I considered this a moment. “It is suggestive,” I admitted, “yet hardly conclusive. They could have belonged to anybody. Perhaps Hugh Boone had some use for them. They do not prove Neville St. Clair’s presence in the room.”
“No,” said Holmes, with a mischievous look. “That did not come until later. At the moment Mrs. St. Clair believes she saw her husband in the upstairs window, the Thames was at its height. When it ebbed later that day, Inspector Bradstreet made a troubling discovery. All of Neville St. Clair’s clothes had been shoved into his jacket, tied into a bundle with the jacket’s sleeves and then thrown into the Thames—presumably through one of the windows in Hugh Boone’s room. This impromptu bundle did not float, as the pockets of the jacket had been weighted with 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.”
“Which London’s most successful beggar might certainly have on hand,” I reasoned.
“Ha! Just so!” said Holmes. “And that is why Inspector Bradstreet had Hugh Boone taken into custody, regarding the disappearance of Neville St. Clair.”
“Hmmm… Does that not seem a bit fantastic? From what you say, Hugh Boone does not seem like he’d have been able-bodied enough to murder St. Clair, strip him, dispose of the body, dispose of the clothes, and then somehow escape in the space of time you describe.”
“Ah, but, Watson, there was blood on the window sill!”
“Oh?”
“Yes! Oh, but… but then…” Holmes’s enthusiasm diminished somewhat, and he admitted, “There was rather a bit of blood about everywhere, so…”
“Blood everywhere? What do you mean?”
“Well, the lascar had been foolish enough to say that if Grogsson wanted to get upstairs he’d have to go through him, so…”
“By God! He didn’t!”
“…he pulled the poor fellow straight in half and stepped between the pieces. Quite literally went through him. Thus—as it was Inspector Grogsson who conducted the initial investigation—”
“All the while, dripping with gore…” I moaned.
“—there is some possibility the crime scene may have been compromised.”
“I should say so, Holmes. I should say so.”
I wove my fingers together and tapped them against my lips as I sat, considering. The carriage bounced and swayed, shaking the sleeping cabman. The night was cool and clement and—now that the crowd of heroin-zombies was far behind us—a fine night for an adventure. Best Horse seemed to be trundling roughly back in the direction of my home, so I saw no need to correct him. I sat in the corner, pondering. Yet, I was to have no time to let my thoughts coalesce for Isa Whitney’s eyes suddenly popped open and he cried, “Oh! Agh! What has happened to me? Where am I?”
“You are in a cab,” I told him. “We have rescued you from a filthy drug den.”
“But… why does it hurt so badly?”
“Because you have been poisoning yourself with opium! And corrupting your mind and soul with otherworldly magics!”
“Actually,” said Holmes, pointing one finger at a telltale crease in the cab’s seat, “I think he landed on his keys.”
“Oh. Well, yes. That’s no fun either,” I admitted. “We’ll soon have you put right… There you are!”
Isa Whitney gave a contented smile and slumped into unconsciousness once more.
Holmes gave a sympathetic little snicker and asked, “So what do you make of my case, Watson?”
“Hmmm… Still too many pieces missing to say anything certain. It might be good to speak with Hugh Boone,” I reflected.
Holmes instantly brightened. “Oh, you should, Watson! He’s marvelous! Just marvelous! I say, are we very far from Bow Street? No, I don’t suppose we are. Best Horse! Take us to Bow Street Police Station, please!”
By way of answer, the carriage veered right up Catherine Street.
“That really is an excellent horse you’ve stumbled across,” Holmes noted.
And no less an excellent beggar, Holmes had found. Hugh Boone did not disappoint. As soon as Best Horse trundled to a stop outside the police station, Holmes and I entered to find Inspector Bradstreet having a glum debate with one of his constables regarding the fate of their prisoner. The black bags under Bradstreet’s eyes bespoke a man who owned much more fatigue than hope. Yet, if the local mood was dour, Holmes took no note of it. He sprang at the weary inspector, crying, “Hullo, Bradstreet! This is Watson! He wants to see Boone, please! Yes. Everybody should see Boone.”
Bradstreet must have heard something of me from either Holmes or Grogsson for his eyebrows went up hopefully. “Watson? You’re a medical doctor, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Then perhaps you should see Boone. And better today than tomorrow, for I’m not sure he’d have much use for you then.”
“What? He’s dying?”
“You’d be a better judge than me,” said Bradstreet with a shrug. “Come on then.”
He led us down the corridor to the holding cells, slid back a heavy wooden slat over a barred peephole, and motioned me to look inside.
How shall I describe Hugh Boone?
I suppose I can start with this: he was kicking himself in the chest. His left knee was hideously mangled or… I don’t know… reversed? And though the femur seemed somewhat shortened, the bones of his lower leg had lengthened such that, as they doubled back over his upper leg, they brought his foot to rest just beneath his right shoulder. His right leg twisted into a sort of corkscrew pattern behind him. His arms likewise were bent into grotesque and useless angles that splayed to either side. No two of his fingers faced the same direction. But worst of all was his face. It was as if someone had smeared the right half of his teeth and jaw up and backwards into a macabre grin. It did not seem as if he was even capable of opening and shutting his mouth—perhaps a good thing for his right ear, which he must surely have chewed off if ever this were affected. Such were the severity of his deformities that I
