Dust and Shadow

by Lyndsay Faye

  “Your chain of reasoning is rather terrifying, sir,” said Dr. Agar.

  “What chain of reasoning, Holmes?” I questioned apprehensively.

  “If I can discover a link connecting the victims—shared knowledge of a secret is an excellent example—the hypothesis will, blessedly, shatter,” he returned. “But I have repeated to myself Cui bono? until I can feel the words burned upon my brain, and the only answer is No one. For now, it is clear that any man committing so many motiveless crimes must necessarily be mad. And yet, in order to continue freely committing them…”

  “The culprit cannot have appeared to be mad,” finished Dr. Agar.

  “So I put it to you, Dr. Agar,” Holmes concluded grimly. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “It is a very difficult question to answer with any degree of assurance,” he replied carefully. “After all, is mental illness a sickness of the soul, degeneracy of stock, or a defect of the brain? What you propose is an entirely new form of madness—a monomania lurking beneath a rational mind, aiding itself and disguising itself. Your idea comes closer to the classical definition of pure malevolence than any maniac who lashes out with a frenzied knife. You speak of a complete moral degeneracy, assisted by an affable exterior and a shrewd intelligence.”

  “Precisely,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  “I’m afraid I think it entirely possible,” Dr. Agar replied.

  “Then there is nothing for it,” said my friend. “My thanks for your assistance. If you will excuse me, I have a deal of work ahead of me. Payment for your past services is there, on the table.”

  Dr. Agar quickly attempted to return the notes. “Mr. Holmes, as your neighbour, I would not dream of exacting payment over an emergency.”

  “Then consider it a consulting fee,” my friend smiled. “This way, Watson. We’ll not intrude further upon Dr. Agar’s time.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said the affable young fellow at the door. “If you should feel the need to intrude again, I beg that you will not hesitate! I treated three patients this afternoon—two for insomnia, and one for an ill-disguised preoccupation with opiates. Your visit has quite redeemed the day.”*

  We waved to Dr. Agar and strolled the few steps back to our own door.

  “You appear disturbed, Dr. Watson,” Holmes remarked.

  “I cannot readily believe such men exist outside the realm of fiction designed to horrify the reader,” I admitted, casting about for my key.

  “It is difficult to fathom, I know, for I required weeks to even consider such a nightmare possible.”

  “And you are sure our man is of a kind?” I persisted as we made our way up the stairs.

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  “I cannot begin to think what steps you will take. It is a monster you describe, Holmes.”

  “He is neither a monster nor a beast, but something far more dangerous. I fear that men, when possessed of both utter depravity and absolute conviction, are far more deadly than either. And I begin to fear that such men are nearly impossible to find. But I’ll do it, Watson. I shall have him. I swear to you it shall be done.” Holmes nodded a good night and then, without another word, vanished into the confines of his room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Problem of Whitechapel

  The following morning, I descended from my bedroom to discover Holmes had already finished his breakfast. He had then, I gathered, occupied himself by amassing all our cushions, piling them beneath the settee, supplying himself with an unholy reserve of cigarettes, and then draping himself on the floor with all the incense-shrouded dignity of a heathen god. My greeting went unanswered, so between the hours of eight and nine I devoured an egg and several rashers of bacon over a slow perusal of the Times and Pall Mall.

  “A word with you, Watson, if you can spare the time,” Holmes called out as he discarded the stub of a cigarette in a teacup situated within easy reach.

  “Certainly, Holmes.” I quit the breakfast table and, selecting a cigar from the coal scuttle, settled myself in my armchair.

  “I shan’t tax your patience for longer than is necessary, but it is the curse of the solo investigator that he has no confederate to bend an ear when a problem grows too unwieldy for private conjecture. You have surely realized that our case proceeds upon three lines. The primary—and may I say least fruitful—investigation is that surrounding the Ripper’s actual crimes, which have afforded us shockingly little physical evidence. Although our conference with Dr. Agar last night aids us in a general sense, our quarry still has allowed us no details which could possibly lead to a residence, name, or arrest. The next line of inquiry concerns the proposition that Jack the Ripper, whoever he may be, takes a deal of pleasure in tormenting us. This idea is based on the letter I had in February of last year. It seems he takes nearly as much pleasure in penning taunting notes as he does in committing horrific murders; however, this thirst for correspondence may well prove very dangerous for him, for the slightest physical clue could point to a place of origin and thus prove his ultimate undoing. Am I clear thus far?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Finally there is the matter of the Martha Tabram murder.”

  “You still believe it to have been the work of the Ripper.”

  “I do indeed, but there is another puzzle tied to Tabram’s stabbing, and that is this abstruse tale of Stephen Dunlevy and Johnny Blackstone. Miss Monk had barely been in our employ a week when a strange man approached her claiming to know all about Tabram’s death. Granted, Whitechapel is not a large district, although it is densely populated, and thus it is perfectly possible that she should have instantly met a man connected to the Ripper. But is it probable?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is it not odd that within a few days of our forging an association, Miss Monk should discover a colossal lead quite by accident? The circumstance grows even more inexplicable when one takes into account the source, Mr. Dunlevy himself. I must confess to you that our glimpse of him in the pub that terrible night was not the first time I laid eyes on the man, but it has taken me days to place where I’d seen him before. I saw him the very day we met Miss Monk, as we exited Lambeth Workhouse.”

