Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“There is just one more thing, Mr. Holmes! Gregson and Lanner wanted me to tell you that it may be best not to be seen in Whitechapel for some short time—until after all this ugliness is cleared up.”

“They are far more likely to encounter me in Whitechapel with greater and greater frequency, until such time as one or all of us put a stop to this Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror,” replied my fellow lodger, leaning defiantly against his doorframe.

I imagined our colleague would take umbrage with my companion’s declaration. However, once more I had underestimated Inspector Lestrade, and to my regret, for I realized suddenly that Holmes had no better friend in all Scotland Yard. Far from appearing surprised, he only smiled with wearied satisfaction.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, Mr. Holmes. Not a doubt in the world. But I was bound to tell you, wasn’t I? Mend well. Good day to you, Dr. Watson.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The London Monster

Holmes remained in his room for some time after Lestrade had made his way out. The sun had set entirely when he emerged, asking, “Care to pay a call guaranteed to be more civil than your earlier endeavour?”

“I am at your service, Holmes.”

“Then help me into my coat and we shall settle a problem that has been plaguing my mind.”

“Certainly. Where are we going?”

“To consult a specialist.”

“A specialist?” I repeated in surprise. “But you are the world’s foremost specialist in crime detection.”

“I do not dispute it,” he replied smoothly. “We shall consult a specialist in another field entirely.”

“But are you strong enough for a journey tonight?”

Holmes tucked one of his commonplace books under his good arm with a slightly puckish smile. “I appreciate your solicitude, Doctor. However, in this instance, I fear it is misplaced.”

Once out of doors in the bracing cold, Holmes turned and proceeded down Baker Street. He had passed two houses when he stopped abruptly. “If you wouldn’t mind ringing the bell, Watson. You are better acquainted with the fellow than I, I’m afraid.”

Suppressing a smile, I did as he asked. We had not long to wait before the door flew open to reveal Dr. Moore Agar with a pair of not unbecoming spectacles perched on his nose.

“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I thought you a client, but this is even more gratifying.”

He escorted us into a cheerful, well-appointed chamber with a striped Venetian carpet on the floor, an economical fire in the grate, and more bookshelves than there were bare walls. Dr. Agar insisted that Holmes take the entire settee, deposited me graciously in an armchair, then stood before the fireplace in unabashed pleasure.

“Your uncle is a kind gentleman to have set you up in practice,” said Holmes.

“Is he, now!” Our host laughed, clapping his hands silently in approval. “I had hardly ventured to hope for a demonstration. If I were a less thoughtful man, I might have guessed that I mentioned my Uncle Augustus to you on Saturday night—or was it Sunday morning? But I did no such thing, and you must trot out your reasoning before a devoted admirer.”

Holmes smiled ruefully. “You may be amused to learn that I cannot recall the smallest detail of your visit.”

“My apologies, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Moore Agar, at your service,” he replied, extending his left hand to shake my friend’s unharmed limb. “Now, how did you deduce that Uncle Augustus financed this operation?”

“Certain indications suggest that you are forced to employ economy in your practice. However, your library is extensive, a few of your books quite rare, and your rooms well appointed. You have a benefactor, but not one from whom you receive regular sustenance. A single endowment, then, from a party whose fortunes do not permit more frequent aid. In my experience, the only folk in this world who donate large sums without fortunes to back them are close relatives. The box photograph on the mantel clearly depicts your own parents, who are dressed very simply. An unlikely source, then, for setting a young doctor up in practice. However, I observe a framed document behind your desk certifying one Dr. Augustus Agar a licensed physician. Your uncle, upon his retirement from practice, made you a gift of monies and, I daresay, a significant portion of his library. His medical license you retain as a keepsake.”

“It is marvelous! But how did you know Augustus Agar was my uncle and not my grandfather?”

“The date on the certificate, not to mention the typeface and the colour of the paper, rather precludes that notion.”

Dr. Agar shot me an appreciative glance. “I admit that I wondered whether your account of Mr. Holmes had embellished his powers, but I am now prepared to believe Mr. Holmes a genius, and yourself a man of unimpeachable honesty.”

“It is merely a matter of drawing inferences based on the visible data,” Holmes demurred with his usual withdrawn composure, but I could see he was flattered by the young doctor’s approval.

“Tush! There is nothing ‘mere’ about it. You are a pioneer in your field, a characteristic I wholeheartedly admire. I am also guilty of a unique course of study, which you have noted has not yet made my fortune.”

“You are engaged in an unusual branch of medicine, then?” I queried.

“And not a very popular one, I am afraid,” he smiled. “We tend to run the gamut from pathological anatomy to mesmerism, with all manner of phrenology, craniometry, and neurology thrown in. I am a psychologist.”

“Are you indeed?” I exclaimed.

“I studied in Paris for a year under Charcot at the Salpêtrière Hospital.* If Uncle Augustus had possessed the funds, he would certainly have set me up in Cavendish Square, and my expertise would thus be certified geographically. I am afraid Baker Street is the revered locus of criminal detection, not of the cure of mental disease. At present I subsist on referrals: the nervous, the hypochondriacal, and the merely sick. And of course, the occasional stabbing comes my way.”

“Yes, well,” coughed Holmes, “as it happens that is just the matter in which I require your assistance.”

“That is wonderful news!” Dr. Agar grinned. “I was burning with curiosity, but as a gentleman, I could hardly ask. What sort of assistance may I render?”

“Dr. Watson’s Medical Directory informed me you were a specialist in nervous disorders, and a glance at your shelves tells me you may be just the expert I require. Textbook of Brain Disorders, Mental Pathology and Therapeutics, Psychopathia Sexualis *—if you are the doctor your library proclaims, you could be of the greatest use.”

Holmes related briefly the circumstances which led to his grisly introduction to Dr. Agar. When he finished, the doctor nodded with an expression of deepest interest.

“I have, of course, followed the Ripper’s crimes very closely. I had an inkling from the press reports that it was his work I stitched up the other night. But let me understand you, sir—do you seek aid that is in some way psychological?”

“I do,” confirmed Holmes. “I am a consulting detective, Dr. Agar, and as such many branches of study come within my sphere, the majority of which deal with gathering and interpreting hard evidence. However, I believe the Ripper may be a variety of criminal I have never before pursued, and one against whom hard evidence is of alarmingly little use. My practice is based upon the fact that, although a given crime may appear unique, to the connoisseur of criminal history, it nearly always follows an established pattern. In this case, the template was so very rare that it took me some time to identify it. But since the events of the thirtieth, I begin to know this fellow better. The double murder eroded his mask in a profound fashion. It appears we must understand that slaying these women is a pleasure second only to afterwards ripping them to pieces.”