II

Holmes flicked the horse, and we drove away through the endless chain of empty streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad bridge, with the dark river flowing slowly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull deserted area, in the silence we could hear only the heavy, regular steps of the policeman. The dark clouds were drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled here and there. Holmes drove in silence, with his head dropped upon his breast, and the look of a man who is lost in thought. I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be. It seemed to occupy his mind so sorely, but I was afraid to interrupt him. We had driven several miles, and were coming close to suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe looking like a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

“You have a great gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you a wonderful companion. I need someone to talk to, because my own thoughts are not so pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door.”

“You forget that I know nothing about it.”

“I’ll have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can’t solve it. There’s plenty of thread, of course, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll describe the case clearly and shortly to you, Watson, and maybe you can see the light where all is dark to me.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Some years ago—in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, whose name was Neville St. Clair, who seemed to have lots of money. He took a large villa, laid out a very nice garden , and lived generally in good style. Little by little he made friends in the neighborhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, and now they have two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the train at 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years old, is a man of modest habits, a good husband, a very loving father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment amount to 88 pounds 10 shillings, while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit  in the Capital and Counties Bank. So there is no reason to think that money troubles have been pressing him.

“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual. He said before he went away that he had two important commissions for that day, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance , his wife received a telegram the same Monday, very shortly after his departure, that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you know London very well, you remember that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me tonight. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, went to the City, did some shopping, came to the company’s office, got her packet, and at exactly 4:35 she was walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far? ”

“It is very clear.”

“If you remember, Monday was a very hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, looking around as she hoped to see a cab, because she did not like the neighborhood where she was. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an exclamation or cry, and was struck cold  to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, calling her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly anxious. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then disappeared from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. The only thing which she could notice with her quick feminine eye  was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had gone to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

“Convinced that something was wrong with him, she ran down the steps—because the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me tonight—and running through the front room she tried to climb up the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs , however, she met this Lascar of whom I have spoken, who pushed her back and, with a help of a guard, let her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she ran down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street several constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, on the whole floor there was no one except for a crippled man of an ugly appearance, who, it seems, lived there. Both he and the Lascar swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. They denied everything so positively  that the inspector was uncertain, and had almost begun to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had the delusion when, with a cry, she ran to a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell the children’s bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

“This discovery, and the evident confusion of the cripple, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to a terrible crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were seen upon the windowsill, and several drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, except for his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of it, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. He must have gone out of the window, because no other exit could be discovered, and many bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, because the tide was at its highest point at the moment of the tragedy.

“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately involved in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the shadowy past , but, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he has been at the foot of the stair within a few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, so he could have been only an accessory to the crime. He denied everything, and he protested that he knew nothing about the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not explain the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes.

“That’s all about the Lascar manager. Now for the horrible cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes saw Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his anxious face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, but to avoid the police regulations he pretends to sell matches. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have noticed, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and because he looks piteous, a small rain of charity falls into the dirty leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the amount of money he got in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without looking at him. A shock of orange hair , a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of dark eyes, which present a contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out amoung the common crowd of beggars and so, too, does his wit, for he is always ready with a reply to the nonsence which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man who has been the lodger at the opium den and the last man to see the gentleman for whom we are looking.”

“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done against a man in the prime of life ?”

“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a strong man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one part is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”

“Please continue your story.”

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was accompanied home in a cab by the police, as her presence could not be useful to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the crime scene, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter . There had been made one mistake: Boone was not arrested immediately, he had a few minutes during which he might have communicated with Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was caught and searched, but nothing suspicious was found. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirtsleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there certainly came from the same source. He denied having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s claim that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he said that she must have been mad or dreaming. He was taken, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained at the crime scene in the hope that, when the water is gone, some fresh clew may appear.

“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mudbank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair. And what do you think they found in the pockets?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 halfpennies. It was no wonder  that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a strong stream between the wharf and the house. It is possible that the weighted coat had remained when the body had been swept away into the river.”

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed only in a coat?”

“No, Watson, but the facts might be explained. Suppose that this man Boone had thrown Neville St. Clair through the window, there is nobody who could have seen it. What would he do then? He would of course try to get rid of the victim’s clothes by throwing it out of the window. Then it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, because he has heard the noise downstairs when the wife tried to make her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from the proprietor that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not a moment to be lost. He runs to some secret hiding place, where he has kept his pennies, and he puts as many coins as he can into the pockets to make sure the coat would sink. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the rest, but he had heard the steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”

“It certainly sounds probable.”

“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better . Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but there had never before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been very quiet and innocent. The questions we have to solve—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when he was there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance  – they are all as far from a solution as ever. To tell the truth I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance  so simple, but which was so difficult.”