Dust and Shadow

by Lyndsay Faye

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A Hunting Party

  Holmes paused to draw upon his pipe reflectively. It was a mark of his severely analytical nature that the whole harrowing case was laid before us in the abstracted tone of a chemist expounding upon a breakthrough in alkaloids.

  “Why would Constable Bennett lie about his experience in the alley?” Holmes asked with perfect composure. “He had emerged from the shadows in which a terribly wounded woman must have been seeking help. I do not pretend to know what happened between them, whether they were once lovers, or what triggered the demon that had lain dormant heretofore. All I can say for certain is that when Bennett happened upon Martha Tabram, she had been stabbed once with a bayonet, and when he left her, only to walk into the arms of Stephen Dunlevy, she had been stabbed thirty-eight times with another weapon entirely—a pocketknife, such as any constable, or indeed any Londoner, might carry about his person.

  “What other indications could inform me I was on the right path? The writing in Goulston Street, for one. I expressed surprise at the time that the killer should happen to have chalk in his pockets. Chalk is used by Scotland Yard officers to brighten the white stripes on their sleeves throughout the course of a shift, to avoid the wrath of their superior officers.”

  “Of course!” Miss Monk exclaimed. “He carried some in his trousers.”

  “Then there was the matter of the uniform. I had imagined the apparel Stride missed seeing upon her killer to be military in nature. What if, instead, she had been used to seeing him in a police uniform and customary high helmet? He would look vastly different in street clothes, and her curious remark would thus make perfect sense.

  “I attended the funeral of Elizabeth Stride, for the crimes had been so vile and so public that I reasoned her killer might well wish to gauge the effect of his deeds. I saw no one I did not expect to be there, save for a lone police constable who informed me that you, Lestrade, assigned him to keep the peace at Stride’s ceremony, such as it was.”

  Lestrade’s distraught features drew together in puzzlement. “I gave no such order.”

  “I know that now. Your department confirmed as much.”

  The inspector closed his eyes. “I suppose we must hear the rest of it.”

  “I had already wasted many hours pondering how the devil any reporter could know what befell me on the night of the double event, not to mention that I attended the funerals of the deceased, or that an irrelevant, discarded knife was found near Eddowes’s body, or that I had quit Baker Street to conduct researches in the East-end. The Yard knew every one of these facts.”

  “And so he held abundant material,” I remarked.

  “Precisely—he used Tavistock as a conduit to spread his calumnies. Add the fact that I often jot down short missives to you, Lestrade, as well as to a dozen or more other detective inspectors, and the mystery of my forged handwriting was solved in an instant. He could easily have stolen such a note from any one of many offices. But the final, most conclusive inference still eluded me until a profound remark made by you, Watson, at last sparked the long-dormant flames of deductive reasoning.”

  “I can scarcely recall what I said,” I admitted.

  “You simply observed, as I should have done in the first place if I were the perfectly honed logical mechanism you present in your tales, that it was astonishing that the Ripper could operate so seamlessly in a district swarming with constables. The perfectly obvious reason for his success was that he knew when they would pass, and on what streets. But when I asked myself what had happened on the night of the extraordinary double murder, yet another seemingly irrelevant fact fell neatly into place,” Holmes expounded, his already rapid speech increasing to match his enthusiasm.

  “The Ripper killed Elizabeth Stride without a thought of interruption, for he knew Constable Lamb’s beat would not take him into Dutfield’s Yard. When we disturbed him, he took flight in the direction of the City, and in order to halt my pursuit made an attempt on my life. Then, quite unfathomably, and at enormous risk, he proceeded to slit the throat of yet another girl, presumably because the mutilation, the unholy impetus behind all his thoughts and deeds, had been thwarted by our intervention. He could not be so prescient as to know at all times, on any street, whether or not he would encounter a fellow officer of the law. But members of Lusk’s Vigilance Committee mentioned in passing that Eddowes had been killed, senselessly, across the square from the very residence of a Metropolitan police officer. Bennett lives in those buildings. He knew the routes around his own home, of course. How could he not know them?”

