Dust and Shadow (25 page)

He knocked twice, then swiftly entered. Though the door was unlocked, we saw by the low firelight in the grate that the tidy room was empty.

“She could be anywhere, Holmes,” said I, more to myself than to my friend. “After all, it is—”

“The fifth of November.” He touched the top of the wide candle sitting on her table. “The wax is still soft. She left within thirty minutes.”

“What is the time?”

“Nearly two, by my watch.”

“Is she in danger, Holmes?”

“If my hypothesis is correct, she is in no more danger than you or I. However, I have not a shred of hard evidence to back me, and the only logical alternative is not a pleasant one.”

I tried with all my might to recall the name of the tavern Miss Monk had mentioned as being the first stop on many of her reconnaissance forays. “There is a pub, Holmes, around the corner from her house.”

“The Knight’s Standard, on Old Montague Street. An excellent notion, Doctor.”

The pub in question was a cheery enough watering hole with two fireplaces, one at either end of an elongated rectangle of a room with an impossibly low beamed ceiling. Through the haze of tobacco fumes, I spied a couple seated in shabby armchairs on either side of a simple table, and the female appeared to be blessed with a halo of black curls.

“There she is! She is all right,” I exclaimed.

“Thank God for that.”

“I believe that is Dunlevy,” I added forcefully, unable to forget Holmes’s interest in his proximity to Miss Monk and chafing at the fact that I could not see what was inside my friend’s mind.

“Everything is as I thought, then,” said Holmes, but the jubilation I had expected was entirely missing from his toneless voice. I had no time to question him, for Miss Monk had spied us and was peering our way as if unsure whether to hail or ignore us.

“Shall we speak to them?”

“It can hardly matter now,” he replied with the same chillingly blank inflection.

When we had started toward them, Miss Monk’s pleasure could no longer contain itself as she rushed up to us and threw her arms around Holmes.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I was that worried! Where the devil have you been hiding yourself? But you look awfully pale, Mr. Holmes. Don’t tell me there’s been another murder done—”

My friend stepped back with surprised civility and cleared his throat. “Nothing of that nature, Miss Monk.” He had dropped, I noted, all pretense of an assumed dialect.

“We are very relieved to see you in one piece, Mr. Holmes. You’ve found Blackstone, haven’t you?” asked Dunlevy, his clear blue eyes searching our faces with concern. “What has happened?”

My friend resumed staring into the fire while I related, briefly and
hesitantly, what had occurred. Miss Monk’s face slowly grew more hopeful.

“Then…then, do you mean…if he really is dead, is it the end of this horrid business?”

“I suppose it is the end,” I answered, my eyes fixed on Holmes. “After all, he may not have known what he was doing. And the guilt must have been unspeakable; perhaps the trauma simply unhinged his mind.”

“But that isn’t what Mr. Holmes thinks, is it?” asked Dunlevy, offering us two cigarettes.

The detective accepted the stimulant mechanically and drew a pocketbook from the lining of his pea jacket, handing it to Dunlevy with a stub of lead pencil. “Write something.”

Stephen Dunlevy took the items without protest, but eyed Holmes questioningly. “What shall I write?”

“Anything. ‘Remember, remember the fifth of November, Gunpowder Treason and plot.’”

When Dunlevy had finished, he tore out the page and passed it to my friend. “Is this of any use to you?”

After glancing at it, Holmes balled it up and threw it in the fire. “It is conclusive. If you will excuse me, I must see what can be done.”

“But Mr. Holmes—”

“I’ve a task for you and Miss Monk, if you would be so kind. Go at once to George Lusk’s residence in Mile End. Tell him to meet with his men. They are already arranged into beats, and equipped with police whistles and truncheons, but convey my assertion that they must be flawlessly organized and on the most stringent alert. Afterwards, Miss Monk, do please stay indoors.”

Once outside, Holmes made for Whitechapel Road. I touched my friend on the shoulder predicting resistance, but he paused at once and regarded me expectantly.

“You anticipate another murder.”

