Dust and Shadow

by Lyndsay Faye

  “Many times, Holmes. Might I pour you a glass, Mr. Packer?”

  “You might, and then this young woman can start explaining why an old man can’t be left in peace to tend his shop of a morning.”

  “You see, Mr. Holmes,” obliged Miss Monk, “there I was walking down Berner Street when I sees that Mr. Packer has a mess of fresh black grapes in his window. Then it comes to me—that poor woman what was killed near the club! She’d a stalk of grapes in her hand. The same kind you sell, Mr. Packer,” she added with a radiant smile. “Black ones, if you please.”

  “I suppose you mean to say I killed her,” sneered the old scoundrel, “and you have brought me to these gentlemen for interrogation.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Mr. Packer,” said Holmes sadly. “In fact, I’m afraid it’s nearly an impossibility that you may have seen anything of use.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling this young madwoman.”

  “Our only hope of success would hinge upon your having seen a woman with a flower pinned to her jacket on that evening. Red, backed by white fern. But as I’ve said, the situation is quite hopeless. This Jack the Ripper seems far too clever for any of us.”

  Mr. Packer’s face shifted slowly from contempt to condescension as he sipped his brandy. “You say a red flower pinned to her jacket?”

  “Yes,” sighed the detective. “Futile, is it not?”

  “Funny thing is, I do seem to recall having sold grapes to a woman with a red flower; the man paid for them, of course, but she was standing there the whole time.”

  “Really? That is a strange coincidence. I don’t suppose you recall anything else about her face or figure?”

  “She was a sad sort,” Mr. Packer replied, “fair-complected, dark curls, and dressed all in black—black skirt, black bonnet, dark bodice—with fur trim on her jacket.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes replied coolly.

  “She had what I might call a strong face—square-jawed, high cheekbones, if you understand me.”

  “And her companion?” Holmes appeared as nonchalant as ever, but I could see he was entirely engrossed.

  “He was a plain fellow—not thin, of healthy build, I suppose, average height. Simply dressed, like a clerk or a shopkeeper. And he wore no gloves. A frock coat and hat but no gloves.”

  “You interest me exceedingly, Mr. Packer.” My friend’s zeal was beginning to infuse his tone. “And his face? Can you describe the fellow?”

  “He had regular features, clean shaven, wearing a cloth hat. I’d seen him before, to be sure.”

  At this Holmes could not help but start forward. “Oh, indeed?”

  “Must live in the neighbourhood, for he seemed that familiar.”

  “Can you recall where you had seen this man before?”

  “Somewhere about. Could have been in a pub or a market.”

  “But you have no clue as to his occupation or place of residence?”

  “Said I’d seen him before. Didn’t say I knew him, did I?”

  Holmes clenched his fist in frustration, but his voice remained even. “What time do you imagine you sold them the grapes, Mr. Packer?”

  He shrugged. “Close to twelve, I should think.”

  “And have you spoken to the police?”

  “The police!” he snorted. “Why should I speak to the police, I wonder. They spoke to me right enough—knocking on my door, demanding to know what I’d seen. Well, of course I told them what I’d seen when I closed shop at twelve thirty. Nothing.”

  “You failed to tell the police you had seen anything suspicious?”

  “I saw nothing suspicious. What in God’s name is suspicious about folk buying a bunch of grapes?”

  “Quite so. Well, Mr. Packer, is there anything further you can recall about that night or the man you saw?”

  “Well, for the sake of the brandy I’ll say one more word on the matter,” Mr. Packer deigned to reply. “This gloveless fellow, then—they may not have been friends, but the woman had seen him before, sure as I had.”

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Packer?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “He’s buying the grapes when the woman says, ‘They won’t be missing you tonight, then?’ ‘Who won’t be?’ he says, irritated. ‘Oh, I see the game,’ she says. ‘Right enough, no offense meant. But you do look splendid in those clothes.’”

  “She mentioned his attire specifically?”

