Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“My dear Miss Monk, I absolutely forbid you to take any risks in this matter!” I called out.

It was to no avail. A moment later she was halfway down the stairs. I could just hear her good-natured apologies to Mrs. Hudson over the tea things as she lilted out the front door into the fog like a melody on the breeze.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Fleet Street Enterprise

As it happened, I did not see Miss Monk again until Tuesday, the thirtieth of October, during which heart-wrenching period I heard not a single word from Sherlock Holmes. According to Lestrade, the men of the Yard were greatly discouraged. Rumours of mad kosher slaughtermen and deranged doctors ran so wild in the district that it was all they could do to keep the peace. And as if it were not enough that they suffered defamation from every quarter for their failure to locate the Ripper, they now faced the burden of diverting a significant portion of their force to police the Lord Mayor’s resplendent annual procession on Friday, the ninth of November.

It may be imagined that, with the weight of the Whitechapel problem bearing down upon me, not to mention the disturbing absence of Holmes, I spent my days endeavouring to relieve my tumultuous state of mind without straying too far from Baker Street should matters come to a head. Novels were intolerable, and the atmosphere of my club stale and wearisome. On that sleepless Tuesday night, while attempting to defy all my friend’s injunctions against recording a case I had filed under “The Adventure of the Third Candle,” I had just determined that a glass of claret would do me more good than harm when I heard the avid ringing of the downstairs bell.

Knowing Mrs. Hudson to be long abed, I hurried down the stairs, fully dressed, for I had not yet entertained any thought of sleep. When I unlatched the door, I discovered, to my great surprise, Miss Monk and Stephen Dunlevy.

“Forgive the lateness of the hour, Dr. Watson,” Dunlevy began, “but Miss Monk was determined not to let the matter wait.”

“You are most welcome. I have been expecting Miss Monk, in any event.”

Once upstairs, I opened the claret and located two more glasses. Dunlevy sat in the basket chair, while Miss Monk stood proudly before the fire with the air of an orator who has been asked to make a statement. When I had seated myself, she set her glass upon the mantel and drew a small object out of her garments.

“It’s a present for you, Doctor.” She grinned broadly as she tossed a piece of metal through the air and I caught it, turning it over in my hand.

It was a key. “All right,” I said, laughing, “I’m game. What does it open?”

“Leslie Tavistock’s office.”

“My dear Miss Monk!”

“I’d a mind to see whether Dunlevy here was good for anything apart from shadowing decent folk,” she said happily, settling herself upon the arm of the sofa. “But I know you was worried about taking any steps wi’out Mr. Holmes, for good reason too, so once we’d got it, we legged it straight here to turn it over.”

“Mr. Dunlevy, would you care to elaborate how this came into your possession?”

The young man cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Monk did me the honour of appearing at my door the Thursday before last, and explained to me her belief that, as I am a journalist and journalists are a clubbish sort of folk, always rubbing shoulders to be apprised of the latest developments, it was inconceivable to her that I would not have an acquaintance at the London Chronicle. Miss Monk’s conjecture was not entirely correct, but it may as well have been, for I’ve a friend at the Star who has a very close connection with a chap by the name of Harding, who is employed there.”

“I see. And then?”

“The young lady’s idea, and a very clever one if I may say so, was to coerce Harding into taking an impression of Tavistock’s key. As it happens, no coercion proved necessary.”

“Tavistock’s a complete rotter,” Miss Monk interrupted. “We might have known as much, the way he went after Mr. Holmes.”

Dunlevy quickly suppressed what appeared to be the beginnings of a fond smile and went on. “As Miss Monk says, there is no one so universally reviled at the London Chronicle as Leslie Tavistock. It took a couple of days’ management, but I met with Harding in the company of our mutual friend for a glass of beer, made the suggestion, and was instantly heaped with praise for my idea of playing a prank on the most friendless man in journalism.”

“A prank,” I repeated, beginning to see the inspired simplicity of their plan. “What sort of prank do you intend?”

“Oh, I daresay we could accomplish something nice with paint, and there’s always dead rats to consider,” Miss Monk remarked with an air of delighted nonchalance. “There’s a horse slaughterer not far from Dunlevy’s East-end digs. And of course, once we were in the office—”

“This little pleasantry may take us considerably more time than one would think,” I finished.

“With all his papers just lying about, it would be a shame not to glance through them, eh, Doctor?”

“Wait a moment. We know nothing of Tavistock’s hours, or indeed, those of the building itself.”

“Harding has proffered very eager cooperation,” Dunlevy explained. “It seems he was once investigating a story which Tavistock got wind of, and had it stolen right out from under him. He took an impression of Tavistock’s office key, and this duplicate was in my hands a day later. There is no getting into the building undetected during the week, for as you must know the press keeps all hours. Saturday night is the only clear time, for as they have no Sunday publication, Harding says that the lot of them scatter to pubs in the area or go home to their families.”

“What of security when the building is locked?”

“Harding is prepared to lend us his own outer door key in light of the nobility of our mission. As for security, the offices have not seen fit to employ a night guard. There will no doubt be a beat officer of some kind nearby, but that is easily ascertained.”

“It will put us in a monstrous position to rifle through his office in such a manner,” I cautioned.

“That may be, but the cause is righteous and the quarrel just. Mr. Holmes has a right to know who has invented these aspersions, and though he seemed to accept my protestations of innocence, I would be very glad to see it proven.”

“It is alarming to consider what steps Tavistock could take if we are caught.”

“I know, Doctor,” said Miss Monk sympathetically, “but if you’ll just reread those two articles what weren’t fit for dead fish to be wrapped in, it’ll shore up your nerve right quick.”

I may say without undue pride or fear of contradiction that I have never been a man to back away from danger where a comrade’s interests are concerned. “Saturday,” I mused. “It gives us three clear days to perfect our plans.”

“And who knows but that Mr. Holmes may be back by then!” Miss Monk exclaimed. “But if we’ve still seen no sign of him, we can at least try to clear up one dark spot in this bloody mess.”

“Miss Monk, Mr. Dunlevy,” said I, rising from my chair, “I congratulate you. Here’s to the health of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

In such a depth of numbing uncertainty, it was impossible not to feel uplifted at the mere idea of a mission. Still later that night, when I at last blew out my bedside candle, I began to wonder if—for a mind as incandescent as that of my friend—perhaps inaction could truly be so torturous that a syringe and a bottle of seven-percent solution seemed the only tolerable recourse.

Our schemes developed quickly. Miss Monk was kind enough to hawk some handkerchiefs in the vicinity of the building until she was warned off by a policeman, after which she quietly pursued him and found that his route took him directly past the entrance: a cause for anxiety, perhaps, for a callow housebreaker, but hardly of any concern for one possessed of a set of keys. Moreover, the enthusiastic Harding informed us that Tavistock’s office did not look out upon the street, so that a lamp could be lit there and never be noticed in the darkness of the surrounding building.