by Lyndsay Faye
After traversing a few blocks, passing by greengrocers and newsstands and shipping offices, the remarkably ugly man descended a series of steps into a pub called The Blind Elephant, with gaslights held in iron brackets hanging from either side of its entrance. Without blinking an eye, my friend likewise marched down the steps and opened the door of the tavern, and a rush of warm, ale-scented air passed over us as we entered.
“At last!” the detective exclaimed eagerly. “The best house ale this side of London Bridge, my dear chap, or I am no judge—Perkins positively swears by the place, and by Jove, now I can see the reason.”
All eyes went to Holmes, and then all eyes immediately slid off him again, just as he intended—for in a crowded metropolis, there is no way to skirt attention more effectively than by demanding it. Our surroundings were certainly cozy, for The Blind Elephant was equipped with secondhand club furnishings, so rather than the rough benches and rickety stools typical of such an establishment, Holmes and I sank into faded, scratched leather armchairs, each with a glass of passable porter in his hand.
The hideous figure we had been pursuing, meanwhile, returned to urgent conversation with the bartender just after our drinks had been poured. The proprietor was a short, swarthy, balding fellow with his scant dark hair slicked over his head. His attention to the beggarly man was complete—indeed, deeply sympathetic—and I marveled that such a low figure could command such seeming respect. Holmes was similarly puzzled, and while he appeared to focus on sipping his beer, his blank expression was enough to tell me that he was riveted to the exchange taking place.
“My men have been on it these two hours,” the barman said soothingly. “Come now, Mr. Marwick. It’s not right to see you take on so when you’ve done no ’arm to anyone. I’ve Scott Monty on the prowl, and Leatherfinger Jim as well. ’E’s not likely to escape our clutches.”
“But if he should get away entirely!” gasped the malformed creature, clutching a glass of brown spirits. His voice was as unappealing as the rest of him—a strange mixture of rasp and whine that scraped the ears. “Oh, Mr. Piccone, I would never recover from it. What use has my life been if this deed goes unpunished? I tell you that I would simply expire.”
“Drink up, now, Mr. Marwick,” Mr. Piccone suggested, again lending to the remark an air of deference which I could not begin to fathom.
Mr. Marwick took a sip of what looked like whiskey, but his palsied hand spilled half of it on the tabletop. Mr. Piccone clucked paternally, as only excellent barkeepers can, and wiped up the spill as if it had been his own fault. Then he replaced what had been lost and settled with his elbows upon the bar before his repugnant customer, awaiting further discourse.
“All of this is my accursed doing,” groaned Mr. Marwick. “When I have my hands on him, I’ll—”
“You’ll nothing. Leave it to Monty and Leatherfinger—you know they won’t take long once they’ve run him to ground. ’Ave a speck of patience, Mr. Marwick, only a speck, and all will come right. I promise. Take another sip, and then off ’ome with you, sir.”
“I wouldn’t be able to bear the sight of the place, I tell you—”
“None of that! No indeed. I’ll ’ave none of it, and there’s gospel in your ear. You’ve a dinner to oversee. Trust me. I know what’s best to be done.”
Mr. Marwick finished the drink by holding the tumbler with both his hands. Then, nodding gratefully to the bartender without paying him a cent, he picked up his cane and staggered off.
Holmes was dropping coins on the bar before I had got to my feet, and twenty more seconds saw us outside again, shivering at the wind. I ducked my head, and we ghosted along after the strangely riveting Mr. Marwick. While Holmes yet maintained the pretense of distraction, I could not compel my own eyes to shift from our remarkable quarry, and so gave it up after two blocks as a bad job. To my surprise, he seemed to be leading us directly back to our initial destination. Upon reaching the door of the furniture warehouse, Mr. Marwick scowled at a piece of trash and kicked it off the shallow single step, and then drew out a large key. Upon either side of the wide entrance there were iron railings, one of which he stopped to polish with his stained pocket handkerchief. Then he opened the door and went inside.