  “That she did,” Mr. Packer assented, downing what remained in his prodigious snifter. “Can’t think why, for it was nothing to speak of. Shame she seemed so taken with the bloke, if what you say is true. An hour later she was dead.”

  Holmes made no reply, for his mind was elsewhere. Our guest made a studied harrumphing sound and arose. “In any event…that’s all the time I’m willing to give you gents, for I don’t see what good any of you have done so far.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” I exclaimed.

  “Five women dead and not a suspect to show for it. I don’t call that a good average, do you? Well, let me know if anything comes of it, which doesn’t seem likely. I’m off to my shop.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Packer, but I do not believe you can deny us your company just yet,” said Holmes casually.

  “Is that so? And why in hell not, might I ask?”

  Holmes advanced toward the elderly man and stopped at a distance of no more than two inches. My friend towered over the irascible fellow, and even pallid of complexion with one arm in a sling, his physical presence was daunting in the extreme.

  “While I am grateful for your call, you may well have heard that Scotland Yard is also pursuing Jack the Ripper. And while you may not have realized you possessed valuable evidence before, I believe we have now made your position abundantly clear to you. You and I will take the cab downstairs directly to Scotland Yard, where you will tell a friend of mine named Lestrade precisely what you told me. Do not for one instant make me suspect, Mr. Packer, that you have the Ripper’s best interests at heart.”

  Mr. Packer struggled in vain for a reply.

  “Very well, then. Watson, my coat, if you would be so kind. Miss Monk, I have greater respect for your time than to suggest you accompany us. You have my warmest congratulations for having managed to get him here in the first place. After you, Mr. Packer.”

  So began a day that proved enjoyable for us only insofar as it was inconvenient for Mr. Packer. Lestrade eagerly took his statement, then required him to visit the morgue, where he was shown the face not of Elizabeth Stride but of Catherine Eddowes. At his adamant refusal that he had ever laid eyes on her, he was shown Stride, whom he confidently proclaimed to be the girl with the grapes. Evening drew near when, as a reward for his correct identification, he was taken to see Sir Charles Warren and deliver his statement a third time, at which point we gratefully took our leave of him.

  “I must say,” I remarked to Holmes in the cab, “your tip to Miss Monk bore fruit swiftly enough.”

  “It narrows our search exceedingly,” drawled my friend, as he leaned his head against the side of the hansom. “Rather than exert ourselves looking for a five-foot-seven Englishman, we shall set our caps for a five-foot-seven Englishman who is ‘clean shaven,’ with ‘regular features.’”

  “Then what have we gained by Packer’s account of the man?”

  “Well, two features of interest present themselves.”

  “The lack of gloves?”

  “Excellent, Watson. The glove detail narrows the social sphere, for I do not believe the lowest denizens of Whitechapel would balk at eating with gloves on. And the other feature?”

  “That Packer recognized him from the neighbourhood?”

  “My dear chap, surely we have not so soon forgotten that this man’s intimate knowledge of Whitechapel hints at his having been there before.”

  “The odd remark about his clothing, then, if Packer heard aright?”

  “Watson, you really do improve all the time. Yes, that remark interests me exceedingly. The
fellow seemed to think that by wearing the apparel of any innocuous Britisher, he would be less recognizable.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  “Can you not?” he smiled. “You surprise me, my boy. Let us take you as an example. Now, I could, if pressed, deliver a very detailed description of you indeed. However, if you were a stranger to me and I had not made it part of my vocation to recognize traits of human physiognomy, I might describe you as having ‘regular features,’ for what does the term mean if not symmetrical and evenly spaced?”

  “I fail to see what I have to do with Stride’s recognition of the man who would be the death of her.”

  Holmes laughed suddenly. “Very well—your friends in London, they are astute enough to recognize you when they see you. If you were dressed to the nines as a common seaman, would they still recognize you?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Do you? Dressed as you are now, if you were suddenly transported to India, would your acquaintances there know you?”

