Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“It is a sterling idea, Miss Monk. I may have a mind to follow him myself tomorrow. Quietly now, and so as not to cause any curiosity over our departure, do take my friend Middleton’s arm and lead us out of the bar.”

CHAPTER EIGHT In Pursuit of the Killer

Heading in a southwesterly direction, we were soon avoiding heaps of debris and rivulets of sewage on our way to Dunlevy’s abode. Miss Monk, freed from the gaze of our fellow bar patrons, let go of my forearm with a comradely squeeze and we traveled three abreast. We had passed a board school, and were nearing a two-story barn housing what sounded like a gentleman’s club in the midst of a celebration, when a pony-driven cart blocked our path as it approached an open gate. The workman sitting upon the small seat of his costermonger’s barrow, a stooped man with spectacles and fingerless gloves, called out impatiently to his animal. To his surprise, his pony shied backward with a nervous neighing sigh. Another attempt to enter met with the same resistance, and as a result, our party trod into the street to cross to the other side.

We had continued for several more paces when Holmes cried, “Wait! The reins, Watson! The reins in that man’s hand, they were slack, were they not?” Without awaiting a reply, he turned on his heel and flew back toward the gate and the fretfully pawing pony, whose owner had temporarily abandoned the project and gone inside the club.

Miss Monk turned a quizzical eye toward me. “They were slack, right enough. But what could that mean?”

I intended to reply, but some instinct instead caused me to run with all my speed after Holmes into the long space between the two buildings. The walls rose at an impossible angle for any light to penetrate from the street beyond, and I could barely make out my friend’s tall form against the opposite mouth of the corridor.

“Holmes!” I called, proceeding forward with one guiding hand on the cold wall. “What is it, Holmes?”

The spark of a lit vesta flared out, revealing my friend’s thin hand and a patch of stone wall. “It is murder, Watson.”

When Holmes lit the bull’s-eye, the sight which had been invisible to my duller senses caused me to gasp in alarm. There lay the very gaunt, sable-clad woman I had noted in the Bricklayer’s Arms not two hours previous. Her eyes were now open and staring, seemingly in disbelief at the rivulets of blood which ran from the gaping gash through her neck onto the ground.

I immediately knelt to see what could be done, but she had breathed her last mere seconds before our arrival. At this observation, a new thought struck me, and I looked urgently up at Holmes as I drew my service revolver, indicating the enclosed yard beyond. He nodded once. Lantern in hand, the detective cautiously advanced the remaining fifteen feet down the end of the corridor until he reached the edge of the threshold and stepped into the shadowy yard.

The attack happened so quickly that it was difficult for me to know exactly what occurred. A dark figure, who had clearly been waiting flat against the wall beyond, focusing all his senses upon our movements, darted behind Holmes and dealt me a powerful blow near the left eye, momentarily stunning me as he tumbled out the street side of the passageway. My next memory, which could only have been a split second later, was of Holmes shouting, “Remain here!” as he left the lantern and took flight after the murderer of the unidentified female, whose eyes, though my own were still painfully blurred, I gently closed as I leaned against the wall.

After bitterly regretting my own stupidity in allowing myself to be assaulted in such a manner, I reflected that the terrain had been far from in our favour—to walk from a narrow entrance into unknown landscape is to invite ambush—and I soon left off cursing my ill luck to ponder what use I could be where I was.

Upon approaching the gate, I nearly collided with the workman from the pony cart, which remained where we had left it, the animal still tossing its head in indignation at the proceedings. The driver had evidently gone inside and brought back with him a few lit candles and several of his comrades, many of foreign appearance, all respectably dressed and glaring at me suspiciously.

“My pony was afraid, and I stop to see why,” he began in slightly accented but perfectly comprehensible English. “He is not usually this way, and I saw a dark shape. You—you were hiding? In the yard?”

“No,” I replied, “but a terrible event has occurred there. We must summon the police at once.”

The knot of men exchanged worried glances. “I am Mr. Louis Diemschutz,” declared the cart driver. “We are members of the International Workingmen’s Educational Club, through that door. My house, my wife—they live off this yard. I must see what has been done.”

I nodded and stood aside. Mr. Diemschutz approached the body and gave a small exclamation at the pool of blood surrounding the victim’s head.

“This is not my wife,” he cried, “but another woman has been killed! This man is right. We must find help.”

Fortunately, that task required negligible effort, for before we had traversed ten yards of the street, Miss Monk rounded the corner in a visible rage with an exceedingly recalcitrant police constable in tow.

“You’ll leg it sharp, or I’ll begin screaming and I won’t stop till you’ve done what’s right. Bloody hell, do you think I spend my time chatting up every crusher I see trudging along his little circle?” She stopped short at the sight of me. “Oh, Dr. Watson,” she cried, leaving the policeman and flying to my side. “Your eye is bleeding. I knew summat was wrong. What’s in that alley? What’s happened to Mr. Holmes, then?”

“There has been another murder, and Holmes has gone after the killer,” I replied, half for the benefit of Miss Monk and half for that of the bewildered constable. As I uttered those words, I wondered with a sudden stab of fear whether it was remotely possible for Sherlock Holmes to be outmatched, and I lamented even more keenly that I was not with him.

“You saw the man what’s done it?” Miss Monk questioned. I nodded. “And there’s—there’s another woman in there? She’s dead, you’ve said as much, but is she—?”

“We interrupted her killer. Nothing of the sort that was done to Annie Chapman has happened here.”

“That’s a blessing, then.” Miss Monk exhaled. “Right. You want me to see her? The poor soul. I may know her, after all.”

I considered this suggestion and, knowing that time was of the essence, reluctantly gave my assent. The startled policeman likewise had no objection. I had left the lantern by the corpse, so together we approached the harsh halo of illumination delineating the arm and head of the body. Miss Monk bit her lip in distress at the sight of the victim but slowly shook her head. I took her arm and led her away.

“Are you all right, Miss Monk?”

“I’m like to be fine in a moment, Doctor.”

“Perhaps one of the men associated with the Educational Club will escort you inside.”

I had expected words of protestation either from Miss Monk, who looked stalwart but very pale, or from the club members, each of whom appeared to be attempting to work out my exact relationship with the shabbily clad young woman. No dispute was forthcoming, however, and a thin fellow with a pince-nez offered Miss Monk his arm and led her into the light and noise of the club.

“You’re Dr. Watson?” demanded the policeman. He was a ruddy-faced youth with a blond moustache and weak chin. “I am Police Constable Lamb. The area must be secured, and no one is to leave the club until we’ve settled this matter. Pray God Mr. Holmes has caught the fiend by this time.”