Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“You amaze me, Mr. Vandervent.”

“Indeed! Yes. It is a very disquieting sensation. But as I understand it, rum notes and dark plots are quite your arena, Mr. Holmes. You’ve traced his whereabouts by now, no doubt.”

“I think I would do well to exchange my actual powers for Mr. Vandervent’s imagined ones,” the detective replied. “In fact, I cannot make out his game at all.”

“His game is clear enough. States it right there—fourth sentence, I believe: ‘down on whores.’”

“No, no, the note itself. You’ve called attention to the key oddity already: why should this man, if he is not the killer, ask that the letter be held back until after he has killed again? The casual prankster would wish the letter to be published immediately, seeking only to frighten the public and see his handiwork in print.”

“Is there anything that could help us to trace the author?” I asked.

Holmes shrugged. “The man is moderately educated. The irregularity of the baseline, as well as the downward-slanting script, indicate he is moody and unpredictable. His t s are determined, his r s intelligent, and the confidence in his capitals is troubling. The envelope reveals nothing aside from origin, and the Moncton’s Superfine watermark is clear but certainly not a clue by which we could trace a man.”

“Moncton’s Superfine watermark. You don’t say. But let us address the real problem, Mr. Holmes,” drawled Mr. Vandervent. “What am I to do with it? I’ve done my civic duty in bringing it here, but I fear the citizenry might be nonplussed at reading it over breakfast.”

“May I keep this document for further study?”

“So you advise me to hold it back for the time being? A very roundabout way you have of putting it too. Very well, Mr. Holmes, I shall leave the thing in your hands, to be retrieved the day after tomorrow, at which time I shall forward it to the Yard. Make good use of it. I have no doubt but that it would prove excellent kindling.” Mr. Vandervent, with a supreme effort, raised himself from his chair and descended the stairs.

Holmes drained his glass thoughtfully. “Miss Monk, would it be at all possible for you to see this Dunlevy fellow a second time?”

“We’ve fixed Saturday evening to meet at the Queen’s Head. Nine o’clock sharp,” Miss Monk replied innocently.

“Brava! Miss Monk, you are of inestimable help. Dr. Watson and I will be on hand in Whitechapel to provide support. Meanwhile, I intend to study this letter until it can house no secrets from me. The author may not be our man, but this ‘Jack the Ripper,’ whoever he is, certainly bears investigating.”

CHAPTER SEVEN A Whitechapel Rendezvous

Holmes was absent for much of the next day, revealing when he returned only that we were to meet Miss Monk in the East-end on the following evening. No more would he say regarding either the case or the mysterious letter, and when, against my better judgment, I pressed the subject, he embarked upon a discussion of architecture as a reflection of national ideals, steadfastly refusing to be led astray from that intriguing though irrelevant subject.

The following afternoon proved an arena for the wind to strew showers against windowpanes and blow gusts of cold, wet air through timidly cracked doorways. My friend arrived for supper in high spirits, and we sat down over a bottle of Bordeaux before embarking upon our journey east.

“I have been returning Mr. Vandervent’s property,” said Holmes as he poured me a glass. “I was not thanked for my trouble. That poor misanthrope has no patience for his own kind, but he’s a decent enough sort, and as you have seen, occasionally invaluable.”

“What do we intend to accomplish this evening?”

“We shall stay a reasonable distance behind Miss Monk and see whether this mysterious soldier has had any luck in tracing his friend Johnny Blackstone. I have not yet had a look at the fellow, after all, and he has piqued my interest enormously.”

“In what way?”

“Surely it is apparent that Dunlevy is not all that he seems.”

“Is it?” I inquired. “We have never laid eyes on him.”

“Yes, but she has, and if what she says is accurate, he is a slippery fish, this Mr. Dunlevy. Consider: a woman has been brutally murdered. You were present at the scene. You know who has done it, or you think you know. You never say a word about it to anyone and you fail to inform either the police or your superiors what has happened.”

“He claimed they were fast friends.”

“Even more baffling. Rather than request a leave of absence to seek out your fallen brother, or even go so far as to place an ad in the agony columns, you leave the city and only upon your return develop a burning desire to find him. He cannot be both fiercely loyal and glaringly negligent. Now, look here, Watson, we haven’t much time. It is nearly seven. We shall finish this excellent vintage, and then into evening dress.”

“Evening dress? In Whitechapel?”

“We’ll be far less visible that way, and we shall incorporate, beneath our coats, your revolver and my bull’s-eye lantern. I assure you that evening dress is the best possible measure to avoid undue attention. Better for us to appear swells of dubious morals than gentlemen of mysterious purposes. Besides, Watson,” he added, with a glint of humour in his grey eyes, “you, after all, are a man of the world. We must put your skills to use, for there is no greater tragedy on God’s green earth than that of untapped talent.”

Thus, attired as elegantly as if our destination were the opera and not the East-end, we set forth into the glittering streets as the evening deepened into night. The freshly lit gas lamps flung yellowed light across the rain-streaked windowpanes but grew ever more scarce as we drove east. At length, when we had left the vast tracts of brick dwellings behind us, our cab turned onto Whitechapel High Street. Light poured from the doorways of the gin palaces, illuminating the fruit peddlers who laboured at the end of the day to sell their remaining wares. An organ-grinder with his chattering simian companion stood before a music hall upon a crumbling street corner. Everywhere men leaned in doorways puffing at cigars, and everywhere women strolled about, some housewives with hair in loose buns gossiping with their neighbours, some ladies of more mercurial design who kept in constant motion to avoid the attention of the local constabulary. Gentlemen of leisure too, weary of concerts and of dinner parties, lounged from temptation to temptation with cynical aplomb. The place was a veritable hornet’s nest of whirring activity, illicit and otherwise, and the rawness of it reminded me less of London than it did the heaving markets of Calcutta and of Delhi I had encountered during my time in service.

At length we turned north onto Commercial Street, where pools of water stood in front of the narrow shops illuminated from within by greasy tallow candles. Rats scurried from under our clattering wheels, and doors leading to derelict stairwells stood yawning in the rain. I peered into them, but to no avail; the glow and bustle of Whitechapel High Street had been replaced by pervasive darkness. It was a black so heavy that its weight appeared only to be deepened by the efforts of the meager lamps, and I wondered aloud to Holmes what deeds might with impunity be committed in such a realm.

“To live in these houses, one cannot survive without either condoning or incorporating the criminal element,” my friend replied. “See here—this street we are passing, Flower and Dean—it is one of the most dangerous places in the known world, and it is not in the wilds of Africa but mere miles from the place where you and I so peaceably hang our hats.”