  “Some would. Possibly some would not,” I granted.

  “Why not?”

  “My appearance has changed significantly. And I was always in uniform.”

  “And there I rest my case,” said Holmes with his habitual far-off expression. “If your colleagues might not know you in a crowd when out of uniform, why should a stranger be expected to do so? There are people in this world with an eye for faces, and Elizabeth Stride was one of them. While most would not have recognized an unexceptional face without its context, she did so. Sadly, she would not live to tell of it.”

  “You are right, Holmes,” I reflected, my friend’s idea now perfectly clear to me. “The garb of a civilian would significantly alter a man’s appearance if he were perpetually in uniform.”

  “I am currently devoting all my resources to locating this Johnny Blackstone,” Holmes replied. “Whenever we do so, it will be not a moment too soon.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Trophies

  The morning of October sixth dawned misty and chill, with tendrils of fog making concerted, sinuous efforts to penetrate chimneys and windowsills. It must have been nearing eight o’clock when a brief knock at my door presaged the appearance of Sherlock Holmes with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “What is it, old man?”

  “Elizabeth Stride is to be buried today,” said he. “I wondered if you might wish to accompany me to the East London Cemetery, for I gather she’ll be interred there.”

  “I can be ready in ten minutes.”

  “Good. The cab will be here at half past the hour.”

  I finished dressing quickly and after a brief repast mounted a four-wheeler with Holmes. “What do you expect to happen?” I inquired.

  “I haven’t the slightest notion, my dear Watson, which I might add is why we are going.”

  “But you suspect something?”

  “Look—there is the new vegetarian restaurant on the corner of Marylebone Road. I have heard it said that the spread of such establishments is due in large part to the influence of our Indian colonies, but the practice has a long British history as well. Sir Isaac Newton harboured an absolute horror of black pudding.”

  I stifled my curiosity, for nothing on earth would induce Sherlock Holmes to proffer information against his will. We huddled into our overcoats, Holmes deep in his own thoughts and I cursing the thin walls of cabs, which were never adequate proof against the weather. As I watched the streets fade into one another, the damp frost soon set my leg to aching.

  An iron fence separated the East London Cemetery from the road, and beyond the gate an expanse of grass edged with alder, field maple, and young wych elm trees shimmered in the mist. The fog hung in the air like a spectral presence, and I drew my muffler tighter about my throat.

  “Holmes, where is the chapel?”

  “There is none. This cemetery is hardly more than fifteen years old. It was built by professionals of the district to provide a resting place for locals. One of the overlooked consequences of a city doubling in size to four million in fifty years’ time, Watson—what to do with the dead?”

  A group of ten or so men and women waited near a low shack, clustered around a cart holding a long bundle wrapped in torn burlap. A police constable stood a few yards away observing the Dr. Moore Agar proceedings.

  “Good morning, Officer,” Holmes greeted him. “What brings you here?”

  “Good morning, sir. Inspector Lestrade thought it best that there be a representative of the force at the victims’ ceremonies, sir.”

  “Very thorough of him too.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, though whether it’s to keep the peace or simply be visible to the public I can’t say.”

  Holmes laughed. “I suppose even the appearance of work is of some use to the Yard.”

  “Well, I didn’t say that, sir,” the constable replied judiciously, adjusting his collar. “But there are expectations of us, if you take my meaning.”

  “Assuredly. The chaplain has arrived. Shall we join the procession?”

  An employee of the parish, with the white collar of a clergyman just discernible beneath his overcoat, came puffing up the path toward the cart, slick-faced and scowling darkly. We followed the body at some little distance, far enough to avoid comment but close enough that I could catch some of the mutterings of the other mourners. I doubted not that Holmes, with his keener senses, heard still more.

  “Not much of a showing, eh?” said a blond fellow who even from yards away smelled sharply of fish.

  “You know well enough Liz had no kin,” replied a young female in a black straw hat and shawl.

