“I do. It was the ladder that cracked it.”
“The ladder?”
“Yes. You told me Hugh Boone had one installed, leading from the window of his beggar’s roost down to the alley behind The Bar of Gold. Now, what do we know is in the alley?”
“The smiff?”
“Indeed, the smiff. And how long has it been there?”
“About two years, I should say. Since our little misfortune at Baskerville Hall.”
“Just so. Two years—a timeframe that also happens to correspond with Neville St. Clair’s last successful article. Recall that roughly two years ago he wrote an exposé on the profitability of begging—provided the beggar was hideous enough—and that shortly after this article was published, his family’s finances took a turn for the better.”
“What is the significance of that?” Holmes wondered.
“Perhaps nothing,” I said. “But perhaps more clarity shall come once our police friends have done their work. If I am not mistaken, that loud grunting and the sound of twisting metal indicates that Grogsson is seeing to the first task.”
Sure enough, in only a few moments the hulking figure of Torg Grogsson came skulking around the corner on the far side of The Bar of Gold, dragging a twisted iron ladder beside him.
“All done, Torg?”
“Yah. Laddur gone. Can’t use dat side of alley. I put in rocks ’n briks ’n haf a cart I fownd.”
“You found… half a cart?”
“Nah. But horsie got away wif half.”
A lucky thing for the horsie in question, no doubt.
Warlock made a face and wondered, “Um, Watson… why did you have Torg block off an alleyway and tear down that ladder?”
“Because now there is only one way back to the smiff and—more notably—one way away from it. An able-bodied man near the smiff would once have been able to escape out the other side of the alley. Either that or climb the ladder into the upper story of The Bar of Gold. Now, he could only emerge from the alley along the Thames side and onto the bank just before us.”
“Which is important, because…?”
“Because Inspector Bradstreet is about to release his prisoner. Look, here he comes.”
I am not sure that punctuality could normally be counted amongst Inspector Bradstreet’s good qualities, yet I know this much: he was wise enough not to keep Hugh Boone one second longer than he must. Thus, just at the appointed minute, a Black Mariah appeared, trundled up to the bank of the Thames, reversed itself, and stopped. Two constables swung open the back door, from which Inspector Bradstreet promptly ejected Mr. Boone.
“Um… yep… you’re free to go,” he mumbled, then beckoned to the constables to get the bloody hell out of there.
Boone’s confusion lasted only for a moment. When he realized where he was, a sudden, desperate hope grew in his eyes. Weak as he was, he began dragging himself feebly towards the corner to the back alley. He had one arm that was in decent enough shape to pull him along, aided by strange little kicks from the leg which bent across his chest. By God, I do not think I have ever felt such revulsion, wed to such pity. How I yearned to run to him and help him to his goal, if only to stop this horrid spectacle.
Instead, I knocked upon the carriage window. Presently Mrs. St. Clair opened the door and asked, “Yes?”
“I wonder, is that your husband?” I asked.
“Eugh! No! Of course not!”
“Then we must be patient, I fear. I apologize for disturbing you.”
As the door closed, Holmes gave me a strange look. “We know who that is, Watson.”
“Yes, the finest beggar in all London,” I said with a smile.
“Where he go?” Grogsson wondered.
“Ah! Now there is an intelligent question! He is headed for the smiff.”
“But why?” asked Holmes.
“Why, indeed? And while we are at it, why would a man who cannot walk require a ladder to his rooms? Why would he even take rooms on a second floor?”
Holmes and Grogsson both shrugged.
“Because sometimes he can walk,” I said. “The other useful clue was something else you said, Holmes. You reminded me what occurred at the Battle of Baskerville Hall.”
“We cracked the world open?”
“No, not that. What Sir Hugo did to me. You reminded me of the effects of magic on rigid biological materials—how it is especially adroit at bending wood and…”
At that moment, a hideous screaming rang out from the alleyway.
“…bone,” I concluded.
As I spoke the screams began to change. An element of relief crept into them, until finally, they resolved into maniacal laughter.
I turned to Grogsson. “In a few moments, Torg, a gentleman is going to come around that corner and try to make it into the front door of The Bar of Gold. I wonder if you would be so kind as to apprehend him for us.”
“Shure.”
“Unharmed, please.”
“Awwwwww!”
Torg shuffled dutifully off. A few moments later, a figure emerged from the alleyway and clambered towards us. He was trembling and disheveled, dressed only in amazingly dirty underpants. His build was on the slight side, but otherwise totally normal. He made a weak sort of progress towards The Bar of Gold, until Grogsson bounded from the shadows and caught him up in both hands. The poor fellow punched and kicked and screamed, but Torg took little notice. He turned and trundled back towards us, prisoner in hand.
I gave a second knock upon the carriage window and, when the door creaked open, asked, “Mrs. St. Clair, is that your husband?”
She gave a gasp of horror at the bedraggled man and cried, “No! My husband would never… wait… Neville, is it you? Neville?”
She leapt from the carriage and ran straight towards him, calling, “Neville, what has happened? Why do you look like that?” Then, as she came within a dozen feet, she pulled up sharply and added, “Why do you smell like that?” She stood vacillating. Clearly, she was relieved to have her husband back and happy to see he was all right. Well… mostly all right. But the situation was, shall we say, questionable at best, and her expression repeatedly
