Dust and Shadow

by Lyndsay Faye

  “Yes, he has.” I smiled.

  “I’m on the point of it, and then it’s—” She made a whistling sound and waved a hand in the air. “But I have the best of help.” She then looked, to my inner delight, not at Dr. Agar but directly and unmistakably at Stephen Dunlevy.

  My hat in hand, I declared, “I merely wished to say hello. Holmes will be very relieved to learn how well you are doing, Miss Monk.”

  “Has he left your flat yet, Dr. Watson?” Dr. Agar asked softly.

  “No,” I returned, “but he will.”

  “I know he will,” Dr. Agar assured me. “He has an excellent physician.”

  Glaring at our front door with perhaps more dissatisfaction than the object deserved, I turned my key in the lock. However, as it happened, I was not destined for an evening of attempting to elicit speech from a companion submerged in the worst of reflections, who to my great distress had been subsisting on tobacco, tea, and narcotics. Just as I opened the door to our sitting room, I accidentally nudged the leg of Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to have arrived moments before and was facing my haggard friend with an attitude of determined cheer.

  “You are looking far better than when last I saw you, Dr. Watson, and I am heartily glad to say it,” he exclaimed, shaking my hand.

  Holmes waved us in from his armchair and tossed the prim little detective a matchbox in a graceful arc. “There are cigars on the side table and spirits in the decanter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So you were there that night?” I prompted Lestrade, for I had my own questions to ask, Holmes or no Holmes. I’d not had the heart to force my friend into reliving that hour of painful memory, nor to ask how we had managed to escape.

  “To be sure,” the inspector answered readily. “By the time the fire brigade arrived, Mr. Holmes had moved you and Miss Monk back to the courtyard. You were out of danger there, at least temporarily. Mr. Holmes here alerted the force to the existence of a body at the side of the house, and you were all taken by police ambulance to London Hospital. The constables on the scene called me in immediately. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw who it was, considering the chase he had led us on the night before.”

  “I read that he was injured in the explosion.”

  “Quite so.” The inspector coughed. “I was able to spirit the brute to the morgue quickly enough. The coroner was not inclined to disagree with my idea that shards of glass from the exploding window struck Bennett fatally. Of course, we are still investigating the murder.”

  Holmes, who had been regarding the bearskin rug, roused himself briefly at my expression of dismay. “Not you, my dear Watson. That could hardly be called a murder by any standards. Lestrade refers to Mary Kelly.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said in relief.

  “It’s difficult to keep my heart in it, knowing you sent her killer to hell already, Doctor,” Lestrade said placidly, sipping his spirits. “But it’s the duty of the Yard to promote a feeling of safety.”

  “I do not envy you that duty,” Holmes said grimly. “It will take some time before anyone can be convinced the Ripper has vanished.”

  “On the contrary, there is a rumour among the detective inspectors to that very effect,” Lestrade retorted. “They are saying that Sherlock Holmes does not run into burning buildings without cause.”

  My friend appeared abashed. “That is potentially a very dangerous notion.”

  “You likely think it best for me to quash that bit of gossip,” Lestrade nodded. “Well, I won’t. I’ve been approached by a good many of the other inspectors. They seem to think if anyone’s likely to know aught of the matter, I’m their man. Well, I haven’t told them anything. But if they’ve suggested that you’ve put an end to this wretched affair, Mr. Holmes, I’ve as good as shaken their hands and winked a friendly eye.”

  Holmes sat up in his chair in indignation.

  “Listen here, Mr. Holmes, and see it from my side for a moment. From what we know of Bennett, he hated the force and everything it stood for. Mad he may well have been, but this is a man who actually performed the most evil acts he could conjure up, and then used them against us. We won’t ever understand why, but he did his utmost to make us look like fools, gentlemen, to make us all look like fools, and if you ask my opinion, he would have succeeded if not for you, Mr. Holmes. I’m under no illusions about the business. You did an extraordinary thing, and the more at the Yard who work out you had a hand in it, so much the better. All London is in your debt, sir, and I will be damned if I lift one finger to keep it secret.”

  “Hear, hear,” said I.