  Lestrade shook his head with the heavy calm of a man who knows the worst. “He was in such a rage at you that encountering Eddowes must have seemed like a gift from above.”

  “But what are we to do?” cried Miss Monk in great distress. “You’re right, Mr. Holmes. It all fits, every bit of it. But what’s the use of talking about it when at any moment, he could—”

  “I desire nothing more than to have the villain at our mercy, Miss Monk,” he assured her gravely. “However, Constable Edward Bennett resigned from his service, citing overwork and fatigue, and disappeared on Monday, the fifth of November.”

  “Did he?” I exclaimed bitterly. “The very day Tavistock discovered that his office had been compromised.”

  “Well done indeed, Watson. I have reached the same conclusion. Whether Tavistock merely bewailed his misfortune to his friend the police constable, or urged Bennett to identify those who had humiliated him, the results were the same: Bennett was warned off. He could not take the chance that his relation to the London Chronicle had been discovered.”

  “But Mr. Holmes,” ventured Miss Monk, “if Bennett hadn’t run off, what would have happened?”

  My friend crossed to the window and looked down into the street. “In all likelihood, complete disaster. In my responsibility to lay hands on him immediately, I would have unleashed all the fury of hell upon the good men of Scotland Yard. Imagine it—the killer in their midst all the while, slaughtering five women in two short months without exciting the least suspicion. Worse still, I have not a scrap of hard proof against the man. It’s ten thousand to one we could have convicted him. As much data points to me as it does Bennett, which well illustrates the value of circumstantial evidence. Name the calamity and it would no doubt have befallen us—riots against the force, chaos in the streets. Even now, Sir Charles Warren has already tendered his resignation; Mr. Matthews will accept it at any moment. The case has ruined him. Bennett has ruined him.”

  Holmes turned to face Lestrade. “I shall not permit him to ruin the Yard itself.”

  Some moments passed in silence. “Well, then,” said the little inspector simply, “what are we to do?”

  Unexpectedly, Holmes laughed. “I’d nearly convinced myself that you would not believe a word of it.”

  “Now, Mr. Holmes,” chided Lestrade, “I’ve always known you to take an odd line, but you do occasionally stumble upon the truth.”

  “Quite so.” My friend smiled. “As to our plans, we have one, and I am afraid only one, advantage at the moment. The paper I mentioned to you, as I have said, revealed an impression. I’ve the original here, marked over with lead pencil.” He passed it to Lestrade and we both examined it.

  245

  —11:30

  1054

  —14

  765

  —12:15

  “What the deuce are these meant to indicate?”

  “They are nearly as good as a map, my dear Inspector. These are the collar numbers of three police constables, followed by the time it takes them to complete their beats.”

  “Wonderful!” cried Lestrade. “You’ve worked out who they are, I hope? There are nearly five hundred constables in Whitechapel’s division alone, not including those who have been reassigned.”

  “My dear Lestrade, of course I have. They are Sample, Leather, and Wilding, and their beats proscribe quite a small area, half in Spitalfields and half in
Whitechapel. After I found out their names, I wired Inspector Abberline, who was kind enough to send me a map.”

  “Did you tell him why?”

  Holmes shook his head emphatically. “With the exception of my brother, and the high officials he has chosen to consult, we five are the only ones who know the identity of this madman. Whitehall has every wish to avoid a monumental scandal, and they are aware of my discretion in such cases. I want to impress upon you all that aside from the weeks following the double murder, which must have rattled his nerve, the Ripper has followed a pattern of dates in his crimes. I cannot promise you that he will attack again tomorrow, in time for the Lord Mayor’s Show, exposed and on the run as he is. But nevertheless I believe that he will. He has shown a contempt for the Yard and a hatred for me that will not cease simply because he has abandoned his former persona. You and I, Lestrade, are the last line of defense. With any luck, if we keep our hand close, Bennett will never know the alarm has been raised against him.”

  “When do those Yard fellows begin work?” Miss Monk asked.

