Dust and Shadow (20 page)

An inauspicious grumble of assent erupted from the gathering crowd.

“Turn around and tell us all what the devil you think you’re doing in the Chapel, you bleeding pig!”

Holmes rolled his eyes at this equation of him with a Scotland Yard detective but otherwise made no sign.

“You think,” screamed the fellow, whose voice I was beginning heartily to loathe, “that you’ll get away with it? Knifing all those beauties, you think there’s no one of us with a knife for you?”

“Watson, if you happen to lay eyes on an officer before I do, just signal him, will you?” Holmes remarked, his right hand in his pocket and the other tightening its grip on his weighted stick.

“So help us, we protect our own, don’t we, lads?” cried our antagonist.

“How is your arm?”

“Good for a blow or two at best. I would welcome your revolver.”

“You’ll have to make do with my fists.” Though my eyes searched the streets for police, by a great stroke of misfortune I could see none.

“We are close enough to the Aldgate underground stop,” Holmes noted.

“What are our chances at running?”

“Poor, with your leg to consider. We’ve already walked—”

“Holmes, they don’t want me.”

“If I knew that to be true, I might take to my heels. As matters stand, you’ll have to endure my company a while longer.”

Just when we reached a crossroads, several of the gang behind us burst forward and encircled us from the front. I turned slowly round. To my dismay, nearly thirty men had joined the preposterous procession, and ten more lined up to prevent our progress.

“I don’t suppose we could have a word with them?” I asked in as easy a tone as I could manage.

“We’ll serve them as they served Catherine Eddowes!” shouted the odious little devil.

Holmes at last turned with a look of deadly resolve in his iron-grey eyes. “It is not a scheme which is likely to work, you realize.”

“Still, for lack of a better one…” I hissed.

“Gentlemen,” Holmes announced, “I have no notion of what you are pursuing, but as it appears to mean a great deal to you, I am prepared to offer my wholehearted assistance!”

This remark did not soothe the mob, but it had the distinct virtue of puzzling it. One or two people chuckled morbidly, and others raised their fists.

“You know what we’re after right enough, or you’d ha’ been walking a good deal slower, you bloody ’tec.”

“It appears that you are pursuing
me,
” Holmes replied pleasantly. “But I can think of no reason for doing so unless you meant to procure my help. I am known for my skills in the art of detection. I will say this once, and once only: I have been seen in the vicinity of the Ripper because I have been striving with all my might to rid your neighbourhood of him.”

Several members of the crowd regarded Holmes with fresh interest at this defiant declaration, but their sympathy proved to be short-lived.

“You were seen!” mocked a club-wielding ruffian, starting forward. “What good is the word of a cold-blooded killer?”

“You, sir, are from West Yorkshire, I observe.”

The brute stopped in his tracks. “Here now! How in hell d’ye know that?”

“You have hunted rabbits in your time, I suppose?”

“So what if I have done,” he scowled.

“You were very near them when you did so. Have you ever been mistaken for one?”

The metaphor, apt as it was, drew laughter from several patches of the assembly while others, sensing an oblique insult, tightened their grips on their makeshift weapons and advanced spitting curses at the pair of us.

“Perhaps something a shade more conciliatory,” I suggested.

“You truly imagined I could argue our way out of this?” Holmes demanded, sidestepping so that we were back to back.

“No,” I replied quietly, turning my head, “but they have now
allowed a slight gap. I am going to tackle that pockmarked lad with the shovel. When I’ve knocked him down, I fully expect you to run like the devil.”

We pivoted slowly, our eyes fixed on the hostile circle. “You are mad,” Holmes hissed, “if you think I am—” Then all at once, arresting both his speech and his movement suddenly, he caught me by the sleeve and inexplicably smiled in delight.

“Man Jack!” he cried. “What possessed you to join this misguided lot?”

I stared in astonishment. A man with an enormous frame and a livid scar running straight from his temple down across his nose and deep into his cheek stepped forward through the crowd.

“Now, I know for a fact,” he said in rumbling baritone, “that this is no night for Sherlock Holmes to be abroad in the Chapel.”

“Man Jack, I am overjoyed to see you.”

“I can’t say as I feel the same, Mr. Holmes.”

“The papers say he’s the Knife!” bellowed a surly youth.

“We’ll send him to hell this very night!”

“And what say you, Man Jack?” my friend asked. “It’s quite a little work of fiction.”