  Lestrade stood. “In fact, we inspectors have taken it upon ourselves to give you a token of our appreciation. I rather thought you might have done with the old one. But we hope this one serves.”

  My friend opened a small box which Lestrade had produced. Inside lay a beautiful silver cigarette case monogrammed with Holmes’s initials, underneath which ran the words, “With the Respects of Scotland Yard, November 1888.”

  Sherlock Holmes sat with his lips parted, but no sound emerged.

  “Thank you,” he managed at length.

  Lestrade nodded firmly. “It’s our honour, Mr. Holmes. Well, I’ve said my piece. I’m afraid I must be off.”

  The inspector strode purposefully to our door but stopped upon reaching it. “I hope if anything out of the ordinary comes up, I may call on you?” he asked.

  “I have not felt much inclined to take any cases of late,” my friend replied hesitantly. “However, you know that should you ever require assistance, you are welcome to consult me.”

  Lestrade smiled. “You do occasionally stumble on the truth, I’ve always said that much in your favour. Well, as it’s late, I won’t keep you.”

  He had stepped outside the door when my friend called out, “Lestrade!”

  The inspector’s head reemerged. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

  “That housebreaking business in Hounslow—it is obvious that there was no break-in at all. You must lay your hands on the nephew.”

  Lestrade grinned at me broadly.

  “I’ll pass the word along. Thanks for the tip. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

  My friend rose from his chair and threw the curtains back from the bow window. The air outside was crisp and clean, and the wind had died. Holmes glanced back at me.

  “What do you think of a ramble through London?”

  I smiled cautiously. “Do you mean a silent trek, or an explication of every passerby we happen to encounter?”

  “I leave it to you.”

  I considered the question. “Your deductions are always of the greatest interest to me.”

  “In that case, I have no choice but to hone my skills,” he replied with a shrug.

  “Will a bite of supper be involved? For the both of us, mind,” I added emphatically.

  “It is entirely possible,” he granted. “If we are agreed, let us be off. ‘Beneath is all the fiends’. There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulfurous pit…’”

  “My dear fellow, I don’t imagine Shakespeare intended that speech to describe the view from our window. He had never seen it, after all.”

  “Hadn’t he?” Holmes smiled. “Then I suppose you’ll have to do in his stead; you’ve a penchant for the dramatic as well. Let me know when you’ve worked out something better. Come along, my dear fellow.” He disappeared down the stairs.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks are first owed to my parents, John and Vicki Farber, whose interest in literature in general and the Sherlock Holmes mysteries in particular led directly to my having the gall to write this book in the first place. They should also be credited with my having the gall to think I can do any thing I set my mind to, which is uncommonly kind of them. Key credit must also be given to my late uncle Michael Dobbins, who once gave a ten-year-old girl his hardback red suede copy of the Adventures and the Returns. He is missed and will be remembered.

  Credit
for Fight Choreographer, and President of the Department of Sticking to the Plot for the Love of All That’s Decent, goes to Johnny Farber: my brother, my first editor, and my first collaborator. I would pay him, but I probably couldn’t afford him.

  To my actual editor, Kerri Kolen, and all the team at Simon & Schuster including Victoria Meyer and the band of talent who have made my book what it is, thank you from the bottom of my heart. My vague notions of the concept “editor” were blown to smithereens by Kerri, who is unfailingly kind while she is being critical. I couldn’t have asked for a more sensitive and forthright commander in chief.

  Dan Lazar’s dedication is, as far as I am concerned, the gold standard for agents. If he ever sleeps, I haven’t seen it, or at least he sleeps about as much as Sherlock Holmes does. Josh Getzler, also of Writers House, was the first person who ever laid eyes on my book who felt inclined to do something about it. They are both impossibly good to me, and Dan deserves a medal.

  My love of Sherlockiana is deep-rooted, but a few scholars must be singled out for mention. William S. Baring-Gould’s annotated collection was an invaluable staple, drawing from Sherlockian luminaries too numerous for me to list. Likewise Leslie Klinger’s New Annotated Sherlock Holmes provided answers of all varieties, and I am grateful for his scholarship, as well as that of all those authors cited in his work.