  “All three have the night shift, from ten until six. I wired George Lusk the moment Abberline related their territory to me. Lusk has shifted half his Vigilance Committee to assist the official force this evening and the next. Anonymously, of course, Inspector.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I am beyond the capacity to protest anything you may do.”

  “That is an appalling admission, Lestrade,” my friend noted amusedly. “I very much hope that you may recover swiftly from all the shocks to which I’ve subjected you.”

  “As do I.” Lestrade smiled. “Have you anything further to tell us?”

  Holmes shook his head. “You know all that I do.”

  “Then I will set myself back to work,” he said, rising. “I’ve beats to redraft now, on top of everything.”

  “If you will not dine with us, I wish you luck back at the Yard. I shall see you in Whitechapel at ten tomorrow, no doubt, Lestrade?” Holmes asked, shaking his colleague’s hand.

  “It is an honour to go hunting with you, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector returned. “I would not miss it. Good night to you all.”

  The four of us sat down to supper, although Holmes refused to say another word about the case until after the dishes had been cleared, brandies had been savoured, and Miss Monk had sleepily allowed Dunlevy to drape a wrap over her. We had already said our farewells when Dunlevy squared his shoulders and approached my friend.

  “Mr. Holmes, I am very grateful to have been told the truth about these terrible crimes, and I thank you for it. But I am still curious—why did you ask me here this evening? Miss Monk is an ally, no doubt, and I hope you know you may rely on me, but all the same…You don’t seem one for idle confidences.”

  “Nor am I, I promise you.”

  “Then I cannot understand it.”

  “No? Well, I do hope you will accompany us to Whitechapel tomorrow, where we intend to defend its inhabitants tooth and nail, if necessary.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “You wish me to be clearer. Very well,” said he, assuming an air of command. “I require you, Miss Monk, without unduly alarming the district, to warn as many of your acquaintances as you can that there is likely to be trouble tomorrow night. No dark alleys. No lonely rendezvous. I know you cannot reach everyone, as they are great in number and are already saturated with wild conjecture, but do your best.”

  “I’ll start in tonight, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Thank you. As for you, Mr. Dunlevy, you are a rather rare commodity, you know. Tomorrow night we shall attempt to prevent a murder with the aid of a vast force, not one of whom can be allowed to know the identity of the man we are seeking. Watson and I saw him at Elizabeth Stride’s funeral. That leaves Inspector Lestrade, and finally you, Mr. Dunlevy, who have ever seen the face of our quarry. Call it a whim on my part, but I rather think having three people who are fully apprised of the facts on my side will not be excessively cautious.”

  The next evening was wet and cold, with dark spears of rain striking our windows, and feeling chilled from within as well as without, I piled more coal upon our innocent fire than was necessary or reasonable. Peering out the bow window into the street below, my vision obscured by the glasslike curtain before me, I thought with apprehension that the odds of being able to see faces with any clarity in the gloom of Whitechapel were astronomically against us.

  My friend entered near eight o’clock, dripping wet and deeply fatigued, but his entire hawklike visage fired with zealous determination. When he had emerged from his bedroom, he was clad once more in the shabby garb of Jack Escott. Recognizing the wisdom of this precaution, I wordlessly made my way upstairs to follow suit. From my bedroom, I could hear the strains of Holmes’s violin as they rose and fell, a hauntingly austere melody in a minor key, which I knew to be one of his own compositions from its quavering heights and deceptively simple twists of phrase. When I came down again, Holmes had replaced the Stradivarius in its case and was slipping his revolver in his rough woolen coat pocket.

  “That was beautiful, Holmes.”

  “Do you like it? I am not satisfied with the middle cadence, but the portamento in the final phrase is rather effective. If you are ready, we can set off for the East-end. I’ve arranged for a cab.”

  “Holmes?”

  “Yes, Middleton,” he replied with a twinkle of amusement.

  “If we should identify the former police constable Bennett tonight, I am at a loss to know what we should do with him.”

