The Finality Problem Read online

  By the time we were halfway down the street, I’d managed to pull myself into the cab. I flung myself into the seat across from Holmes, banged the door shut and demanded, “By the gods, Holmes! Whatever were you doing in such a place?”

  Best Horse, get us out of here!

  “I told you, Watson,” he replied, with a languorous sort of disinterest. “I was working on a case.”

  “A case?”

  “Yes, which you are not allowed to help with!” he insisted. “We all know what happens when you do. You get all doomed, remember? And then I am forced to bind your soul to the first woman I can find. Oh, speaking of which: how is Mary?”

  I gave him a very hard look.

  “Well you needn’t be snippy about it, John. I’m sure if I hadn’t done it you’d be dead by now, what with all the intravenous sorcerer bits you were injecting into yourself. And that is why you may not be involved in any further adventures with me. I mean… except maybe this one.”

  My eyes flicked up to him, full of eagerness and hope.

  “Hey! No! Don’t make that face! You can’t come along. Maybe… Maybe you could just give a bit of advice though, eh? I’m a bit stumped, if I tell the truth.”

  Even that was enough to lift my spirits. The idea of solving a case with Holmes again was intoxicating. And he said he was stumped! Perhaps I could prove he needed me.

  “Of course my powers are at your disposal,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Right, but no investigation of any dangerous areas!”

  “Oh, no, no.”

  “And no monster-fighting.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Very well, then,” said Holmes, with a nod. “The facts of the case are these: I was approached by Lilly St. Clair, wife of Neville St. Clair. She was rather upset. Her husband had just disappeared, you see, and the police were at their wits’ end.”

  “No surprise,” I mumbled.

  “No, indeed,” laughed Holmes. “Especially when there are elements of the fantastic in a case, I often find the police’s wits’ end is rather near the police’s wits’ start. Though I confess I have not done much better. This past Monday morning, Mr. St. Clair bid his family adieu at his home near Lee, in Kent. He promised to bring his little boy a box of bricks when he came home. But he never did. It is thought he took the train into town as he did every day to do his job… whatever that is…”

  “You didn’t inquire?”

  “Oh, I did. But Lilly is unsure of the exact nature of her husband’s employment.”

  “She doesn’t know her husband’s job?”

  Holmes shrugged. “There’s some thought he may be a freelance journalist. That’s what he used to do. Two years ago, he wrote a major article on the life of a London beggar that garnered quite a bit of attention. It seems his investigations of London’s more wretched—and therefore more successful—beggars turned up evidence that they made significantly more than your average clerk. Since then, however, very little has appeared in any paper with Neville St. Clair’s name on it. Still, whatever his new job is, it’s fairly lucrative. The family’s fortunes have much improved over the last two years. Yet, whenever he speaks of his employment, he simply says he’s ‘in business’.”

  “And in his defense,” I said, “there’s many a businessman whose job description is a bit vague. Why, I’ve known a few who have so much trouble explaining what it is they actually do that I’ve often suspected they don’t know themselves. Then again, he may have been up to something questionable. Perhaps I am getting a bit ahead of the story, but… given where I found you this evening… is there any chance his ‘business’ may have had something to do with the importation or distribution of heroin?”

  “Very smart, Watson, for the last place he was seen alive was indeed The Bar of Gold.”

  “Seen by whom?”

  “His wife, of all people. And not too long after she’d said goodbye at breakfast. It seems that as soon as he’d left, Lilly turned her attention to the post. One of the letters informed her that a package she’d been awaiting had arrived at the Aberdeen Shipping Company on Fresno Street. Now, Fresno comes just off Upper Swandham Lane. As Lilly came down Swandham, she happened to glance up at one of the windows on the upper story of The Bar of Gold, and who should she happen to see?”

  “Her husband?”

  “Her husband! She gave a cry of surprise and called out to him. She says she’s sure he saw her, for he gave a cry too, and looked down. Lilly was very upset by his expression—he wore a look of terrific fear!”

  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, they did! On a crude table, they found a box of children’s building bricks—just as he promised to bring home to his son earlier that day.”

  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 patt
ern 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 suffered something of a medical-vocabulary malfunction in my first attempt to seek clarification as to his condition.

  “Hot, blazing ninnymuffins! What is that?”

  “Dr. Watson! Language!” Bradstreet urged.

  “He’s right, Watson,” Holmes agreed. “It’s not like you.”

  “Yes, but… but… but…”

  Holmes raised one eyebrow and gave me a broad smile. “I told you he was great.”

  A half-intermitted gasp caused me to turn my attention back to the cell. It was hard to tell if Hugh Boone was sleeping or not. One eye was closed, the other partially open but rolled back into his head. His breathing was tortured; the sounds he made caused us all to wince.

  “Been like that for days now,” said Bradstreet. “Can’t get him to take no food. Poor bastard can’t open his mouth, not even a bit. Got a few ladlefuls of water down him, but that’s all.”

  I shook my head. “That makes no sense. He must have been feeding himself somehow, all this time.”

  “Well he’s in no condition to tell us how,” said Bradstreet with a shrug. “He’s said nary a word the whole time, and frankly, I don’t think he can.”

  “Water is not the critical concern, in any case. And certainly not food,” I told him. “It’s his breathing. Hear how labored it has become? Hear that rattle? His lungs are filling with mucous and he has no power to clear them. See how weak he has become? Something must quickly be done, or this man will smother!”