Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“The whereabouts of Johnny Blackstone?”

“The intentions of Stephen Dunlevy.”

“Did we not venture into Whitechapel in the first place to safeguard Miss Monk from him?” I queried bluntly.

“I know far more now than I did then.”

“That is very gratifying. But in any event, there are key discrepancies surrounding the Tabram murder. What if the thread leads us nowhere?”

“You regard the matter from the wrong angle entirely, which hardly surprises me,” Holmes replied caustically. “This thread cannot lead us nowhere, for wherever it leads, it exposes more of Stephen Dunlevy, who interests me in no small degree. And now, Watson, you are going out.”

“Indeed?”

“You are to meet with one Leslie Tavistock, in the offices of the London Chronicle, that shining beacon of ethical journalism. You’ve an appointment at half past three. And on your way back from Fleet Street, do stop by our tobacconist’s for a fresh supply of cigars,” he finished, nudging their receptacle with his foot. “The coal scuttle, I am afraid, has run entirely dry.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Lestrade Questions a Suspect

I was made to wait for a quarter of an hour after my designated time in the bustling antechamber of the London Chronicle ’s headquarters, rife with shabbily appointed journalists and far too short on both light and coal. From the moment I stepped into the office of Mr. Leslie Tavistock, I knew that the experience would not be a pleasant one. The man himself sat in his desk chair with a mixture of calm insouciance and deliberate irony on his clean-shaven, calculating features. I introduced myself, and before I could utter another word, he had half raised his hand in a gesture of amiable protest.

“Now, Dr. Watson,” he began, “I have no intention of insulting either your natural loyalties or your good sense by asking what brought you here. That story is already the talk of London, and I’ve followed up with my original source in order to furnish the public with a few more salient details regarding the unconventional Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But in the meanwhile, I am delighted you are here. I should like to pose a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I most certainly do. Mr. Holmes has already been shamefully abused at your hands, and my sole mission this afternoon is to determine whether you would prefer to reveal your source or defend yourself against charges of libel.”

If Tavistock was surprised at my words, I had hardly expected myself to engage in a frontal attack so suddenly and so soon. He arched his brows as if greatly disappointed.

“I have my doubts as to whether that course of action would be open to you, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes must resign himself to the glare of public scrutiny if he wishes to continue his extraordinary exploits. The facts behind my article are entirely true; if the particulars are couched in terms you dislike, perhaps you would care to clarify Mr. Holmes’s uncanny prescience.”

“Sherlock Holmes has always been the scourge of the criminal element. His motives in this case should be abundantly clear,” I seethed.

“Does he hold himself responsible for apprehending the culprit?” Tavistock asked casually.

“He intends to do everything in his power to—”

“How does Mr. Holmes feel about having failed to capture the Ripper that night, possibly enabling further killings?”

“Come, sir! This is really intolerable.”

“My apologies. Dr. Watson, considering the terrible mutilations that have become the overriding feature of these crimes, is it possible that a doctor could be responsible for them?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean to say, speaking theoretically, as a medical man, you would no doubt be aided in such work by your own skills and training?”

“The Ripper’s ‘skills’ are the merest butchery. As for my own medical abilities, I have so far confined their use to healing the sick, both practically and theoretically,” I replied coldly.

“No doubt, no doubt. Now, Mr. Holmes, though not a doctor, possesses a very workable knowledge of anatomy. I believe I may have read so in your own account of his work—that very engaging piece in Beeton’s Christmas Annual from last year. In your opinion—”

“In my opinion, you are guilty of the most outrageous perversion of the truth I have been witness to in the public print,” I exclaimed, rising from my chair. “Rest assured that you will hear from us again.”

“I have no doubt of it, Dr. Watson,” Leslie Tavistock smiled. “May I offer you and Mr. Holmes the same assurances? A very pleasant day to you, I am sure.”

The sun had etched long shadows across the brick walls of Baker Street before I arrived home once more. Though the crimes of Jack the Ripper had sickened me beyond words, this lesser grievance infuriated me in a much more personal fashion. My arrival in our sitting room must have been more violent than I intended, for Holmes, who appeared to have appointed the sofa as his base of operations, awoke immediately upon my entering.

“I see you’ve exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Tavistock,” he commented wryly.

“I am sorry, Holmes. You ought to be resting. How do you feel?”

“A bit like the misaligned pistons of an unbalanced steam engine.”

“I shall prepare some morphia if you like.”

“Dear me. Best have it out at once, Watson.” He smiled. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

I related, with a deal of disgust, the conversation which had passed between me and Mr. Tavistock. When I concluded, Holmes’s piercing gaze settled into an unfocused reverie as he reached for a cigarette. It was near ten minutes before he spoke again.

“It is the most confounded nuisance to be unable to light one’s pipe effectively.”

I could not help but smile at this non sequitur. “It is always trying to lose the use of an appendage, however temporary. I ought to know.”

“I have my pick of annoyances today, to be sure. Tavistock mentioned nothing that would give away a clue as to his source?”

“Nothing.”

“And he does not appear to you to be approaching a state of penitence.”

“That would be understating the matter.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the distant ringing of the bell. “That will be Lestrade.” Holmes sighed. “He purports to inform us of the new victims’ identities and habits. His call, however, was preceded by a reply-paid telegram asking after my degree of fragility, a kindly meant sentiment that you will agree does not bode well.”

Lestrade’s dogged, inquisitive features had sagged into an expression of resigned determination to see a bad business through no matter the cost. His persistence was an admirable distinction but, I now realized, a trying one as well, for he seemed not to have slept more than six hours since I had left him in Whitechapel.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, a smile briefly quickening his features, “I’ve brought respects from your friends at the Yard.”

“Convey them my thanks, if you would. Have a seat, and regale the infirmatory with tales of the latest victims.”

“Well,” Lestrade declared, drawing out his official notebook, “we do at least know who they are. Though that does us no positive good at all. First victim of the evening was one Elizabeth Stride, a widow who may or may not have had children.”

I nodded. “The unhappy woman dressed all in black. By chance, we caught a glimpse of her in the neighbourhood just before she was killed.”

“Did you?” Lestrade responded eagerly. “Who was she with?”

I had already shrugged my shoulders in apology for my imperfect memory when Holmes replied, “A brewer who resides in Norwood with his domineering mother and has absolutely no bearing upon the matter at hand.”