  My mouth fell open at this revelation. “You are certain?”

  “Entirely. Yet another reason, you see, for Miss Monk to keep a close watch on the fellow.”

  Though I had often noted the peculiarly scientific way in which Holmes at times directed people like pieces on a chessboard, custom had not inured me to it. I shrugged coldly, exasperated by his glibness. “Perhaps Dunlevy and Miss Monk are engaged in a conspiracy against you.”

  My friend only smiled. “You imagine I had not considered that alternative. Rest assured, Miss Monk is not in his employ, or she was not when I engaged her assistance.”

  “Barring any personal bias from the question, how can you be sure?”

  “Because of the scuffed new boots which caused such a fracas last night.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Her old men’s boots had two small symmetrical holes just in the instep where the foot breaks the arch, an almost unbearable condition at this time of year when the wet and the cold are conjoined against one. And yet she did not, for two weeks after I had been paying her, purchase new boots. No, she presumed I was joking when I took her on as a colleague, and she clearly had no competing source of income from Dunlevy. She imagined if I came to my senses and cut off her payments, she would still be ahead by a pound or two, which is enough to keep out of the workhouse.”

  At that moment we detected a slow, lumbering tread upon the staircase. The door swung open to admit the enormous personage of Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of the great detective, whose high position in government office was as unknown to the public as it was vital to the realm. While his formidable acumen could hardly be exaggerated, neither could his martial adherence to habit, which made sightings of him outside the vicinity of Whitehall, his own lodgings in Pall Mall, or the Diogenes Club
exceptional indeed. I at once offered him a chair, but he stood peering down at his brother upon the floor from his own formidable height with profound concern and displeasure mixed in his cutting grey eyes.

  “I was most unpleasantly alarmed about you Sunday when a circulatory from the highest levels was posted directly to my home,” Mycroft Holmes announced. “I trust he will come to no lasting harm?” The latter query was addressed to me, and I shook my head. “Well then, Sherlock, what the devil have you been playing at? You have been pursuing the Whitechapel killer in an egregiously foolhardy manner.”

  “Do sit down, brother Mycroft, you’ll exhaust yourself. You are already exhausting me,” my friend replied, both amused and annoyed by his sibling. “As it happens, we came upon the murder scene entirely by accident.”

  Mycroft Holmes accepted the chair grudgingly, his eyes focused as always upon some vacant middle ground, a gaze which in both men looked like distraction and was in fact the most powerful concentration of thought. “I had wondered. Clever of you to pursue him unarmed, in the dark. I suppose you continued the chase even after the first time you collapsed.”

  I must have looked confused at this remark, for Holmes, with a satirical flourish, pushed up his cuff and further exposed the opposite wrist, which, I had not even noticed, had been more than once bruised and scraped in a fall. “I thought to limit his future activities, but as you can see, rather the opposite has occurred,” he said to his brother.

  “My dear boy, you must take this matter more seriously, really you must.”

  Holmes’s mouth twitched impatiently. “Mycroft, if you imply that I consider the gruesome murders of five helpless women a frivolous concern—”

  “You deliberately misunderstand me.” Mycroft’s expression was as fond as his tone was dry. “It is of immense practical interest, not to mention of course immense sentimental interest to your only sibling, that you leave off rushing single-handedly after dangerous madmen. More is at stake here than has been made clear to you. Whitechapel is a very minor fraction of a vast metropolis, but the effect these crimes are having on the entire nation…Sherlock, surely you see the consequences of failure?”

  “An ever-increasing number of ritually disemboweled prostitutes.”

  “Your morbidity is misplaced,” the elder Holmes sniffed. “Did you see the report on the double murder in the Star?”

  “I looked over it. They are calling for the dismissal of Sir Charles Warren.”

  “Occasionally those zealots hit near to the mark of public opinion. Whitechapel will smash the Empire, they say—a hyperbolic slander, but one which worries us exceedingly. Though I know it doesn’t interest you in the slightest, my boy, the problem of Whitechapel is being amplified to symbolize the problems of an entire nation. Even as we pray for progress, we are beset by anarchists and agitators.”

  “Surely a dilemma more worthy of your attentions than of mine,” my friend observed. “I do not pretend to be the incarnate central clearinghouse of the British government.”

  Mycroft Holmes merely pursed his lips sternly. “You would be shocked, perhaps, to learn of the woes currently assailing Her Majesty from all sides. I am not at liberty to discuss such matters with you, but perhaps you will do me the honour of trusting me. It all looks very bad, Sherlock, and getting worse all the time. The question of Irish autonomy alone has so splintered Parliament that this madman at large among the destitute could plausibly fuel incendiary actions rather than incendiary words. And now I hear rumours that a provocative message was scrawled upon a wall directly implicating the Jews.”