“You know as well as I do it’s the boy as can read,” he growled dismissively. “Now, be off. Or I won’t spend so long talking the next time.”

“There he is safe as a lamb,” called the villain who had started it all. “We’ve jawed long enough. I’ve a knife here, will serve him!”

“And I!” cried another.

“You’re none of you fit for proper policing,” Man Jack said calmly, but his voice reverberated through buildings. “You there! Let these fellows pass. Be off, now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They obey me when they’ve a mind, but when they don’t, God help the man they take a grudge against.”

“My thanks. This way, Watson.”

Though their faces were scowling, and a few, including the burly
Yorkshireman, ventured to spit in our direction, our opponents parted as if a curtain had been drawn.

“Who in God’s name was that fellow?” I asked in amazement.

“Man Jack? He is a prizefighter.”

“You know him from the ring, then, I suppose?”

“No indeed, my dear fellow. You’re sporting man enough to know my weight class and his ought not to intermingle.”

“He saved us from a terrible brawl for no reason I can see.”

“That is because you do not know his full name. Man Jack Hawkins has a family member in my immediate employ. I must confess, my dear fellow, when I amassed the Irregular force all those years ago, I never imagined that any of their parents would be called upon to vouch for my good name. Though God knows few enough of them have any parents.” Holmes sighed, as a wave of exhaustion seemed to pass over him. “Little Hawkins has just earned another sizeable bonus. There is a cab, my dear fellow, and if we make a dash at him, I think he shall just see us.”

I saw nothing of my friend the next day until nearly eight o’clock, when an exceedingly disheveled character wearing the filthy oilskins and the high boots of the men who risk their lives raking the sewers for coins saluted me and disappeared into Holmes’s bedroom. In half an hour he emerged again in grey tweeds, collected his pipe, and sat down at the table with the look of a man who relishes the work ahead of him.

“And what has that scavenger been doing today?”

“He has set foot in realms where Sherlock Holmes, temporarily at least, dares not tread. What is for supper?”

“Mrs. Hudson spoke of lamb.”

“Admirable woman. Just ring the bell, my dear fellow. I haven’t thought of food since early this morning, for there was a great deal of work to be done.”

“You have been in the East-end?”

“Well, for part of the day. I had other errands. I’ve stopped by the Yard, for instance.”

“In that getup?” I laughed.

“I demanded to see Inspector Lestrade. I revealed I had pressing information to relate, which would profit him immensely. His colleagues hesitated. Then I was forced to admonish them that if I went with my information to the papers instead, they would look rather foolish. This suggestion altered their mood, and I was in Lestrade’s office a moment later. I revealed my identity, much to the good inspector’s irritation, and I asked him some key questions.”

“Such as?”

“In the first place, the force are very put out by this Tavistock mongrel’s theorizing but are also anxious to avoid accusations of favouritism. Some of the more active fellows have suggested arresting me in the interests of thoroughness and public opinion.”

“On what evidence, in God’s name?”

“Incredibly, there really was a bloody knife found discarded a few streets away from Catherine Eddowes, but Lestrade never bothered to mention it to us because it was so unlike the double-sided blade which the Ripper used. Its discovery was a complete coincidence, but the villainous mind of either Leslie Tavistock or his foul source hit upon the happy notion that Eddowes could have wielded it in defense. In such a state of panic, it counts for nothing that any British jury would dismiss the whole tale in the blink of an eye. I can’t even bring charges of libel, for he hasn’t penned an untrue word.”

“Surely he has gone too far!” I protested.

“Watson, if the newspapers could be punished for speculation, every publication in England would soon enough be bankrupted. After I quit the Yard, I made my way to Whitechapel and looked in on Stephen Dunlevy. He proclaims his innocence in the strongest terms.”

“No doubt that is to be expected,” I said tightly, while privately thinking that if Dunlevy continued to operate under false pretenses with us, all the while endeavouring to enter the good graces of Miss Monk, I would have scant choice but to throw him in the Thames.

“I am inclined to believe him,” Holmes mused. “Indeed, I feel ever
more certain that there is a malevolent force at work determined to impede my progress. Perhaps my mind detects conspiracy where none exists, but these small persecutions play directly into the Ripper’s hands by tying mine.”

“I should hardly call them small persecutions.”

My friend waved his pipe dismissively. “I’ve nothing further to report on the subject, for we can hardly know more until we have seen Tavistock.”