“I am in hopes of preventing it. It will require an extraordinary
effort. I need Lestrade’s assistance, but…I must think of a way. Perhaps my brother can—I do not know. Perhaps it is impossible.”

I stared at Holmes in astonishment, for never had I seen him look so completely cowed by his own knowledge.

“You feared it could be Dunlevy.”

“He was one possibility. We are left with the other.”

“Then you do know who the killer is.”

“I do. It is perfectly clear now. But pray God that I am wrong.”

“But why?”

As he passed a hand over his eyes, I recalled that he could not have slept more than twenty hours in the last seven days. For the first time since I had known him, Sherlock Holmes appeared to be exhausted by work rather than by inaction.

“Because if I am right,” he murmured, “I haven’t the first idea what to do.”

I have always been struck by my friend Sherlock Holmes’s temerity in the face of adversity. In all our long years of association, I have never once known his courage to fail him, and his actions later that night, or rather early the next morning, reflected the dauntless tenacity I had come to expect of him. It is a brave man who awakens Mycroft Holmes at four o’clock in the morning.

We stopped at Baker Street for a wash and a change of clothes, but Holmes, on the instant he emerged from his bedroom, announced his intention of going out again.

“You will hardly find it a reflection on you, friend Watson, when I suggest that the fewer individuals storming my dear brother’s rooms at this hour, the better for Queen and country. In any event, I trust he will know better than I what steps should be taken.”

“Can I do anything in your absence?”

“Read all my correspondence the instant it arrives; I shall stop by the post office when it opens to redirect my mail. And get some rest, my dear fellow. You’ll need it, if I have not completely lost my mind.”

The notion of resting initially struck me as ludicrous, yet a hot bath and the reflection that I would be as good as useless that night without some respite soon convinced me to follow Holmes’s advice.
I awoke near nine o’clock that morning and rang for breakfast, little expecting Mrs. Hudson to appear in my doorway in a far more severe fit of temper than I would ever have given the kindly woman credit for. I was told that the mysterious disappearance of two lodgers, during a time when they are known to be in danger, is unspeakably vexing to an affectionate landlady. I soon forged the appropriate truces.

Knowing Holmes’s obsession with presenting a complete case, I was not in the least surprised that I remained in the dark. It was as unlike him to explain a problem before its conclusion as it was for him to leave unfinished threads at the end of one. Something of the detachment of my days in combat entered my bones; there was a war on, and Holmes was the general leading the assault. Even if I could not propose a strategy, now that my friend had returned, I could at least follow orders.

The first telegram for Holmes arrived at half past one in the afternoon and stated, “The officers in question patrol an area bordering Whitechapel and Spitalfields north of Wentworth Street and south of Spital Square. Map follows by post. Abberline.”
*
The second was from Mr. Vandervent of the News Agency, demanding an immediate interview at his offices, with me alone if Holmes still could not be found.

Vandervent’s caveat proved unnecessary, as my friend arrived home at slightly after three in the afternoon in an exceedingly bad temper.

“I believe it is the sole business of government to invent elaborate impediments to swift action,” he snapped, flinging his hat on the settee emphatically.

“Your brother has been taking you round, I see.”

“To hell and back. It is no wonder they depend upon him so. He at once set about notifying the proper channels, which I need hardly tell you took three hours longer than it ought to have done. Mr. Matthews was not without a certain grasp of the problem, however.”

“The Home Secretary!” I exclaimed. “Is it truly as bad as that?”

“I am afraid so. Are there any messages?”

Holmes read his telegrams gravely, then jotted down another. I caught a glimpse of George Lusk’s address on the form.

“Holmes, you really must eat something.”

“No doubt I must. But we must also find a cab, for you do not wish to entertain the notion of inciting Mr. Vandervent’s wrath. I have seen it before.”

“I should like to know what good you think you’ll be to anyone lying helpless in hospital.”

He ignored me. “Come along now, my dear Watson, for in light of the notes you discovered, we’ve every reason to believe Vandervent’s news is no trifling affair.”