  “I heard the same rumour,” Holmes drawled. “Your Sir Charles erased it, you see.”

  Mycroft sighed with an expression of sorely tried patience. “Can you imagine I do not appreciate your frustration? Perhaps you will be more disposed to consider the political side of this affair when I say that though I have been most anxious to call upon you, I was also asked to do so by an individual whose importance can hardly be exaggerated.”

  Holmes’s eyes softened, but his brow lifted quizzically. “My dear brother, what do you wish me to say? I can offer you nothing but assurances.”

  “On the contrary, you can answer key questions. Mr. George Lusk has sent a petition to Her Highness directly, asking that a reward be offered.”

  “Yes, he has an excellent grasp of the concept of chain of command.”

  “I should like to hear your thoughts.”

  My friend shook his head decisively. “No. The game would hardly be worth the candle: to say nothing of the official force, who are already in it to their necks, I should be required to sift through great masses of useless detritus.”

  “We are in agreement, then. No reward. What other forms of assistance would prove functional?”

  Holmes drew a deep breath. “I need unquestioned access to the evidence held by the City Police and the Yard, no matter what the London Chronicle is inclined to print about me.”

  “I shall ensure the fact.”

  “I need an increase in Whitechapel patrols and a guarantee that they will be manned by competent men.”

  “I’d already anticipated that requirement. The new men were diverted from other districts yesterday. You’ve glanced into the history of the London Monster, I imagine?”

  “My dear Mycroft, what a very novel idea.”

  “Have you any further needs?”

  Holmes looked suddenly very weary. “I need time. If that is all, Mycroft, I wish you good afternoon. I must resume my threads of inquiry.”

  My friend’s elder brother heaved his considerable frame out of our chair. “Sherlock, I know very well that our respective fortes are at cross-purposes. You revel in the minutiae, and I, the macrocosm. You reason backward from the smallest details, while I predict the great events which arise from the soil of the trivial. I rely now entirely upon your own specialty; be active, Sherlock. Come to me immediately if you find yourself in need of aid.”

  “You may report back to that gracious personage that I will shirk at nothing to stop this man.”

  “Indeed, Sherlock, well said. And nor will I. Once you have a case, I shall see to the rest. Mend quickly; I am pleased beyond words you aren’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “My thanks. I quite share your view on that point.”

  “Farewell, then.”

  I saw Mycroft Holmes out. As he stepped from our dwelling onto the street, he turned and grasped my arm with one of his sizeable hands. “Look out for him, Doctor,” he said. “I am dismayed to see my younger brother embroiled in this wretched business, but he can leave no stone unturned. He must act, and act quickly! We all of us depend upon it.”

  As his portly yet erect frame lumbered its slow way down Baker Street toward the neighbouring Dorset Street cab stand, I stood for a moment to breathe in the crisp draughts of the autumn afternoon. Mycroft’s exhortation had lifted my spirits more than any false assurances could have done. My friend possessed remarkable powers of recovery when his mind was set upon it; the same man who had lain ill with nervous prostration for over a month following an arduous case would stop at nothing whilst in the midst of one. I silently vowed that when Sherlock Holmes set himself once more in the path of Jack the Ripper, I would be there beside him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A Man in a Uniform

  Close upon four o’clock the following afternoon Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

  “Miss Monk is here to see you, Mr. Holmes. She’s brought a man with her as well.”

  “Capital, Mrs. Hudson. Send them up!” With a display of energy that surprised me, Holmes leapt to his feet. “We progress, Watson, despite the odds. Miss Monk, how are you?”

  She must have taken the stairs at a run, for we heard the slower steps of her companion still plodding upward. “I’ve brought him!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve followed the grape trail ever since you put me onto it, and strike me dead if I haven’t found him. Took a shilling’s worth of persuading to do it, but he came
round in the end.”

  The man who walked through our doorway was grey and wizened with a prominent nose, deeply furrowed jowls, and an expression of permanent chagrin which we soon learned could shift toward resigned disappointment or deep disdain depending upon immediate circumstance. Just then, his watery blue eyes and obstinate chin seemed to indicate he was even more displeased than was usual.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend cordially, “and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

  “I know who you are,” he snapped, “and I know what you do. What I don’t know is why I’ve been dragged across London to assure you of it.”

  “This is Mr. Matthew Packer,” Miss Monk put in hastily. “He lives across town, right enough, on Berner Street as it happens. Mr. Packer’s digs have a very nice front window to ’em and he uses it to sell fruit out of. Don’t you, Mr. Packer?”

  “Never said I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Packer, I am very gratified to meet you,” said Sherlock Holmes enthusiastically. “Would you care to sit here, by the fire? I find the cold troubling at this time of year, and your rheumatism must render it well-nigh intolerable.”

  “Never said I had rheumatism. But I don’t care how you know it, so don’t bother to tell me,” said Mr. Packer as he made his way to the basket chair.

  “Dr. Watson,” said Holmes, hiding his amusement beneath a mask of perfect innocence, “have I not heard you remark that there is nothing better for rheumatism than a glass of good brandy?”