Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“Mr. Tavistock, it should not shock you to hear that you are the very last person in London to whom I would entrust any words on that subject,” my friend replied icily.

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but that is absurd. You have the opportunity to emerge from the mud a figure of the purest intentions.”

“You are dreaming.”

“It is the most compelling story in decades!” he cried. “Sherlock Holmes, noble sentinel of justice or perverse scourge of carnality? All you have to do is provide me with a few salient details.”

“If you will not reveal your source, you are not of the slightest use to me.”

Tavistock’s eyes narrowed slyly. “Do you really think your investigation stands any chance of success if the residents of Whitechapel consider you the killer?”

Holmes shrugged, but I could see from the tightening of his jaw that the same thought had crossed his mind.

“Come, now.” The reporter pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket. “Just a few statements, and we’ll make the most stirring headline you’ve ever set eyes on.”

“Good night, Mr. Tavistock.”

“But your career!” Tavistock protested desperately. “Can’t you see, it doesn’t matter to me, so long as the story is mine!”

Holmes shook his head, disgust at the pressman’s admission clouding his brow. “I think the air is cleaner out of doors, Watson.”

Outside, the acrid atmosphere remained viscous and faintly sickening. Cabs could not operate in such weather, so we walked toward Regent Street in silence, each lost in uneasy reflections. I could not help but agree with Tavistock’s taunting declaration: if feelings against Holmes continued to run as high as they had the night before, not merely his investigation but his very life was in danger.

We had nearly reached Baker Street when Holmes broke the silence. “You are entirely correct, my dear fellow. I cannot hope to act with impunity in Whitechapel while Tavistock’s slanders still retain their power. In the last five minutes, you have glanced at my profile four times; you are right in observing that the London Chronicle ’s illustration was disturbingly accurate, and we both suffered the results last night.”

I smiled in spite of myself, and Holmes sighed ruefully. “It’s a lucky thing I have only one confidant. Explaining myself only knocks little holes in the masonry of my reputation.”

“Your reputation—”

“Has greater problems just now, to be sure. I am glad I have laid eyes on Tavistock, in any event. I was willing to take your word he was a scoundrel, but there is nothing like exposure to the genuine article. He let one curious phrase drop.”

“Did he?”

“He said his source wished to protect the populace. If he thinks the populace will be any better off without me, he is either a lunatic himself or a—” I waited hopefully, but soon Holmes shook his head and continued. “We can discard one hypothesis—that this Tavistock cur has some reason to persecute me. He made it nauseatingly clear I could be inducted as prime minister or be drawn and quartered with my head on a pike just so long as he is allowed to write it up.”

“Is there anything I can do, Holmes?”

We had reached our own door, though it was barely discernible through the gloom. “No, no, my dear fellow. I fear that it is I who must act. And act I shall.”

That night Holmes folded himself into his armchair with one knee drawn up to his chin, staring fixedly at the numbers on the torn page from the Ripper’s gift of a cigarette case. For more than an hour he remained in the same position with his eyes nearly closed, as still and solitary as an oracle, smoking endless bowls of shag, until I retired to bed and my own ruminations about the trials before us.

The next morning I found a note in my friend’s clear, fastidious script wedged under the butter dish.

My dear Watson,

It is just possible that my investigations will not allow me to return to Baker Street for some brief while. You will appreciate that time is of the essence, and my inquiries in the East-end are of such a nature they can be conducted far more effectively alone. Do not worry, I beg, and do not stray too far afield, however sordid London has grown, for I hope very soon to have need of your assistance. Letters will reach me if directed to the Whitechapel Post Office branch, to be left until called for by Jack Escott.

S. H.

P.S.—As my new researches have taken a more dangerous turn, you will be delighted to learn I have directed Miss Monk to take a paid hiatus.

I need hardly state that the postscript rather worked against Holmes’s prior instruction not to fear for his own safety. While acknowledging to myself that he could indeed work more efficiently alone, and had done so during many of our shared cases, unbidden thoughts also flew into my mind of occasions when the danger had proven too great for one man, even if that one man was Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head round the edge of the door. “It’s Miss Monk to see you, Dr. Watson.”

Our colleague’s expressive features were weighted with concern. She pulled off a new pair of gloves and concealed them in a pocket.

“Good afternoon, Miss Monk.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s just offered tea, though it ain’t my usual time. She is a dear one, isn’t she?”

“Please sit down. I am delighted to see you, considering—”

“Considering I’ve been sacked?” she asked with the trace of a smile.

“Good heavens, no!”

I handed the note to her, and her eyes flew back to mine in alarm. “What’s he up to all alone, then?”

“I am afraid that Sherlock Holmes is the most solitary man I have ever encountered in my travels on three separate continents. I have no more idea what he is doing than you do.”

Biting her lip, she approached the fire I’d allowed to die down and stabbed it combatively with the fire iron. “I’ve had a telegram from him this morning before breakfast. I ain’t getting paid for sitting in pubs chatting up drunken judies,” she declared, straightening. “What can we do?”

“Your sitting in pubs certainly led us to some intriguing results last time.”

“It’s a gift, I’ll own. But the well’s run a mite dry. Thought I’d hit a good line t’other day, but her idea the Knife can transport himself by electricity sort of threw a wet blanket on the rest of her story. Poor Miss Lacey. It’s the laudanum, I promise you. What else?”

“Miss Monk, as much as may be dark to us, I’ve learned that most of it is generally clear to Holmes,” I pointed out. “It may be foolish to take any precipitate steps.”

“I’ll be damned if there isn’t something we could do, even if it’s to patrol the streets with little striped wristbands.”

“Well,” I replied slowly, “it would certainly profit Holmes to have Leslie Tavistock discredited.”

“The journalist? I’d give a good deal to see his face in the mud.” My companion shot up again and took a turn around the carpet, her freckled brow tense with concentration.

“Miss Monk?”

“It may not wash. But if it worked…”

“My dear Miss Monk, what is it?”

“Doctor, it would do Mr. Holmes a world of good if we could discover where Tavistock digs up his trash, wouldn’t it?”

“I should think so indeed.”

“I know I can do it.”

“What precisely do you have in mind?”

“I don’t rightly like to tell you, as it may come to naught. But if it works, it might be a ream flash pull. It’ll take a bit of conniving on my part, perhaps, but if he can get it…” She came to a breathless halt. “Tell you what, I’ll bring it here to you and you can decide.” She retrieved her black gloves and waved them at me from the door.