The Central News Agency’s offices were located in New Bridge Street in the City, and though I had never seen them, I had been prepared by the air of barely harnessed chaos in the offices of the
London Chronicle
for the thunderous atmosphere within. Pressmen, tweed jackets rumpled and collar ends loosened, flew to and fro throughout the large chamber, comparing papers and smoking endless cigarettes. Few amid the general hubbub glanced our way initially, but those who did so arrested conversations in midsentence as they paused to stare.

“I say, Mr. Holmes—” one began, but he was interrupted by the advent of a whirling dervish wielding a crutch as if it were a pikestaff.

“If you so much as form the thought that this is an opportunity to pose questions to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I shall explore the potential of the typewriter as a deadly weapon,” Mr. Vandervent declared. With a jerk of his white-crowned head, he led us to a private office and elbowed the door shut.

“Thank heaven you’ve returned, Mr. Holmes,” he remarked, relocating stacks of news clippings from the chairs to the floor. “I had determined to meet with Dr. Watson, but it is far better that you both are here. Sit down, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Vandervent, I am afraid we haven’t much time. There have been some recent developments—”

“I wish to inform you of a development, as you call them, which has not yet come to pass. And despite my best efforts to smash it, including the employment of favours, pleas, threats, and my own considerable personal charm, it will nevertheless come to pass early tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Vandervent located what appeared to be the final draft of an article. Seating himself on the edge of his desk with a deft hop, he read it to us.

Holmes whistled appreciatively. I recall a mad desire to use the paper as kindling to burn down its author’s residence.

“I’ve arranged to be kept well apprised of the cur’s pet projects, you see,” Vandervent continued. “This gem has no doubt already gone to the printer’s. I thought to be forewarned is better than nothing.”

“I shall have to take care not to end up in the dock at this rate.”

“The nerve of the scoundrel!” I fumed. “It is no worse than I expected, but it is hardly less vexing for that.”

Vandervent’s brows shot up in surprise. “You have been expecting another attack from this bounder?”

“Dr. Watson and I thought it highly improbable that Tavistock would cease his efforts once he had discovered so very fertile a ground for self-expression,” Holmes explained.

“Ha,” said Vandervent, skeptically. “Well, I have no doubt but that the pure venom of this beauty is due in large part to that caper pulled in his office Saturday night.”

“How extraordinary. And what caper might that be?” the detective asked serenely.

“Surely you’ve heard by now. Chaps ought to be given a knighthood, for my money. Broke untraceably into Tavistock’s office under cover of darkness and left a hailstorm of snowy white chicken feathers. The source of the feathers, a scrawny plucked little fellow, was found sitting in Tavistock’s desk chair presiding over his foul projects.”

A peal of laughter from Holmes caused me very quickly to examine the state of my shoes as he clapped me upon the shoulder. “So he has been shown the white feather. I shall make a point of thanking the culprit. That is, of course, if his identity is ever discovered.”

“Well, as we’re all plagued with troubles, I shan’t take any more of your time,” Vandervent dismissed us. “If you require any special assistance escaping the building, do let me know. There’s nothing those jackals outside would like better than to sink their teeth into Sherlock Holmes an hour or two before his incarceration. Just mention the word
chicken
on your way out if you’d care for a round of applause.”

Tavistock’s article blazed forth from the front page of our
London Chronicle
the next day. However phlegmatically Holmes had taken the news
in Vandervent’s office, the sight of such personal vituperation in our morning mail was enough to make him fling the entire periodical into our fireplace.

“I must leave you for a time, Watson, but I beg that you will be here this evening,” he said after coffee, toast, and his morning pipe. “I’d planned we should visit Lestrade at the Yard tonight, but upon further reflection it seems best to avoid tempting them with my actual presence upon their threshold. The inspector will be here by eight, and we shall see what can be done.”

“I am very glad of it. We have been bullied by a shadow for far too long.”

“He is flesh and blood enough. I assure you, Watson, I don’t mean to hold you in suspense, but I’ve had to be very sure of my facts. Tonight I shall make everything as clear as I can.”

“I will be here.”

