Holmes
interrupted, “you think it is murder? Lady Broxton, if you expect my help,
there must be no more mystery. Just what is this Amateur Mendicant Society?”
“I’m afraid it
might be a little hard for you to understand our motives. We’re a group of
people, rather wealthy people I suppose, who find pleasure in deliberately
leading a seamy life disguised as beggars. We use the basement that you were in
last night, doctor, as our headquarters. We keep our beggar’s clothes there,
and change out of them before we go home.”
“What a
fantastic idea,” I said, disgruntled by the whole thing.
“What a futile
and worthless way of spending your leisure time, Lady Broxton.”
“I suppose it
must seem so, Mr. Holmes. But we are curious to learn how the other half lives.
Of course, there’s a certain thrill in rubbing shoulders with the police. At
least we do some good.”
“Indeed?” Holmes
said with curiosity, “I should be interested to learn how.”
“The money we
make as beggars we give to charity.”
“Oh, do you
really? And you feel that this gesture on your part absolves you from any
responsibility to the real beggars whose livelihood you are impairing!” Holmes
said in disgust.
“I hadn’t
thought of it just like that,” admitted Lady Broxton, “Then, I suppose you won’t
want to help us, Mr. Holmes?”
“That’s quite
another matter, madam. As a professional detective I cannot afford to be a
moralist. Yes, I will investigate this case for you, though I warn you my fee
will be an extremely high one!”
“Money doesn’t
matter, Mr. Holmes, as long as we can solve Julian’s death without bringing the
police into the case.”
“Lady Broxton,” Holmes
snapped, “Who is the dead man? The man you refer to as Julian?”
“Julian Trevor,
the poet. He was the one who started our society.”
“Julian Trevor,
yes, I’ve read some of his work. Decadent. Distinctly decadent.”
“What makes you
think that he was murdered, Lady Broxton?” I asked.
“After you left
last night, Dr. Watson, there was a terrible scene. Do you remember Sidney Holt?”
“Was he the tall
fellow who was so unpleasant to me?”
“Yes, that’s the
one. He said that he saw Lord Cecil deliberately trip Julian as he came to the
head of the staircase.”
“Lord Cecil
being whom?” asked Holmes.
“Lord Cecil
Dearingforth, son of the Earl of Meerschaum. There was a bitter argument. Cecil
accused Sidney of doing the same thing to Julian. They had a dreadful fight,
ending up with Cecil threatening to go to the police. That’s when we decided to
send a telegram to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“So, the proof
of murder depends on such flimsy evidence as to whether the dead man fell or
was pushed.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Lady
Broxton begged, “even though you don’t approve, please help us, won’t you?”
Holmes, in his
own dramatic way, moved to the window, staring out at the endless rain, deep in
thought. He turned suddenly towards us.
“Yes, Lady
Broxton, I will.”
“Then you’ll
come back with me now to our headquarters?”
“I shall join
you within the hour. In the meantime, my old friend Dr. Watson can go with you.”
“But Holmes,” I
protested, “what can I do without you?”
“You know my
methods, Watson. Act accordingly.”
“Very well, Mr.
Holmes, I shall take Dr. Watson with me. But you promise you’ll be there?”
“I promise you
that I will be there, madam.”
I looked at
Holmes in puzzlement, but he averted his eyes. Lady Broxton stood and went to
the door; I following reluctantly.
“Lady Broxton, I’ll
meet you at your carriage. I want to get my hat and coat,” I said as an excuse
to stay a moment.
As Lady Broxton
continued down stairs I turned to Holmes in agitation.
“Holmes, what
are you up to?”
“Go with her and
ask me no more questions,” he whispered, “I shall join you within the hour.”
“Holmes, there’s
a glint in your eye,” I returned, “I don’t think
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