Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

I took the seventeen steps up to our sitting room two at a time and found a tall, handsome, round-featured young man with a determined jaw, a generous shock of wavy brown hair, and deeply set, thoughtful brown eyes checking our mantelpiece clock against his watch. He was dressed as a perfect gentleman in dark tweeds, and I noted an elegantly styled bowler hat thrown carelessly upon the settee, but the elbows and knees of his garments had worn nearly through, and the edges of the hat were beginning to fray. He looked up at my hurried entrance.

“Dr. Moore Agar at your service,” he said earnestly. “I had the honour of stitching up your friend in the next room. He has lost a considerable amount of blood, I am afraid, but I believe he will come out of it all right.”

“Thank God for that.” I exhaled in relief, collapsing into the nearest chair. “That is the very first piece of good news I have had this night. Forgive my exhaustion, Dr. Agar, but I have been taxed in every way possible. Mrs. Hudson tells me we are neighbours.”

“And so we are! I am quartered a mere two doors down. I am just beginning in practice, which is a black mark against me, but you will corroborate my findings, no doubt, and ensure that all will be well with your friend. You are the celebrated Mr. Holmes’s physician, Dr. Watson, no doubt?”

“Merely his biographer. Sherlock Holmes is elaborately uninterested in the state of his own health,” I replied, warmly grasping the hand before me.

Dr. Agar laughed. “It is of no surprise to me,” he replied. “Men of genius are often cavalier about physical trifles. This injury could hardly be termed trifling, however. No fear of muscular impairment, but the tissue damage is quite extensive and the blood loss, as you know, severe.”

“My friend will be very grateful.”

“Mr. Holmes has no reason to be. Perhaps when you have both recovered, you can relate to me more of these extraordinary circumstances, but for now I will leave you in peace. I have injected morphine, but if it is convenient to you, Doctor, I’ll not leave any of my own supplies behind. I imagine you have access to fresh bandaging and so forth; poverty compels me to be rude. Or practicality has trounced my manners. Whichever it may be, I apologize. A better morning to you, Dr. Watson,” the young physician said as he saw himself out and down the stairs.

I made my way quietly into Holmes’s bedroom, where I was peered at malevolently from every angle by the images of infamous criminals carelessly tacked to the walls. My friend, though deathly pale, was breathing regularly and at last, blessedly, unconscious. I swung the door to but did not shut it and returned downstairs for a soothing word with Mrs. Hudson. Then finally, retrieving a quilt from my bed and a generous glass of brandy from the sideboard, I made my home on the sofa within easy call and fell asleep just as the sunlight poured over the windowsills and struggled to flood the room in defiance of the closely drawn curtains.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Mitre Square

When I awoke, I was startled to discover that it was nearly night once more. I sat up groggily and beheld at my feet a tray, laden with a few meats and a cup of cold broth, which did wonders for my state of mind. Supposing my own exhaustion had prompted me to sleep through the day, I at once chastised myself for failing to look in on Holmes. Peering into his chamber, I was comforted by the presence of a candle and another tea tray, partially used, and evidently provided by the conscientious Mrs. Hudson. I made my way upstairs in hopes a wash and change of clothes would restore my energy, but upon my finishing, the dizzy ache in my head revisited me with a vengeance. I tended to Holmes’s bandages and then collapsed once more upon the sofa in hopes that we both would be capable of more upon the morrow.

The birds were still singing, but the quality of light told me it was midmorning when my eyes fluttered open for the second time. For a moment I was harrowed by the disoriented dread one experiences when too much has occurred to be immediately recalled, but a minute’s further repose brought it all back to the forefront of my mind, and I hastened to Holmes’s bedroom.

The sight which greeted me upon my throwing open his door brought a smile of relief to my face. There sat Sherlock Holmes, his hair all awry, telegrams scattered over his lap, the bed literally covered with newsprint, a cigarette held awkwardly in his left hand as he attempted to sift through his considerable correspondence.

“Ah, Watson,” he saluted me. “Don’t bother to knock. Do come in, my dear fellow.”

“My apologies,” I laughed. “I had heard rumour you were an invalid.”

“Nonsense. I am a pillar of strength. I am, in strict point of fact, quite disgusted with myself,” he added more quietly—with a tweak of one eyebrow that told me more than his words of his profound dissatisfaction, “but no matter. Up until this moment, Mrs. Hudson and Billy brought me everything I required. Now you must sit in that armchair, my boy, and tell me the whole ghastly mess.”

I did so, omitting nothing from our universal dismay at his misfortune, to the state of the second girl’s ears and the dispute between our good Lestrade and his own Commissioner. A solid hour must have passed, Holmes’s eyes closed in concentration and my mind straining for each and every detail, when I arrived at Dr. Moore Agar and my own homecoming.

“It is unforgivable that we have lost Sunday! The police no doubt have swept both crime scenes of any useful evidence in my absence, and this business of the chalked message is altogether tragic. I cannot remember anything at all,” Holmes confessed bitterly, “from the time I alighted the hansom until this morning at around nine o’clock. Of course I deduced the profession of two twenty-seven Baker Street months ago, but the business of the summons Mrs. Hudson related to me is merely a painful blur.”

“I was at a continual loss whether to come after you or remain in the East-end.”

“Your sentiments do you credit, as ever, Doctor, but were you not present, how would you explain to me the seven urgent messages I have received so far this morning?”

“Seven! I am all attention.”

“Let me relate them to you in the order I read them. First, a note from the doughty Inspector Lestrade, with well-wishes, requesting a facsimile of the curious inscription you fought fruitlessly to preserve.”

“Miss Monk has given it to me. I shall send copies immediately.”

“Next, President George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, with compliments, informs me he has written the Queen demanding a reward be offered.”

“Good heavens! London will be a madhouse.”

“My sentiments echo your own. Here we have a very considerate note from Major Henry Smith, who has enclosed the results from the postmortem of the City victim. We shall return to that in a moment. If you would be so kind as to pour me another cup of coffee, my dear fellow, as my usual motility has been greatly hampered by our neighbour two doors down. Much obliged. Fourth, a telegram from brother Mycroft: ‘Will visit at earliest possible convenience—great uproar in Whitehall. Mend quickly; your death would be most inconvenient at this time.’”

“I heartily agree.”

“Fifth, Miss Monk asks that we wire her a convenient time to meet.”

“She has proven herself to be a woman of extraordinary fortitude.”

“For which I am exceedingly grateful. Item the sixth, calling card of Mr. Rowland K. Vandervent, who likewise begs an audience. Finally, there is a preposterous missive from a reporter who claims to know more than he should demanding an interview in the interests of public awareness.”