“We intend to see Tavistock?”

“We are to meet him at Simpson’s for cigars at ten.”

“You will then be able to claim acquaintance with the lowest form of life in London other than Jack the Ripper,” I stated dourly.

Holmes laughed. “Well, well, we go into it with the comfort of a good day’s labour behind us.”

“But what else have you been doing, Holmes? You left early this morning.”

“My time has not been wasted, I assure you. Ah! Here is Mrs. Hudson, and I beg your permission to confine my attentions to the tray she carries with her.”

That night, as many others had been that October, was shrouded in pungent fog, and we wrapped our mufflers tight about our faces and ducked our heads as if we walked against a strong wind. Despite the company which awaited us there, I was heartily glad to finally discern, nearly five yards in front of us, the façade of Simpson’s glimmer through the murk of the atmosphere.

The polished mahogany and gentle clink of crystal and silver improved my spirits, at least until we found ourselves in a private salon with a fire in the grate and stately palms in the corners, for it was then I laid eyes once more on Leslie Tavistock. In his office I had hardly taken notice of his physique, but now I saw he stood rather below average in height, with sharp, alert brown eyes which bespoke cunning rather
than intellect. His light brown, slicked-back hair and expressive hands enhanced the impression of a man who had ascended to his current position by whatever means he had thought necessary.

“It is an honour to meet you in person, Mr. Holmes,” he cried, approaching my friend with a hand outstretched, which my friend studiously ignored. “Ah, well,” he continued, turning the failed greeting into a flourish of understanding with a flick of the wrist, “I can hardly blame you. Public figures grow so accustomed to hearing their praises sung by the adoring masses that any censure can be most disconcerting.”

“Particularly when said masses take it into their heads to kill you,” Holmes replied dryly.

“By Jove!” Tavistock exclaimed. “You didn’t venture into the East-end again, did you? It isn’t a safe neighbourhood, you know. But how you interest me, Mr. Holmes. Would you care to elaborate on what you were doing there?”

My friend smiled the slow, frigid smile of a bird of prey. “Mr. Tavistock, beyond the facts that you are a bachelor, a snuff user, a union advocate, and a gambler, I know nothing whatever about you. However, I do know that if you refuse to reveal to me your source for these damning articles, you will very soon come to regret it.”

While I was familiar enough with Holmes’s methods to note the disheveled attire, the fine dust on his shirt cuff, the discreet pin, and the two open racing periodicals upon the table, the journalist was not. A twinge of fear crossed Tavistock’s features, though he attempted to hide his chagrin with a laugh while he poured three glasses of brandy.

“So you can make clever guesses about people. I thought that an invention of Dr. Watson’s admirable style.”

“The guesses, as you term them, are in fact the very least stylistic aspect of the good doctor’s literary efforts.”

Tavistock handed us two snifters of brandy, which we accepted, though I have never been less inclined to share a drink with anyone in my life. “Mr. Holmes, you seem to have got it into your head that
I have done something terribly wrong. I assure you, though my humble pieces may have afforded you some temporary inconvenience—which, believe me, I heartily regret—my responsibility is to inform the public.”

“Do you really wish to act in the public interest?” Holmes asked.

“Without question, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then tell me who approached you.”

“You must understand that is impossible,” the insufferable man replied smugly, “for his interests are also those of defending the populace, even if it means defending them from you.”

“If you dare to imply to our faces again that my friend is capable of such barbarities, you will answer for it to me,” I could not help but interject in fury.

“We are going,” Holmes said quietly, setting his glass down untouched.

“Wait!” Tavistock called out, anxiety clouding his clever features. “Mr. Holmes, I am a fair man. If you were to grant me an interview, I assure you our next publication would present you in a very different light indeed.”

“Mr. Tavistock, it should not shock you to hear that you are the very last person in London to whom I would entrust any words on that subject,” my friend replied icily.

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but that is absurd. You have the opportunity to emerge from the mud a figure of the purest intentions.”

“You are dreaming.”

“It is the most compelling story in decades!” he cried. “Sherlock Holmes, noble sentinel of justice or perverse scourge of carnality? All you have to do is provide me with a few salient details.”

“If you will not reveal your source, you are not of the slightest use to me.”

Tavistock’s eyes narrowed slyly. “Do you really think your investigation stands any chance of success if the residents of Whitechapel consider you the killer?”