“By Jove, he owns the place,” my friend exclaimed softly. “I have never seen anyone behave in a more custodial manner in my life.”
“You noted, of course, that the barman gave him every courtesy.”
“Obviously, yes—it perplexed me for a moment, but now that I have more data, the situation reveals itself without much work required on my part. He could not have been anyone excepting the warehouse’s owner. I ought to have expected as much, when his walking stick was considered.”
“His walking stick, Holmes?”
“Watson, I’ve some suspicion as to who this altogether odd chap is. Should you like your coat back? I confess that taking this many inches off my own height can be taxing when I haven’t mentally prepared for it—one stretches extensively, then resigns oneself to temporary agony, and the like. In any case, I rather think that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will fill the bill perfectly.”
With that remark, Holmes appeared to consider concealment no longer of any use to us, and we quickly exchanged outer garments. My friend then promptly walked to the door Mr. Marwick had entered and pressed the bell.
A sliding panel whipped open, and a pair of rheumy, unlovely eyes glared out at us.
“We’ve closed shop for the night,” grated Mr. Marwick’s strident voice.
“We’re particularly interested in purchasing a curio case, Mr. Marwick,” my friend returned tranquilly.
After a blink, what we could see of the man’s face contorted into a scowl. “I say that we’re closed, confound it! Look elsewhere. Good day!”
“But we are particularly interested in your curio cases, you understand.”
“The devil take you! What can the likes of you know of curio cases?”
“Mr. Marwick, I assure you that I intend the Amateur Mendicant Society no harm whatsoever. My sole interest is in assisting the patient of my medical friend here, and we know that—”
“You know nothing!” the little figure in the window panel screamed viciously. Two unsteady fists banged upon the inner doorframe and then ground into anguished eye sockets. “There is no such thing as the Amateur—”
“Perhaps if I were to introduce myself: I happen to be the employer of a group of street children known as the Baker Street Irregulars. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
The portal snapped shut. Off went the clumsy footsteps, and back they returned accompanied by the faint rattling of keys. When Mr. Marwick opened the door, he gestured at us to enter with an awkward flailing of his arm.
Even if Holmes knew by this point with whom we were dealing, I had not an inkling, and so took in my surroundings rather than ask potentially damaging queries. As a warehouse, the space was organized very poorly indeed: cobwebs and grime covered the major pieces of furniture, while smaller items sat huddled in unappealing clumps, many shrouded beneath cheap linens. An aroma of dust and mildew permeated the place, and the floor did not appear to have been swept at any point during the previous decade. The wide room conveyed the impression of complete dereliction, a graveyard for housewares rather than a display of them. I did not pity those forced to do business there, but I hereby confess I did not envy them either. Additionally, Mr. Marwick did not add any special felicity to the atmosphere, for the hideous fellow still seemed furious at our interruption—although now furious as well as inclined to discourse.
“What’s this now? I’ve heard rumor of your boys. You’re truly Sherlock Holmes?”
“The very same, and at your service,” the detective assented. “This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, whose medical skills are often made use of by St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
“Is Jeremy all right?” M
r. Marwick demanded to know of me next, clutching at my coat sleeve.
“When I left him, nothing indicated to me that his condition had grown at all unstable,” I answered. “He is resting, his injuries have been seen to, and while I did not tend to them myself, I’m confident my colleague did all he could.”
“Well, that’s something, then. It’s not much, but it’s something. Oh, what a wretched day. If you’re Sherlock Holmes, I suppose you know all of it by now,” he accused my friend scornfully.
“I can make a confident and educated surmise, nothing more. I presume the young man . . . Jeremy, did you say?”
“Jeremy Kitchen.”
“Mr. Kitchen, then, was mistaken by street thugs for a rich gentleman and—”
“Wrong. That’s the worst of it,” our host snarled through a clenched jaw. “He wasn’t mistaken for a rich man at all. But since you probably know everything else, I suppose I would do better to show than to tell you.”
