by Lyndsay Faye
Just then a very slender man entered the alley behind me, whistling softly to himself and carrying a long-handled brush over his left shoulder. His face and all his dark clothing were obscured by soot, and I saw at once that he was a chimney sweep returning home from an engagement. In a far-off corner of my mind, I noted in confusion that the tune he whistled was from Wagner’s Parsifal, but all my thoughts were suspended when the fellow stopped short at seeing so many rough characters wedged into the narrow corridor.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked.
“Be on your way, if you don’t want a piece of it for yourself,” Hammersmith replied, stepping aside to let him pass. “This gentleman here is down on whores, and we are helping to make his peace with them.”
Fate, as I have often had cause to reflect, is a fickle entity. At one moment, five armed brutes bore down upon two guiltless men harbouring no wish to fight. The next moment, two of the five lay on the ground howling in pain, their ribs victimized by the long-handled tool of the chimney sweep. Hammersmith, who had narrowly escaped the assault, roared with rage, threw his club to the ground, reached under his trouser leg, and charged me and my new ally with a vicious short-handled knife.
Though I at last drew my revolver, I was ultimately spared its use. The sweep dealt him a crushing jab to the solar plexus, then hissed, “Down the passage and keep at my heels.” Sherlock Holmes then took my arm and we flew through the alleyway into a series of mews, over a low fence, and into the windswept autumn night.
Though we ran for perhaps ten minutes, I had the impression we did not get very far. Holmes executed a few simple dodges and once stopped to listen intently for our pursuers, then led me through a series of interconnected alleys littered with wood and broken shipping crates before finally, to my great surprise, he ducked into a low doorway and ushered me inside.
Hastening up the dark stairway with more regard for speed than for caution, I would likely have plummeted through to the floor below had not Holmes pulled me back just in time to prevent my falling down a rotting gap. At last, after two positively archaeological flights of stairs, we reached a door at the end of a brief hallway. My friend flung it open with a flourish, so far as such a rude assemblage of slats can be said to be flung.
“May I present, with all attendant welcome and ceremony, the Baker Street Private Consulting Detective Agency, East-end Division, the pulsing nucleus of the Ripper investigation.”
Sherlock Holmes maintained, so far as his fortunes permitted, no fewer than five and more probably seven secret lairs throughout London. Some boasted no more comforts than a basin and a trunk of clothes, but he often employed these nooks when a disguise or pursuit necessitated immediate private rooms. In all my many years of partnership with Holmes, I was introduced personally to a total of three such dwellings, as my friend’s native passion for secrecy prevented me from ever so much as laying eyes on the others.
This startling Whitechapel refuge consisted of a rectangular room, slightly longer than it was wide, with no windows, walls entirely papered with maps and news clippings, and two new, stout inner bolts of differing builds which Holmes proceeded efficiently to lock, finally fastening me with a look of inquiring concern.
“I should have liked to introduce you to our secondary branch under more relaxed circumstances, my dear fellow, but in any event you have immediately seen its usefulness. We are now on Scarborough Street, just south of Whitechapel Road. You will note that we have as much relevant information as possible at our fingertips, that we are fully equipped to maintain every requirement of hygiene and civility, and that a rather fine brandy rests upon the corner table. Pray help yourself to any amenities you see fit.”
The “corner table” referred to an upended water barrel adjacent to a straw mattress and a pile of clean, if worn, grey wool blankets. The room had no other rugs or furnishings save a dangerous-looking stove next to the fireplace, a battered desk, and two chairs, one of which appeared in a former life to have been an orange crate.
“Holmes, what exactly have you been doing in this cave?” I asked, advancing without hesitation toward the spirits on the makeshift side table and shaking my head at my friend’s considerable eccentricities. Holmes sat down upon the orange crate, removing his coat and vigorously applying a damp cloth to his blackened visage.
“I have been making the acquaintance of a great many members of Her Majesty’s army who have fallen under the spell of Papaver somniferum.* In fact, I’ve every hope of discovering Blackstone’s lodgings tomorrow.” Though jubilant, freed from its mask of soot, my friend’s face showed clear signs that he skirted the edge of complete exhaustion.
“But that is marvelous, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “By the by, I suppose I mistook the instructions, but however did you happen to find me?”
Holmes’s expression of perplexity, so rarely in evidence, only increased. “Finding myself without occupation for the evening, I was patrolling the streets, and I flatter myself with more discernment than your acquaintances of the alley. My dear Watson, I believe that there is not a soul in the world I should be happier to see just now, but may I ask what on earth you were doing wandering about Whitechapel with a medical bag and a sinister expression?”
“You summoned me here. Is this not your message?”
After casting an eye over the brief letter, Holmes looked at me in dismay.
“I corresponded with no one this afternoon.”
“Then you did not send for me?”
“Not I. When did you receive this?”
“Half past five in the afternoon.”
“It did not come through the post.”
“No, it was delivered.”
“Did you ask Billy what sort of man he got it from?”
“I thought it immaterial once I had seen your signature.”