Holmes shrugged, but I could see from the tightening of his jaw that the same thought had crossed his mind.

“Come, now.” The reporter pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket. “Just a few statements, and we’ll make the most stirring headline you’ve ever set eyes on.”

“Good night, Mr. Tavistock.”

“But your career!” Tavistock protested desperately. “Can’t you see, it doesn’t matter to me, so long as the story is mine!”

Holmes shook his head, disgust at the pressman’s admission clouding his brow. “I think the air is cleaner out of doors, Watson.”

Outside, the acrid atmosphere remained viscous and faintly sickening. Cabs could not operate in such weather, so we walked toward Regent Street in silence, each lost in uneasy reflections. I could not help but agree with Tavistock’s taunting declaration: if feelings against Holmes continued to run as high as they had the night before, not merely his investigation but his very life was in danger.

We had nearly reached Baker Street when Holmes broke the silence. “You are entirely correct, my dear fellow. I cannot hope to act with impunity in Whitechapel while Tavistock’s slanders still retain their power. In the last five minutes, you have glanced at my profile four times; you are right in observing that the
London Chronicle
’s illustration was disturbingly accurate, and we both suffered the results last night.”

I smiled in spite of myself, and Holmes sighed ruefully. “It’s a lucky thing I have only one confidant. Explaining myself only knocks little holes in the masonry of my reputation.”

“Your reputation—”

“Has greater problems just now, to be sure. I am glad I have laid eyes on Tavistock, in any event. I was willing to take your word he was a scoundrel, but there is nothing like exposure to the genuine article. He let one curious phrase drop.”

“Did he?”

“He said his source wished to protect the populace. If he thinks the populace will be any better off without me, he is either a lunatic
himself or a—” I waited hopefully, but soon Holmes shook his head and continued. “We can discard one hypothesis—that this Tavistock cur has some reason to persecute me. He made it nauseatingly clear I could be inducted as prime minister or be drawn and quartered with my head on a pike just so long as he is allowed to write it up.”

“Is there anything I can do, Holmes?”

We had reached our own door, though it was barely discernible through the gloom. “No, no, my dear fellow. I fear that it is I who must act. And act I shall.”

That night Holmes folded himself into his armchair with one knee drawn up to his chin, staring fixedly at the numbers on the torn page from the Ripper’s gift of a cigarette case. For more than an hour he remained in the same position with his eyes nearly closed, as still and solitary as an oracle, smoking endless bowls of shag, until I retired to bed and my own ruminations about the trials before us.

The next morning I found a note in my friend’s clear, fastidious script wedged under the butter dish.

I need hardly state that the postscript rather worked against Holmes’s prior instruction not to fear for his own safety. While acknowledging to myself that he could indeed work more efficiently alone, and had done so during many of our shared cases, unbidden thoughts also flew into my mind of occasions when the danger had proven too great for one man, even if that one man was Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head round the edge of the door. “It’s Miss Monk to see you, Dr. Watson.”

Our colleague’s expressive features were weighted with concern. She pulled off a new pair of gloves and concealed them in a pocket.

“Good afternoon, Miss Monk.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s just offered tea, though it ain’t my usual time. She is a dear one, isn’t she?”

“Please sit down. I am delighted to see you, considering—”

“Considering I’ve been sacked?” she asked with the trace of a smile.

“Good heavens, no!”

I handed the note to her, and her eyes flew back to mine in alarm. “What’s he up to all alone, then?”

“I am afraid that Sherlock Holmes is the most solitary man I have ever encountered in my travels on three separate continents. I have no more idea what he is doing than you do.”

Biting her lip, she approached the fire I’d allowed to die down and stabbed it combatively with the fire iron. “I’ve had a telegram from him this morning before breakfast. I ain’t getting paid for sitting in pubs chatting up drunken judies,” she declared, straightening. “What can we do?”

“Your sitting in pubs certainly led us to some intriguing results last time.”

“It’s a gift, I’ll own. But the well’s run a mite dry. Thought I’d hit a good line t’other day, but her idea the Knife can transport himself by electricity sort of threw a wet blanket on the rest of her story. Poor Miss Lacey. It’s the laudanum, I promise you. What else?”

“Miss Monk, as much as may be dark to us, I’ve learned that most
of it is generally clear to Holmes,” I pointed out. “It may be foolish to take any precipitate steps.”