Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“My dear Mycroft, what a very novel idea.”

“Have you any further needs?”

Holmes looked suddenly very weary. “I need time. If that is all, Mycroft, I wish you good afternoon. I must resume my threads of inquiry.”

My friend’s elder brother heaved his considerable frame out of our chair. “Sherlock, I know very well that our respective fortes are at cross-purposes. You revel in the minutiae, and I, the macrocosm. You reason backward from the smallest details, while I predict the great events which arise from the soil of the trivial. I rely now entirely upon your own specialty; be active, Sherlock. Come to me immediately if you find yourself in need of aid.”

“You may report back to that gracious personage that I will shirk at nothing to stop this man.”

“Indeed, Sherlock, well said. And nor will I. Once you have a case, I shall see to the rest. Mend quickly; I am pleased beyond words you aren’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“My thanks. I quite share your view on that point.”

“Farewell, then.”

I saw Mycroft Holmes out. As he stepped from our dwelling onto the street, he turned and grasped my arm with one of his sizeable hands. “Look out for him, Doctor,” he said. “I am dismayed to see my younger brother embroiled in this wretched business, but he can leave no stone unturned. He must act, and act quickly! We all of us depend upon it.”

As his portly yet erect frame lumbered its slow way down Baker Street toward the neighbouring Dorset Street cab stand, I stood for a moment to breathe in the crisp draughts of the autumn afternoon. Mycroft’s exhortation had lifted my spirits more than any false assurances could have done. My friend possessed remarkable powers of recovery when his mind was set upon it; the same man who had lain ill with nervous prostration for over a month following an arduous case would stop at nothing whilst in the midst of one. I silently vowed that when Sherlock Holmes set himself once more in the path of Jack the Ripper, I would be there beside him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A Man in a Uniform

Close upon four o’clock the following afternoon Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

“Miss Monk is here to see you, Mr. Holmes. She’s brought a man with her as well.”

“Capital, Mrs. Hudson. Send them up!” With a display of energy that surprised me, Holmes leapt to his feet. “We progress, Watson, despite the odds. Miss Monk, how are you?”

She must have taken the stairs at a run, for we heard the slower steps of her companion still plodding upward. “I’ve brought him!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve followed the grape trail ever since you put me onto it, and strike me dead if I haven’t found him. Took a shilling’s worth of persuading to do it, but he came round in the end.”

The man who walked through our doorway was grey and wizened with a prominent nose, deeply furrowed jowls, and an expression of permanent chagrin which we soon learned could shift toward resigned disappointment or deep disdain depending upon immediate circumstance. Just then, his watery blue eyes and obstinate chin seemed to indicate he was even more displeased than was usual.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend cordially, “and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

“I know who you are,” he snapped, “and I know what you do. What I don’t know is why I’ve been dragged across London to assure you of it.”

“This is Mr. Matthew Packer,” Miss Monk put in hastily. “He lives across town, right enough, on Berner Street as it happens. Mr. Packer’s digs have a very nice front window to ’em and he uses it to sell fruit out of. Don’t you, Mr. Packer?”

“Never said I didn’t.”

“Mr. Packer, I am very gratified to meet you,” said Sherlock Holmes enthusiastically. “Would you care to sit here, by the fire? I find the cold troubling at this time of year, and your rheumatism must render it well-nigh intolerable.”

“Never said I had rheumatism. But I don’t care how you know it, so don’t bother to tell me,” said Mr. Packer as he made his way to the basket chair.

“Dr. Watson,” said Holmes, hiding his amusement beneath a mask of perfect innocence, “have I not heard you remark that there is nothing better for rheumatism than a glass of good brandy?”

“Many times, Holmes. Might I pour you a glass, Mr. Packer?”

“You might, and then this young woman can start explaining why an old man can’t be left in peace to tend his shop of a morning.”

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” obliged Miss Monk, “there I was walking down Berner Street when I sees that Mr. Packer has a mess of fresh black grapes in his window. Then it comes to me—that poor woman what was killed near the club! She’d a stalk of grapes in her hand. The same kind you sell, Mr. Packer,” she added with a radiant smile. “Black ones, if you please.”

“I suppose you mean to say I killed her,” sneered the old scoundrel, “and you have brought me to these gentlemen for interrogation.”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Packer,” said Holmes sadly. “In fact, I’m afraid it’s nearly an impossibility that you may have seen anything of use.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling this young madwoman.”

“Our only hope of success would hinge upon your having seen a woman with a flower pinned to her jacket on that evening. Red, backed by white fern. But as I’ve said, the situation is quite hopeless. This Jack the Ripper seems far too clever for any of us.”

Mr. Packer’s face shifted slowly from contempt to condescension as he sipped his brandy. “You say a red flower pinned to her jacket?”

“Yes,” sighed the detective. “Futile, is it not?”

“Funny thing is, I do seem to recall having sold grapes to a woman with a red flower; the man paid for them, of course, but she was standing there the whole time.”

“Really? That is a strange coincidence. I don’t suppose you recall anything else about her face or figure?”

“She was a sad sort,” Mr. Packer replied, “fair-complected, dark curls, and dressed all in black—black skirt, black bonnet, dark bodice—with fur trim on her jacket.”

“Indeed?” Holmes replied coolly.

“She had what I might call a strong face—square-jawed, high cheekbones, if you understand me.”

“And her companion?” Holmes appeared as nonchalant as ever, but I could see he was entirely engrossed.

“He was a plain fellow—not thin, of healthy build, I suppose, average height. Simply dressed, like a clerk or a shopkeeper. And he wore no gloves. A frock coat and hat but no gloves.”

“You interest me exceedingly, Mr. Packer.” My friend’s zeal was beginning to infuse his tone. “And his face? Can you describe the fellow?”

“He had regular features, clean shaven, wearing a cloth hat. I’d seen him before, to be sure.”

At this Holmes could not help but start forward. “Oh, indeed?”

“Must live in the neighbourhood, for he seemed that familiar.”

“Can you recall where you had seen this man before?”

“Somewhere about. Could have been in a pub or a market.”

“But you have no clue as to his occupation or place of residence?”

“Said I’d seen him before. Didn’t say I knew him, did I?”

Holmes clenched his fist in frustration, but his voice remained even. “What time do you imagine you sold them the grapes, Mr. Packer?”

He shrugged. “Close to twelve, I should think.”

“And have you spoken to the police?”

“The police!” he snorted. “Why should I speak to the police, I wonder. They spoke to me right enough—knocking on my door, demanding to know what I’d seen. Well, of course I told them what I’d seen when I closed shop at twelve thirty. Nothing.”