Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“‘Quite so, ma’am. If I should discover his whereabouts soon, I shall be glad to give him your regards.’

“And on they go, but I’ve heard a fair piece and’ve always had rum enough luck without tempting it, so I legs it back here. I thought best to leave all to Mr. Holmes.”

“Undoubtedly, Miss Monk!” I affirmed. “Back to Baker Street and Holmes will sort this out. Stephen Dunlevy was right about one thing—we must exercise all necessary caution.”

Holmes was awake when we arrived but still ashen of countenance, leaning heavily against the sitting room mantelpiece in his shirtsleeves and mouse-coloured dressing gown. He had swept all objects from the ledge and replaced them with a hastily sketched map of Whitechapel covered in scrawled markings and obscure street references. Its legibility was not aided by the fact that my friend was right-handed, and unable to make use of that particular limb. Disheveled as he was, staring fixedly at a jumble of erratically scribbled byways, he could as easily have been an escapee from an asylum as the final court of appeal in criminal detection.

“Miss Monk, where does Stephen Dunlevy keep his pocket handkerchief?”

“In the lining of his coat, if I recall.”

“Hum. I thought as much.”

She was staring at my friend despondently. “Lor’, Mr. Holmes, I knew you was bad off that night from the doctor’s dinner jacket, but to see you like this—”

“You have been considering going into business, I see.”

“How do you know that?” she gasped.

“The same process which informs me you got very drunk recently and have a young female acquaintance, possibly a neighbour, whose happiness is of some import to you.”

“Of all the rotten cheek,” cried Miss Monk, her chin up and her eyes blazing. “You’ll talk that way to the carpet if you like, for I’ll be damned if I stay to hear it.”

As she made her way to the door, Holmes, employing perhaps the last of his resources, leapt after her, catching her gently and easily by the wrist. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Monk. Dr. Watson will tell you that my powers have not the charm of tact to recommend them. Pray sit down.”

Miss Monk peered suspiciously at Holmes, but her temper waned as quickly as it had sparked. “Well, then. I’ll not say you were wrong, just a mite… forward. I’m that glad to see you alive, at any rate. There, I oughtn’t to have flared out so, but I thought the whole thing a slum.”

“My dear Miss Monk, I would never dream of using trickery to gain special knowledge,” sighed Holmes as he made his laborious way toward the settee, lying down and passing his operative hand through his hair. “Though you are not the first to think so, and if I am lucky you shall not be the last.”

“How d’ye do it, then?”

He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes. “That you are thinking of going into business is obvious from the four separate varieties of rag doll peeping at various angles from your pockets. Impoverished mothers make them, leaving it to their young offspring to hawk the wares. If you can provide materials with your new capital, you may well manage to ease the lives of all your acquaintances, at least those with rudimentary sewing skills.”

“What of the girl?”

“You’ve already examined and formed an opinion of each design. They are now well within your income, have no actual value, and yet you carry them about with you. They are a gift. What sort of person would be likely to enjoy such a gesture?”

“They are for Emily. She’s not yet four, poor little mite. And?” Miss Monk prompted, not willing to employ any further syllables.

Holmes winced gallantly and replied, “Your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“The right shoe.”

She looked down quickly and glanced up again at Holmes.

“You recently replaced your worn boots with new ones, and thus when I last saw you, they were relatively unmarked. There is now a significant marring of the leather, in more than one place, on the right boot: you have been kicking something heavy, and quite violently.” The clinical tone in an instant gave way to easy charm. “I congratulate you that, while it is the nature of drink to compel one to lash out physically, it is the nature of a thinking person to confine her rage to one foot.”

“I’ll own up to it. Saturday night gave me a turn, and I was finding a bit of ease at the bottom of a glass.”

“My dear Miss Monk, I cannot tell you how—”

“Oh, bollocks to you both! I’ve had my fit, don’t you see, and all that’s left is a scuffed boot, and what’s a scuffed boot to the likes of us?” she cried, and sat quite naturally on our sitting room floor, Indian-style, next to Holmes’s head. “So what are we to do?”

“Wait a moment.” He laughed. “I have not all my data about me. You continue to meet with Private Dunlevy, do you not?”

“How the devil did you—”

“You do, then.”

“Well, yes.”

“Then if you would be so kind as to make me aware of any recent developments.”

Miss Monk did so, omitting nothing she had told me, although her narrative had smoothed through repetition.

“There it is, Mr. Holmes,” she concluded at length. “What am I to do with the blighter?”

Holmes considered briefly. “Have you any objection to continuing in his company?”

“No objection, save that I know what I’m in for.”

My friend rose with an effort and crossed the room. “Nothing perilous, I assure you, provided you keep to public areas and take no risks once the sun has set. Carry this somewhere about your person—disguised, mind.” He produced from a drawer in his desk a small collapsible blade and tossed it to Miss Monk.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, then remembered herself and replied, “Right then. I’m to gad about with Dunlevy looking for staring, mad soldiers, eyes glazed over and trousers covered with dried blood, and report back to you, shall I?”

“If you would be so kind. Dr. Watson and I can cover most lines of inquiry, but it is essential that someone remain in the field.”

“Seems best, with Blackstone on the lam,” she returned lightly. “Hope we find him soon, at any rate. Wouldn’t want to wander the Chapel with Dunlevy wi’out a specific agenda. Poor lad might get the wrong idea.”

“By the way, Miss Monk, do any of your companions, in your experience, carry pieces of chalk about with them?”

“Chalk? Like what that batty message about Jews was written with?” She reflected. “The girls I know might carry a stub of pencil, but it’s long odds. Half of them wouldn’t know the use of it. Chalk would be used to mark lengths, I suppose—a bolt of cloth, maybe, or a piece of lumber?”

“One more thing, Miss Monk,” Holmes added as she made her way to the door. “I discovered a stalk of grapes near the dead woman. If you would be so good as to look further into the matter, I should be grateful.”

“What sort were they?”

“The stem was consistent with black grapes.”

“There ain’t but a few merchants in that area who’d be selling black grapes. I’ll ferret ’em out, never fear.”

“Thank you, Miss Monk. Please be careful.”

“That I’ll be, make no mistake,” she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the stairs. “I may work for you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not entirely daft just yet.”

I closed the door and turned on Holmes as he lit a cigarette. “Are you quite certain you know what you’re doing, old man?”

“You mean to ask whether I am certain I know what Miss Monk is doing,” he shot back, and I was once more made aware of just how excruciating it must have been for a man of his active nature to find himself restrained by his own body. “For the moment, I am rendered physically inert. Do you imagine it possible for you to saunter into Dunlevy’s digs and demand Blackstone’s whereabouts? She’ll play the game nearly as well as I could, and one mystery, at any rate, will be solved.”