“You know nothing of this note’s origin, then?”
“Nothing whatever.”
At length he cried out, “I cannot imagine what object you had in mind to follow these instructions, but this epistle is certainly penned by an adversary.”
“What object I had in mind?” I retorted readily. “You required my help!”
“No, no, Watson, it is all wrong. These certainly are my ts, ys, and ms, and the capital A is very good, but what on earth induced you to obey a note with such a manifestly inaccurate q?”
“My training as a doctor of medicine, I regret to say, was deficient in handwriting analysis,” I returned with greater asperity. “I supposed it written under some duress.”
“A thousand small clues should have given this away! For example, you and I have known each other for over seven years, yet in this brief note, I somehow see fit to include your prefix, given, and family names.”
“Surely not surprising if the conveyor of the message did not know me.”
“The paper, then! My stationery—”
“Is irrelevant as you were not at home,” I shot back heatedly. “However, if you wish, in the future I shall treat all your emergency summonses with suspicion and disbelief.”
Holmes softened with a visible effort. “It is only your safety which worries me, after all. I regret that little business back in the alley, but now that we have it, this note…this note is of immense interest. Its author has done a very workmanlike job of my signature; however, the remainder of the lettering was formed very slowly, which is a sure indication of forgery. Still, it is quite obvious that whoever penned this message to plague us has had access to a genuine sample of my handwriting.”
“Where on earth could he have obtained such a thing?”
“Ah, but we may draw still more conclusions: the document he has in his possession, while featuring a signature at the end, evinces fewer examples of my other characters. A short note, then, and I would wager fifty pounds one lacking the letter q entirely.”
“Some villain has access to your correspondence?”
“I hardly see how.”
“Your bank?”
�
��The Capital and Counties is renowned for its trustworthiness.”
“Well, then, you may have dashed off a note to your solicitor or penned a response to a client. It is impossible to know where the sample was obtained.”
“I will not say that you are wrong,” my friend replied abstractedly, “but surely the balance of probability is enormously against an agent of evil happening upon my handwriting by chance. It is far more probable that he stole a missive from some party who could be assumed to possess a sample of my script. At once the field is narrowed considerably. There is yourself to consider, my brother, several inspectors of the Yard, and those agencies to which you have already so shrewdly alluded, such as my bank or solicitor.”
“But stop a moment, Holmes—forgive me, but it was for good reason that I was particularly eager to meet with you this evening.”
My friend indicated his interest with a tilt of his head, and I proceeded to tell him all that we three had accomplished in his absence. I am still delighted to recall that, when I had concluded my narrative, Sherlock Holmes himself appeared astonished in no small measure.
“And your tracks are entirely covered?”
“It will be thought a childish pleasantry enacted upon a particularly rank example of British journalism.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed impishly. “What pleasantry?”
“An inspired whim of Miss Monk’s devising. Rest assured it was entirely anonymous and that he will come to no lasting harm by it. The only thing of any interest was the note. It came in this envelope.”
To my great shock, my friend’s wan face paled still further.
“Holmes, whatever is the matter?”
He rushed to the wall, where notes were tacked in jagged rows, and pulled down perfect facsimiles of the last two letters we had received purportedly from Jack the Ripper.
“I knew he had motive, but it seemed too fantastic to contemplate. Surely I was within the bounds of reason to think it a paid mercenary or a political opportunist…”
“My dear fellow, what is it?”
“Look at it!” he cried, holding up a letter next to the envelope. “They are disguised, yes, but there cannot be a doubt in the world that these are penned by the same hand!”
“Do you mean to tell me that the man who has been tracing your movements, the blackguard who has set this journalist against you, is none other than Jack the Ripper himself?”
“Identical unmarked stationery to the kidney package,” my friend murmured. “Dated only two days after I quit Baker Street. Postal district E one—Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and Mile End.”
“Holmes, what can this possibly mean?”
My friend’s eyes met mine with a hunted expression I had never seen there before. “It means that the Whitechapel killer is determined to see me blamed for his crimes. It also means that my movements, in any event those before I left Baker Street, were as open to him as the pages of a book. It is not a pretty thing to contemplate, Watson, but I very much fear the author of these murders has taken it upon himself to ruin me.”
I stared at him aghast. “I am heartily sorry not to have furnished you with better news.”
“My dear fellow, I am eternally grateful.”
“Then what can we do?”
“We can do nothing yet. I must think,” said he, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing his knees into his wiry frame.
I nodded. “In that case, I shan’t dream of interrupting you.”
Holmes eyed me suspiciously. “You are not staying.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “I am assisting you in your work.”
My friend leapt to his feet. “That is entirely out of the question,” he cried. “Whatever nightmare it was before, this has developed into an extraordinarily dangerous undertaking.”
“Precisely so,” I agreed, helping myself to a woolen blanket.
“I categorically forbid it! You could fall prey to the gravest possible consequences if I am discovered.”
“Then we must do our best to remain incognito.” It was near impossible to ignore Holmes at his most imperious, but I had never been so set on a course of action in my life.
