case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and the adventure with the man who had a twisted lip. I think this little matter will be just like those—nothing criminal. Do you know Peterson, the hotel doorman?”

“Yes.”

“This hat belongs to him.”

“It’s his hat?”

“No, no; he found it. We don’t know who owns it. I want you to see it not just as an old, worn-out hat, but as a mystery to solve. First, let’s look at how it got here. It arrived on Christmas morning, along with a nice fat goose, which I’m sure is roasting right now in front of Peterson’s fireplace.

“Here’s what happened: around four o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day, Peterson—who, as you know, is a very honest man—was walking home after a small party. As he walked down Tottenham Court Road, he saw a fairly tall man ahead of him. The man was walking unsteadily and carrying a white goose over his shoulder. When the man reached the corner of Goodge Street, a group of troublemakers started a fight with him. One of them knocked off his hat. The man lifted his walking stick to defend himself, and as he swung it, he broke the window of a shop behind him.

“Peterson rushed in to help the man. But the man, scared by the broken window and seeing someone in a uniform running toward him, dropped the goose and ran off into the maze of little streets behind Tottenham Court Road. The troublemakers also ran away when they saw Peterson. So Peterson was left standing there with the hat—and the Christmas goose—as the only things left from the fight.”

“Surely he gave them back to the owner?”

“My dear friend, that’s the problem. It’s true that a little card was tied to the bird’s left leg with the words ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ written on it. And it’s also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are written inside the hat. But there are thousands of people named Baker, and hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city. It’s not easy to know which one is the right person.”

“So what did Peterson do?”

“He brought both the hat and the goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that I enjoy even the smallest mysteries. We kept the goose until this morning, but now it’s starting to go bad, even with the cold weather. So Peterson took it home to eat, which is the normal end for a goose. I still have the hat that was left behind by the man who lost his Christmas dinner.”

“Didn’t he put an ad in the newspaper?”

“No.”

“Then how can you figure out who he is?”

“Only by what we can figure out ourselves.”

“From his hat?”

“Exactly.”

“You must be joking. What can you learn from this old worn-out hat?”

“Here is my magnifying glass. You know how I work. What can you tell about the person who wore this hat?”

I took the old hat in my hands and looked at it carefully, though not very hopefully. It was a plain black hat with a round shape, stiff, and very worn out. The lining had once been red silk, but now it was faded and stained. There was no maker’s name, but, as Holmes had said, the initials “H. B.” were written on one side. The brim had holes for a hat strap, but the strap was gone. The hat was cracked, very dusty, and had stains in many places. It looked like someone had tried to cover the stains with ink.

“I can’t see anything,” I said, handing it back to Holmes.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. But you don’t make guesses from what you see. You are too careful when drawing conclusions.”

“Then, please tell me what you can guess from this hat?”

Holmes picked up the hat and looked at it in that thoughtful, focused way he often did. “It may not tell us everything,” he said, “but there are still some clear clues, and a few others that are quite likely. It is obvious that the man is very intelligent, and also that he was doing well financially about three years ago, though now his situation has become worse. He used to plan ahead, but he doesn’t as much now, which shows his character has slipped. Along with his loss of money, this points to some bad habit—probably drinking. That might also explain why his wife no longer loves him.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“He still has some self-respect,” Holmes went on, ignoring my comment. “He lives a quiet life, stays indoors, doesn’t exercise, is middle-aged, has graying hair that was cut recently, and he uses lime-scented hair cream. Those are the clear facts we can learn from this hat. Also, it is very unlikely that he has gas lighting in his home.”

“You must be joking, Holmes.”

“Not at all. Can it really be that even now, after I’ve told you the results, you can’t see how I figured them out?”

“I must admit I’m quite lost. For example, how do you know he’s intelligent?”

To answer me, Holmes put the hat on his own head. It came down low, almost covering his forehead and nose. “It’s a matter of size,” he said. “A man with a head this big must have a big brain—and likely uses it.”

“And the part about his life getting worse?”

“This hat is about three years old. That’s when hats with flat, curled brims like this came into style. But this hat is also very good quality. Look at the fine silk band and the nice lining. If this man could afford such an expensive hat three years ago, and hasn’t bought a new one since, he has clearly lost money.”

“Well, that does make sense. But what about the planning ahead and his change in behavior?”

Holmes chuckled. “Here’s the planning ahead,” he said, pointing to a small metal piece and loop on the hat. “That’s for a hat strap to keep it from blowing away. They don’t usually come with hats. If he had one added, it shows he used to think ahead. But now that the elastic strap is broken and he hasn’t replaced it, it shows he doesn’t plan as carefully anymore. That’s a sign he’s changed for the worse. Still, he tried to cover the stains on the hat with ink, so he hasn’t given up completely. He still cares a little about how he looks.”

“Your reasoning does make sense,” I said.

“The rest—the fact that he is middle-aged, that his hair is graying, that it was recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream—can all be seen by looking closely inside the hat,” said Holmes. “With my lens, you can see many small hairs that were clearly cut by scissors at the barber. The hairs are a bit sticky, and they smell like lime-cream. Also, this dust is not the rough, gray dust from outside—it’s the soft, brown dust you find indoors. That means the hat has mostly been hanging inside the house. The sweat marks inside show that the man sweats a lot, so he is not in good shape.”

“But you said his wife doesn’t love him anymore.”

“This hat hasn’t been brushed for weeks. Now, Watson, if I ever see you walking around with a hat this dusty, and your wife lets you leave the house like that, I’ll worry that she has stopped caring for you.”

“But maybe he isn’t married.”

“No, he was taking the goose home as a peace-offering for his wife. Don’t forget the card on the goose’s leg.”

“You always have an answer,” I said. “But how can you tell there’s no gas in his house?”

“Well,” said Holmes, “one tallow stain—maybe even two—could happen by accident. But when I see five, it’s clear the man uses tallow candles often. He probably walks upstairs at night with his hat in one hand and a melting candle in the other. You don’t get tallow stains from gas lamps. Satisfied?”

“Well, it’s clever,” I said, laughing. “But since, as you said, no crime has happened and nothing was lost except a goose, this seems like a lot of work for nothing.”

Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but just then the door flew open. Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed in, his face red and full of surprise.

“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

“Huh? What about it? Has it come back to life and flown out the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted around on the sofa to get a better look at Peterson’s excited face.

“Look, sir! Look what my wife found inside its crop!” he cried.

He held out his hand. In the middle of his palm was a bright blue stone, about the size of a bean. It shone so clearly and brightly, it looked like a tiny blue light in the dark center of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up and gave a low whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” he said. “This is quite a find. Do you know what you’ve got?”