  “Never had much of anything. She always was unlucky.”

  “At least she weren’t slit up like the other girl. I call that lucky enough.”

  “If I could take my mind off who’ll it be next for half a moment, I might sleep again,” came a gentler voice, heavy with tears. “A rat jumped out of an alley last night and set me screaming.”

  “Not I. You won’t catch me in a dark corner with the Knife on the loose.”

  “Aye, true enough for today, but tomorrow you’ll be wanting a drop of gin, and then where’ll I find you?”

  “Back of White’s Row with her skirts over her head.”

  “Leave off Molly, Michael.”

  “He’s right enough. Molly no more than any of us can keep off the streets for long.”

  We arrived at an area which more closely resembled the efforts of enormous moles than of any gravediggers. Much of the earth was overturned, the freshest of it piled next to a hole in the ground six feet long and six feet deep. I could see no monuments of any kind, and the scene reminded me piteously of the hasty burials I had witnessed all too often in the war.

  “This is it, then, Hawkes?” asked the chaplain.

  “Here she’ll stay,” growled the undertaker. “Number one-five-five-oh-nine.”

  The chaplain lost no time in beginning a rapid recitation of the prayer for the dead while Hawkes and one of the male attendants lifted the shrouded body from the cart and dropped it in the grave.

  “Elizabeth Stride was penniless,” my friend remarked quietly, “and the cost of her burial thus deferred to the parish. Still, it is heartless to think that a fellow creature who had already suffered so cruelly should end like this.”

  Shortly thereafter the mourners, such as they were, began to disperse. Soon the only one remaining was a rust-haired, dark-eyed man of middle age, who had all along appeared more enraged than grieved by the proceedings. At length he picked up a stone and hurled it in the direction of Hawkes the undertaker, crying out, “That woman was like a queen to me, and here you’re shoveling dirt as if she weren’t of no more consequence than a dead dog to throw in the river!”

  “Move along, you,” Hawkes barked in return. “I’m doing my duty, for I’m paid for naught else. Bury her yourself if you’ve a mind to.”

  Passing the three of us, the wild-eyed fellow caught sight of the constable’s rounded
helmet and striped armlet* and slowed ominously, cursing under his breath, “If I’d been a bluebottle patrolling the Chapel that night, I’d lose no time killing myself for the shame.”

  “You’d best shove off, mister,” answered the officer. “We all of us do what we can.”

  “Take a knife to your own worthless throat, and lose no time about it!”

  “I’ll have you for public drunkenness, if you insist.”

  “Better still, find him as killed Liz or you can go to the devil,” the man sneered.

  “And who might you be, sir?” queried Sherlock Holmes.

  “Michael Kidney,” said he, drawing himself up with an effort, for balance seemed to be largely eluding him. “I was her man, and I mean to find her killer while you pigs sniff about in the mud.”

  “Ah, he of the padlock,” Holmes commented. “Tell me, did she come to love you after you imprisoned her, or before?”

  “You sly devil!” Kidney snarled. “It was only when she drank she ever thought to leave me. Who are you, then, and how do you come to know aught of it?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Oh, Sherlock Holmes, are you?” This information incensed Kidney all the more. “From what I hear of you, you’re as likely as anyone to be the Ripper yourself.”

  “So I have been given to understand.”

  “What in blazes do you think you’re doing at her funeral, then?”

  “Nothing which need trouble you. Take my advice, Kidney, and keep out of it.”

  “Come to see what you’ve accomplished, have you?” he screamed. “Gloating over her funeral, before God and all who loved her!”

  Kidney, disheveled and frantic, swung a fist at Holmes, but the blow was easily avoided by my friend, who sidestepped deftly. I dived to restrain Kidney’s arms, and the officer stepped in close with his truncheon under the ruffian’s nose.

  “If you make so much as another sound,” he said, “I will see to it your own mother won’t recognize you. Now come with us, and remember—one more word gives me license to do as I please with you.”