  My most grateful thanks are due to the Estate of Dame Jean Conan Doyle, and in particular its representative Jon Lellenberg, for their invaluable assistance and support. As a lifelong admirer of the world of Sherlock Holmes, their blessing is a prodigious honor. I hold the highest respect and love for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters, and the Estate’s encouragement of my project has meant more to me than I can express. In addition, I am in debt to the vast international web of Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts, whose generosity and heartfelt enthusiasm continually astonish me. They share their lives with me, and that is what writing new tales of the Great Detective is about. As John le Carré said, no one writes of Sherlock Holmes without love.

  There are a great many Ripper scholars whose research was mined for this volume, and they deserve far more than my thanks. To be specific where specificity is due, Stewart Evans is the sole reason this book appears remotely free of error, and any remaining mistakes fall squarely on my own head. Donald Rumbelow, Martin Fido, Paul Begg, Keith Skinner, Philip Sugden, Stephen Knight, Philip Rawlings, Peter Underwood, Peter Vronsky, Scott Palmer, Roger Wilkes, Patricia Cornwell, James Morton, Harold Schechter, Jan Bondeson, Colin Wilson, Andrew Maunder, Brian Marriner, Paul H. Feldman, Melvin Harris, Paul West, Peter Costello, Nathan Braund, Maxim Jakubowski, Eduardo Zinna, and the press reports archives of the comprehensive www.casebook.org were critically helpful to me in grasping the details of these still-harrowing crimes.

  I would like to thank the New York City restaurant Osteria Laguna for firing me, leading to a series of events without which I would never have written this book.

  Finally, thank you, Gabriel. You inspire me. Your willingness to expand the realm of the possible makes me fight all the harder. Thank you for believing in this book.

  * The group of street urchins often employed by Holmes to elicit information.

  * William Burke and William Hare sold the corpses of their seventeen victims to Edinburgh Medical College between 1827 and 1828. The murders led to the legalization of obtaining cadavers by other means.

  * At the time, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, whose actions during the “Bloody Sunday” riot in Trafalgar Square in 1887 were much deplored by liberals.

  * Latin, “She flies with her own wings.”

  * A glass of gin.

  * To “voker Romeny” was to speak the language of London’s destitute, also known as Thieves’ Cant, which Sherlock Holmes would likely have employed very often in a professional capacity.

  * A sovereign; Holmes is offering her as much again if she meets them at the rendezvous point.

  * Lozenges used to freshen the breath.

  * Heavy, polluted fog.

  * Jean-Martin Charcot was a French neurologist whose work in the fields of hypnosis and hysteria broke new ground in the burgeoning field of psychology. Sigmund Freud studied under him in 1885.

  * Penned by Carl Wernicke, Wilhelm Griesinger, and Richard von Krafft-Ebing, respectively.

  * It is gratifying to note that Dr. Watson is able to describe him in “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot” (dated 1897) as “Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street,” suggesting his practice later met with considerable success.

  * The striped band around a policeman’s cuff was for many years a mark of identification.

  * Sherlock Holmes perfected his formula for identifying the presence of hemoglobin on the same afternoon that he was introduced to Dr. Watson by their mutual acquaintance Stamford. Holmes was at the time searching for someone to go halves with him on a suite of rooms in Baker Street.

  * More commonly, formaldehyde.

  * Term originated by Jean Hippolyte Michon, 1871. Graphology would not be studied in England for many years to come.

  * Latin, “Nothing stands in our way.”

  * Dr. Watson records these circumstances under the title “A Scandal in Bohemia.”

  * Opium poppy.

  * Dr. Watson did indeed serve in the Battle of Maiwand, returning to England after having been severely wounded in action.

  * Inspector Frederick Abberline was heavily involved in the Ripper investigation and was ultimately promoted to the position of chief inspector in 1890.

  * A thin linen cloth.

  * Recorded by Dr. Watson in the novel A Study in Scarlet.

  * “There is no disputing taste.”

  * The treatments for feminine hysteria were varied, but many were highly sexual in nature.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Lyndsay Faye

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8362-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-8362-9

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

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