“You are hosting the annual dinner tonight, then?” Holmes inquired, a silvery thread of suppressed excitement in his tone.
Mr. Marwick nodded. “If you both will vow to reveal nothing of what you’ve seen here to any living soul, I’ll show it to you, though I have never done such a thing in ten long years. If it were not for your Irregulars, I should not even consider it, but their existence inspires me to trust you. Do I have your word that you will protect my secret?”
When Holmes had given his promise, I readily agreed despite my perplexity, and the three of us walked to the back of the warehouse, entering a smaller room within a great open space that must have once been an office, but now appeared simply a repository for crumbling yellowed papers. A sharply descending staircase was revealed at the back of this chamber, its metal steps and rails spiraling downward, and on the subterranean level, we found ourselves in a hallway lined with more unclaimed furnishings. Mr. Marwick reached behind a featureless bookshelf, and with the smallest click of a concealed lever, it swung to and revealed itself a doorway.
“My God,” I breathed.
“I never imagined I’d see it in person,” Holmes added softly. “Thank you for your confidence, Mr. Marwick. This is truly an unlooked-for pleasure.”
The spacious room we entered, quite as long as the warehouse above us and filled with the happy sounds produced by flowing wine and rollicking cheer, was unmatched for opulence against any I have ever heard report of in England. It was walled in alternating dark carved rosewood and panels of mirror, while above our heads six enormous matched chandeliers blazed forth like small suns. I could spy no servants, but on every surface were heaped the most sumptuous presentations of food: mountains of cakes and jellies, piles of fine cheeses and cold meats, all the fruit it was possible to procure in the middle of winter, seemingly limitless crystal glasses of champagne.
And the people! Such elegance I had never before seen amassed in a single congregation, nor have I witnessed a gathering where the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves and each other more. Every attendee was bedecked in silk, velvet, and lace, and on every face a giddy smile shone forth. Then, with a comprehensive start of understanding, I noticed that a man a few yards distant from me had not shaved in months or perhaps even years, and that another neighbor was missing the farthest joints of three of his fingers, very probably owing to their having been severely frostbitten.
“We’ll walk on through,” muttered Mr. Marwick. “They know nothing of who I am, Mr. Holmes.”
The opposite side of the sumptuous gallery featured a second door, and we exited through it, passing a guard who made a small bow to Mr. Marwick. Here the tunnel seemed to stretch far into the distance, lit all the way by wall sconces.
“There is one guard at the basement’s inner door and one at the ground-floor outer,” said Mr. Marwick. “The mendicants’ entrance, you see, is through a service gate at the opposite end of the warehouse, the part which generally serves as a scrap yard. You, Mr. Holmes, have somehow managed to set eyes upon this year’s ticket, and thereby discovered my address. I assume Jeremy had it on his person?”
“Exactly. The receipt for the curio case was in Mr. Kitchen’s inner pocket.”
Our host led us down the gently sloping corridor until we reached another door, this one quite plain. When we had all taken seats in comfortable armchairs in what appeared to be Mr. Marwick’s actual office, the fire blazing, no one seemed willing to speak at first. Sherlock Holmes, as was usual, took the lead.
“The impoverished boys I pay to be my eyes and ears first told me of the beggars’ feast several years ago,” my friend informed us in a careful tone. “One was very proud when he discovered it was called the Annual Meeting of the Amateur Mendicant Society, for details surrounding the affair seemed a zealously kept secret.”
“So they have been, until today,” Mr. Marwick confirmed ruefully. “Those who had attended were encouraged to speak of it in the wildest terms, as a legend no more plausible than a pot of leprechaun gold.”
“The tickets granting one entrance to the event—the curio case receipt, in this instance, with the warehouse’s address plainly printed—were disseminated only to beggars. Beyond that, all my boys could agree upon was that it was a pauper’s only chance to attend a banquet fit for a king and be dressed free of charge for the occasion, and also that none of them knew the identity of their annual host.”
