Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“Is that Mr. Holmes?” she asked as his cab pulled away.

“Yes,” I said shortly. “He is not well. There has been another murder.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, but she immediately recovered her self-possession. “Then you and I had best leg it over or there’ll be hell to pay.”

As distraught as I was, I had no doubt that Miss Monk was in the right. “Lestrade, where is the other crime scene?”

“Just west of here in Mitre Square,” Lestrade replied, still gazing with an expression of ill-disguised panic at the point where Holmes’s hansom had disappeared. “Inspector Thomas has arrived, so I can take you there myself. I must warn you, however, the Yard has no jurisdiction. The murder was committed within the City of London.”

The central pivot of the eastern metropolis, mirrored by the City of Westminster in the West-end, the City of London was limited to a single square mile of ground, safeguarded not by Scotland Yard but by their own small company of police under the authority of the Corporation of the City of London. However many individuals within that force Holmes had dealings with, I knew not a soul, and I gratefully accepted Lestrade’s offered escort.

“Let us be off,” said I, with the roughness that is born of deep apprehension. “We cannot lose any more time.”

“One moment,” replied Lestrade with a wondering glance toward Miss Monk. “Who the devil is this young person? Do you live in these buildings?”

“My name is Mary Ann Monk, sir,” she stated. “I am in the employ of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

The inspector raised his eyes heavenward and shook his head, but to his credit he did no more. “No doubt you are, miss. No doubt you are. But I warn you, Doctor—this young lady is to be presented as an associate of Mr. Holmes, not of Scotland Yard, if she’s presented at all. My head would be in a basket by morning. Very well, into the carriage all, and back to Mitre Square. I hope you’ve the stomach for it, Doctor: there’s a level of hell made especially for this bastard, or there’s no justice in Creation. Of that, at least, I’m sure.”

We drove westward along Commercial Road and then down Whitechapel High Street to the ancient core of Her Majesty’s wide realm. No one spoke a word, for Holmes’s absence had cast a greater pall even than the news of the second murder. Setting aside my severe anxiety for my friend, the Whitechapel killer had proven himself to be the most fearsome menace ever to strike terror into the hearts of the populace. What powers could we expect to set against him without Holmes? I had never in my life been placed in such a false position, but I set my teeth and determined to do my utmost, whatever was required.

We none of us had long to worry, for it was a mere five minutes’ journey. Stopping the carriage on Duke Street, we descended and passed the Great Synagogue, ducking into a small, covered opening. When we emerged in the wide square, we found a somber group of City Police surrounding the body, obscuring it from our immediate view. She lay in front of a row of empty cottages, with blank gaping windows and the creeping tendrils of weeds hastening their decay.

A tall, actively built man with sharp eyes and a military bearing, dressed in fashionably cut plain clothes, turned at the sound of our footsteps.

“This is a murder investigation,” he proclaimed. “You must step outside the square to avoid disturbing evidence.”

“I am Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan force.” Lestrade proffered his hand rather uncertainly. “Major Henry Smith, is it not? To tell the truth, sir, we are investigating another murder committed on Berner Street, with all signs of it having been the work of the same party.”

Major Smith emitted a low whistle. “By George, Inspector, you astonish me. And you are?” he asked, turning to me.

“Dr. John Watson. I was there when the event occurred.”

“Your name is known to me, Dr. Watson. You say you were there—you interrupted the murderer at his work?”

“That is correct.”

“Then the man is in custody?”

“We believe he escaped to commit the second atrocity you discovered in this square.”

“Your tale is quite fantastical, sir. Forgive me, but considering your own presence here, Dr. Watson—where, in this extraordinary array of characters, is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

I hesitated. “He met with the killer and suffered an attack on his own person. He has been taken to seek aid.” Gesturing to Miss Monk, I added, “This is an associate of Mr. Holmes and myself who has been helping with the investigation.”

“Mary Ann Monk, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. Well, then, now that we are acquainted,” Major Smith continued, evidently not wishing to dwell upon the propriety of Miss Monk’s presence, “Police Constable Watkins discovered the deceased while on his beat. His full circuit takes him approximately thirteen minutes to traverse, and he assures me the body was not in the square when he looked in at one thirty. Constable Watkins immediately engaged the aid of the night watchman from yonder warehouse to send for reinforcements and has not left the body since. You are welcome to make your own observations, Dr. Watson, before this poor creature is taken to the morgue.”

“Miss Monk, if you would be so good as to look about the square for anything out of the ordinary,” I suggested with a significant glance.

As she did so, Lestrade and I advanced through the cluster of officials. The inspector, one hand poised to take notes, clapped the other to my shoulder and nodded his head. I knelt beside the victim.

“Her throat has been cut from ear to ear. There is serious damage from a knife to both eyelids, both cheeks, and the tip of the nose. Abdomen has been laid entirely open and her intestines drawn out of the body and draped over the right shoulder. Severe injury to the pancreas, the lining of the uterus, the colon…” I stopped to draw a deep breath. “We must wait for the postmortem to determine the full extent of it. I can tell you that the pattern of her blood suggests the mutilations occurred after the poor woman’s death.”

A short silence punctuated my speech. Lestrade tucked his notebook in his coat with a sigh. “It seems clear that after he met Mr. Holmes, the beast inflicted his filthy urges on the first candidate. I know the last murders were ugly, Doctor, but this—the monster was in a blind frenzy.”

I was pulled out of my dark reverie by a delicate hand on my shoulder.

“Her ear, Doctor.”

There was Miss Monk, peering down at the desecrated remains. Her high tone of voice gave the only clue as to the strain she was under. “You see her ear?”

“Yes. A small part of the right ear has been cut off.”

“You remember the letter?”

Miss Monk’s words brought it flooding back to me as if it were before my very eyes. “Of course!” I cried. “Just such a mutilation was mentioned. Do you recall the exact wording, Miss Monk?”

“‘The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you,’” she replied rapidly, under her breath.

“I think I should be most gratified to learn who received this letter,” said Major Smith evenly.

“It was sent to the Central News Agency last Thursday,” I replied. “The letter references clipping off the next victim’s ears, if possible, and sending them to the police, as Miss Monk has said.”

“Does it indeed! The missive has not been published, as I understand you?”

I shook my head. “Holmes returned it to the Central News. The letter was signed with the name ‘Jack the Ripper.’”

“It’s true,” Lestrade said through his teeth, “but we supposed it a hoax. Now it seems this lunatic is not merely running about ripping whores to shreds, he’s appointed himself a pen name and mailed his agenda to the national press.”