“You’ve been both constant and fearless over this wretched business, my dear Watson. It makes you quite invaluable, you know.” I raised my eyes to attempt a response to this unprecedented display of esteem, but he had already risen abruptly and secured his hat. “Tell Mrs. Hudson there will be five for supper. If I am not back by eight, I will have no doubt been arrested. In that case, of course, there will be four.”

As I glanced at my watch for the second time to assure myself it was only a quarter to eight, I heard the clatter of four hooves below our window. Energized by the tension of long-stifled curiosity, I threw open the sitting room door long before our bell rang, and I smiled at the sight of Miss Monk and Stephen Dunlevy climbing the stairs.

When I had ushered them in, I noted that Miss Monk, under her usual dark blue fitted coat, wore a simply tailored linsey
*
dress of deep
beige, narrowly striped with a vivid emerald green the shade of her wide-set eyes.

“Miss Monk, you look lovely.”

“Oh. It’s warmer, over the old skirt. I mean—thank you.”

“He’s right, you know,” Dunlevy observed innocently.

“I believe as I recall your saying so. In the growler. Or was it outside my lodgings? Both, I think.”

“The point bore repeating.” He shrugged cheerily.

“Where’s Mr. Holmes?” Miss Monk inquired.

“He’s due to return at any moment. Ah, Lestrade! Come in, Inspector.”

The doughty Lestrade stood in our doorway as if he had all that week been pursued by rabid dogs and had only just taken the time to change his collar. He shook my hand and nodded to our guests.

“Miss Monk, was it? I’m not likely to forget a single moment of that night. And you are, sir?”

“Mr. Dunlevy is a journalist,” I explained.

“Is he indeed?” Lestrade questioned, with a cold eye.

“He has been assisting us. He was in Whitechapel the night of Martha Tabram’s murder in August.”

“Martha Tabram! It’s a wonder Mr. Holmes doesn’t start investigating the Drebber
*
case again, for all it has to do with Jack the Ripper. I suppose he’ll be here soon?”

“I certainly hope so,” I replied.

As if by magic Sherlock Holmes flung open the door and hung his hat on the peg. “Good evening to you all! I see that Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself. Please do sit down.”

“Here’s the author of this charming note: ‘Whatever you are doing, cease by seven thirty so as to be at Baker Street by eight,’” the inspector pronounced.

“Lestrade, you look very much in need of a drink.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade impatiently, “I’ve no doubt
that whatever you have to say to us is of great importance, but I’ve enough work at the Yard to keep me there all night through as it is. Apart from the heightened patrols, we have the honour of keeping the peace at the Lord Mayor’s Show on Friday. From Guildhall to the Courts of Justice and back again, we are expected to maintain order, prevent demonstration, and repress rioting, all while policing a meat tea for three thousand destitute in the heart of Whitechapel. Suffice it to say that neither of us should be here. We ought by rights to be at the Yard, with me outside the bars and you behind them.”

“Shall we have a bite of supper, then, or shall I begin at once?”

“At once, if you would.” Lestrade seated himself with an expectant air and we all followed suit excepting Holmes, who procured his pipe from the mantelpiece and then leaned against the sideboard as he lit it.

“Very well, then. In the first place, Lestrade, you are going to have to redraw the beats in the northwest corner of Whitechapel abutting Spitalfields, to be implemented tomorrow.”

“Do not toy with me.”

“I am deadly serious.”

“But why?”

“Because the man who calls himself Jack the Ripper is intimately acquainted with them—their exact layout, the constables posted, and the time required for each circuit.”

“That is the most preposterous statement I have ever heard you pronounce.”

“How many other preposterous statements have you known me to make?”

“A great many.”

“And how many of them were true?”

“I’ve no intention of redrawing the beats simply because you imagine someone has stolen the duty roster.”

“He had no need of stealing the duty roster. The person of whom I speak is a Metropolitan police officer.”

A terrible silence settled over the room. Holmes sighed heavily.
“Will you pour the inspector a drink, Watson? I think you will agree he is in need of one.