“Their host is one Mr. Cowderoy Marwick,” the man who seemed the lowest of all beggars sniffed. “And they will never know it. Never. I have a single confidant, and that is Mr. Piccone, who owns a tavern down the street. The rest suppose I am merely a vendor of used furnishings, though to be frank with you, no one ever buys anything, as I’ve deliberately made the ground floor as inhospitable as possible. They also know me as a former tailor who is paid to perform their fittings for the soiree; I’ve amassed a large stock of attire in the dressing rooms below the warehouse. That occupation allows me to drop mysterious hints regarding the ‘true’ organizer of the feast, you understand, and so is ultimately quite useful as regards misdirection. Now, sir, tell me what you believe to have happened today.”
Holmes cocked his dark head in thought. “You have already corrected me on that count—the reason Mr. Kitchen was attacked was not that he was presumed wealthy. But I believe I am right in saying he arrived at the warehouse, perhaps for a fitting, earlier this afternoon?”
Mr. Marwick flinched. “Yes.”
“I presume you make it a hard-and-fast rule no one is ever to depart the premises while wearing the garments, for fear of assault? But Mr. Kitchen was . . . lured away somehow?”
“His equally impoverished lady love had come by a ticket, but thought it fanciful nonsense and had no intention of coming.”
“Ah. Mr. Kitchen wanted to persuade her that the feast was real, lest she throw away a singular opportunity. What could convince her faster than to show her his attire? I fear you will have to enlighten me as to the rest.”
“I have it on the best authority—that of a street Arab, and you know as well as I do, Mr. Holmes, that I mean nothing ironical in that statement—that Jeremy was attacked by the resident ruffian in this neighborhood, a homeless brute who resents the fact that despite his swagger and bluster, he has never been issued an invitation,” Mr. Marwick said in a tone of deepest grief. His voice had somehow become less abrasive than previously, or perhaps it simply grew more pleasant to the ear over time. “His name is Tom Scripps. We believe that when he saw Jeremy’s clothing, he at once surmised that he would be a guest that night and took his revenge, stealing the diamond tiepin I had lent only as an afterthought. I pursued the foolish boy the moment I knew he was gone, but arrived too late. When I was discovered at the scene by the policeman, I admit that panic possessed me and I fled, although rage was not far behindhand. Thanks to my appearance, I am not always treated well by the constables making their rounds, you understand, and do m
y utmost to avoid them.”
We were all silent for several moments. Then Holmes asked, “What actions have you taken, then, save for enlisting local aid to hunt for the guilty party?”
“I’ll not ask how you knew that, for by all accounts, you know practically everything. Yes, Mr. Piccone has roused associates to run this villain down. It was the final straw, Mr. Holmes—Tom Scripps has bullied and bloodied quite enough of his fellow mendicants. He beats them for sport, steals their earnings. No act is too low for the blackguard. I cannot say what precisely Mr. Piccone’s men intend, save that I gave explicit instructions Scripps should be ejected from the area and not harmed in any lasting fashion—but I could think of nothing else to do. Vigilantism is abhorrent to me, but bearing in mind a penniless child was the only witness, I fear formal charges would never hold up in court.”
My friend sat forward in his chair, pressing his fingertips together before his aquiline nose. “Mr. Marwick, while I understand that we are acquainted solely by virtue of reputation, I wonder if you would consent to engage my services in this matter. Allow me to speak with Mr. Piccone, and I swear to you I shall watch this Tom Scripps so doggedly that an ironclad conviction—although perhaps for another crime, I grant—will be ours within the week. Surely it would be better for me to introduce the scoundrel to a stint at hard labor than for your associates to carry any sort of retaliatory violence upon their own consciences, and I assure you that for my part, nothing could be simpler.”
