I shook my head. “That is only natural. I would think nearly any man would, who had just been caught by his wife at such an address.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but we may never know. The next instant, he disappeared from the window. Lilly St. Clair is unsure whether he jumped back of his own accord, or was dragged. Alarmed, she made her way into The Bar of Gold.”
“She what?”
“Well, she was concerned for her husband!”
“Still… Lilly St. Clair must be an exceedingly brave woman.”
“Oh, and determined,” said Holmes. “When she got inside, she was confronted by the tough old lascar who runs the place. She told him she’d seen her husband in an upstairs room and wished to go up and see if he was all right. The lascar told her that was impossible, for he had no second story.”
“A particularly feeble defense,” I noted.
“Especially as he made this claim at the foot of the stairs,” Holmes agreed. “Yet though Mrs. St. Clair insisted those stairs must go somewhere, he would not let her pass. She ran back out into the street and—by happy chance—ran into two police inspectors, talking with two police constables, not fifty yards away.”
“Anybody I might be familiar with?” I asked.
“Bradstreet…”
“I don’t believe I know him.”
“…and Grogsson.”
I gave a low whistle. Lilly St. Clair could hardly have done better. Torg Grogsson was a close friend of Holmes’s and mine. He was in excess of seven feet tall, and about half as wide. As far as I could determine, he was some sort of ogre-like species, doing his best to pass himself off as a regular human. His physical strength was prodigious. However, his ability to self-govern was… shall we say… limited. Add to this his particular fury whenever he learned a woman was in distress. This should in no way be interpreted as noble. It was entirely self-serving. He rather hoped to try kissing a woman some day, and always did his best to seem worthy.
“Things went downhill from there, I suppose?” I asked.
“Well, Inspector Bradstreet was of the opinion that Mrs. St. Clair should come to the station and file a report,” said Holmes.
“And Grogsson’s opinion?”
“Differed. He marched straight in with Mrs. St. Clair and demanded to see the upper story. The lascar—a preposterously brave and stubborn fellow—continued to insist there was no such place and, even if there were, the two of them were not welcome there.”
“And how did that go for him?” I asked, with no small quantity of dread.
“Did you see a lascar there tonight?”
“I did not.”
“Did you at least note the rather impressive bloodstain all across the back stairs?”
“I must have overlooked it.”
“No matter,” said Holmes. “Yet, suffice it to say, the lascar is unlikely to be of any help determining the fate of Neville St. Clair. Not unless I resort to necromancy.”
“Don’t you dare, Holmes!”
“Calm yourself, Watson. I am resorting to you instead. Now, do you want to know what they found upstairs?”
“Please.”
“The entire floor is one open storage area. It has windows on all four sides, looking out over Upper Swandam Lane, the dirty little alley that leads to The Bar of Gold, the dirty little alley behind The Bar of Gold, and the Thames. But the thing that really makes it special is that it is the living chamber of London’s most famous beggar, Hugh Boone!”
“Who?”
“Oh, he’s grand, Watson!” Holmes enthused. “You know how you found the best horse? Well, I’ve found the best beggar. People come from halfway round the city to see him. He’s the most bent and miserable fellow you ever saw! Just hideous! As if every single accident of birth and fortune has inflicted itself upon the same fellow. He pretends to trade in wax vestas, but everybody knows his real money comes from begging. People say he’s made a fortune. And why not? How could anybody give a penny to any other of London’s beggars, once they have seen Hugh Boone? The man is a living miracle! I mean… not a pretty one, you understand, but still…”
“Was he in residence when Grogsson and Mrs. St. Clair arrived?”
“No. He was rolling around outside on the river-facing side of the building. Now, of course he could have been there very recently—it seems he’d had a ladder installed from his upstairs haunt down to the alley behind The Bar of Gold. They found him languishing just around the corner from his ladder, rubbing muck all over his face.”
“Eh? Why would he do that?” I wondered.
Holmes shrugged. “Trade secrets, I suppose. Making himself look more pitiable, I shouldn’t wonder. He was in his underpants—”
“Outside? Where were his clothes?”
“Upstairs in the room, with Grogsson and Mrs. St. Clair. Oh, he had the most wonderful array of begging rags up there. One set for each day of the week. Like a master thespian’s costume closet, he—”
“But he wasn’t wearing any of them? Why not, I wonder…”
Holmes shook his head with annoyance. “Look here, Watson: if I ever meet Lancelot, I do not intend to question his swordsmanship. If I have lunch with Mozart, you will not see me nitpick the notes he chooses. Nor do I intend to second-guess the begging acumen of Mr. Hugh Boone. What I would do, Watson, is stand in humble awe, marveling at a man who has managed to perfect one of the earthly arts, and in so doing, to touch the divine.”
He gave me the sort of look one directs at an absolute philistine, who has no appreciation for the finer things in life. I gave him the sort one gives to someone who supposedly has a point to come to, but is failing to do so. To prompt him, I asked, “And in this singular beggar’s chambers, did our erstwhile heroes find any trace of the missing man, Neville St. Clair?”
“Oh! Yes,