  “We shall arrest him and give him to Lestrade, who this morning met with Mr. Matthews himself.”

  “And if we cannot find him?” I pressed him.

  “Then I shall run him down.”

  “And if—”

  “I have no intention of allowing that to happen. Come, Watson. We must bear all. Hard condition is twin-born with greatness. You’ve your revolver?”

  “And a clasp knife in my pocket.”

  Holmes threw his head back with laughter, wrapping a thick cravat about his neck. “Then my mind is entirely at ease.”

  We met by arrangement with Lestrade at the Ten Bells, near the center of the region delineated on Abberline’s map. The staunch fellow looked quite as haggard and absorbed in his draught of ale as any of the labourers filling the surrounding tables.

  “Has it all been arranged?” asked Holmes rather feverishly, pitching his voice low beneath the rumble of conversation.

  Lestrade looked up from his pint with the greatest reluctance. “Fifty men in plain clothes from F Division, Paddington District, none of whom Bennett is likely to know, in addition to the expanded complement. I’ve redrawn the routes. If you are mistaken about this wild tale, Mr. Holmes, I promise to arrest you myself.”

  “If I am mistaken, you are welcome to do so.”

  “You say these Vigilance chaps have police whistles?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “It’s just as well that these amateurs are here,” the inspector sighed. “I lose half my force at four this morning, for they’re needed again at the Lord Mayor’s procession at eight.”

  Holmes’s fist came down upon the table in an outraged display of disbelief. “Am I to understand that preventing rotten vegetation from striking that hideous gilded monstrosity in which the Lord Mayor will be nestled tomorrow is of greater import than preventing Jack the Ripper from adding any further organs to his collection?” he hissed.

  “I shouted myself hoarse this morning. It can’t be helped. There’s that Dunlevy fellow at the door,” Lestrade added doubtfully. “Bit thick to trust a journalist so far, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I see your usual healthful skepticism has returned in full measure,” my friend returned archly. “I was concerned I’d deeply unsettled your mind.”

  “On with it, then,” the inspector grunted. “I’ve a man stationed here all night through as a touchstone, if you will. The constables have been instructed to whistle like mad if they spy
anything suspicious, for I didn’t like the look of you, Mr. Holmes, the last time you went hand to hand with him.” Holmes bristled visibly at this but for-bore reply. “I’m with the journalist up Brick Lane, and the two of you over Bishopsgate. We meet every hour at this pub. I’ve two lanterns here without which we should scarcely see our own feet in front of us. Best of luck, gentlemen all.”

  The inspector and I took up the lanterns. Nodding to Dunlevy as we passed, we made our way out into the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE The Case and the Heart

  Within half an hour we were soaked and chilled, and my leg ached dully as we made our way down rain-washed alleyways, the sound of our footsteps obscured by the storm. Fewer locals were about in that night’s elements than was usual, though people did continue to hurry past, shawls and scarves wrapped tight about their heads, sloshing the eddying mud beneath their feet.

  “Curse this weather,” Holmes muttered fiercely after our first rendezvous with Lestrade and Dunlevy had ended, propelling us back into the rain. “It is hardly possible to identify a man at three yards in this wet, let alone that the garb necessitated by such conditions lends itself perfectly to concealment.”

  “There are plainclothesmen enough to cover every passage. He can do nothing without being seen, if he ventures out on such a night at all.”

  “He will be here.”

  “But taking into account this gale—”

  “I said he will be here,” Holmes repeated fervently. “No more words. We must have all our wits about us.”

  Four o’clock came and went, marked by a lessening of loiterers as the weary plainclothesmen made their way home for a bath and an hour or two of sleep before the Lord Mayor’s Show recalled them to duty. The streets began to fill with scattered workmen and unfortunates, ducking into gin shops before the break of day.

  Holmes and I met with Lestrade and Dunlevy at the Ten Bells for the final time at six o’clock that morning. We each allowed ourselves a glass of whiskey, clutched in fingers stiff from the cold. No one spoke for a time. Then my friend rose from the table.