“Watson, you are the very least apt dissimulator it has been my privilege to know: in fact, I have hardly met anyone in my life whose mind is on more open display.”
I felt my colour rise at these remarks, but then I thought of Holmes undergoing the same threats I had faced in that dark corridor, but every day and without an ally.
“Holmes, give me your word as a gentleman I could not possibly be of use to you here in Whitechapel.”
“That is not the point!”
“Given your reputation for superior mental faculties, I should have thought you’d have grasped that it was.”
After a glare of considerable acrimony, Holmes smiled in resignation.
“Well, well, if I cannot dissuade you, I suppose I must thank you.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
He returned to the pallet, spread himself across it, and crossed his feet upon the water barrel. “I daresay you’ll find the surroundings a difficult adjustment.”
“I served in the second Afghan war, Holmes. I imagine I shall be comfortable enough.”
At this my friend sat bolt upright again with an exclamation of glee. “You have hit upon the very thing! And doubtless without any knowledge you have done so. The Afghan war…well done indeed.”
“I am gratified to be of service.”
“Good night, Watson,” he called out, turning down the oil lamp and stuffing his pipe with shag. “I must beg you not to avail yourself of my razor come morning. Unshaven will do far better, I think. And Watson?” he added. I could hear from his tone he had largely recovered his good humour.
“Yes?”
“I shouldn’t venture into the near right-hand corner. I am afraid it leaves something to be desired in the structural sense. Sleep well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Bonfire Night
I awoke the next morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing over me in his pea jacket and rough red scarf, tossing a heap of worn clothing in the corner. He was distressingly energized, and I knew from the deep arcs under his eyes that his night had been a sleepless one.
“What is the time?”
“Close upon eight.”
“You have been out?”
“I have been rambling about town and took the liberty of making a few purchases on your behalf.”
“Indeed? Have you eaten?”
“A cup of coffee. Now, Watson, I trust you won’t mind exercising a small precaution I’ve been forced to employ when traveling in these circles. I would appreciate your donning the exceedingly shabby attire to your immediate left, topped with that old coat. Forgive me for having torn it in a few places. Just at the moment, you appear far too affluent to be associated with Jack Escott, but that hearty fellow will meet you downstairs in ten minutes’ time, and we will take our morning wet at the Ten Bells public house, preceded by a good brisk walk.”
In less than the time specified, I met Holmes (or rather, Holmes in the guise of the seafaring type I took to be called Jack Escott) downstairs, and we struck off in the coarse beige light of morning. Twenty minutes had passed before the tavern appeared on the corner of Church Street, its doorway flanked by simple columns and its sign, black with “The Ten Bells” marked out in white lettering, swaying gently in the breeze. The single room inside was littered with chairs and knife-scarred tables, while the walls boasted pictorial tiling degraded nearly to ruins by a tenacious layer of grit.
“You are wondering what our intent may be,” Holmes responded softly, though I had said nothing. “Never fear—just be sure to agree with me at every turn, and we’ll soon come out all right.”
The bar was far busier than I would ever have guessed at that hour, the locals industriously draining their cups before setting off to accomplish the labours or leisures of their respective days. A knot of bedraggled half-pay soldiers soon spied Holmes an
d waved us lazily over to their table.
“Where’d you pick up this one, then, Escott?” hailed a short fellow of middle years, with regulation side-whiskers and the peering red gaze of a man who is seldom if ever free from the influence of strong drink.
“This is Middleton, an old mate of mine just back in town. Murphy! A round of porter for the table.”
“How are you, Middleton?” asked the soldier as more brews were poured. I was formulating a reply when my friend interjected.
“Oh, never mind him, Kettle. He was in Afghanistan, you know. Saw more of life than any of us should, or so I’ve gathered. Only talks when he’s had a drop too many, and even then it’s of Ghazis, bless him.”
“What was it, then? Kandahar?”
Holmes laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing so pleasant as that. Maiwand.* You’d best leave him be.”
The former guardsmen squinted sympathetically. “Well, then, what about you, Escott? Back to the Three Cobras tonight?”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed dreamily. “It had crossed my mind. Middleton here’s a ruddy connoisseur of the stuff. We’ve been rambling about all night. Stumbled onto that fellow Blackstone, what was in Egypt a few years back.”
“Johnny Blackstone? Haven’t run into him for over a week now. Your friend here may keep mum more than is usual, but it’s a sight more peaceful than that Blackstone’s balmy talk.”
“That’ll be the black drop. He means no harm.”
“I daresay you’re right. But he was in a dark mood last I laid eyes on him.”
“I meant to stop by his digs last week—he allowed as he’d be the better for company, but damned if there weren’t a pipe in my hand when I said it. It was as much as I could do to recall it were in Spitalfields, let alone the address.”
“He lives in Sandy’s Row, over Widegate Street area. Keeps himself to himself for the most part, but I dropped in for a nightcap, last month it must have been, though I’ve not been back since. There he is up at the back of the building, windows all stopped up with scraps. Small wonder he’s so few folk looking in.”