Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

Fate, as I have often had cause to reflect, is a fickle entity. At one moment, five armed brutes bore down upon two guiltless men harbouring no wish to fight. The next moment, two of the five lay on the ground howling in pain, their ribs victimized by the long-handled tool of the chimney sweep. Hammersmith, who had narrowly escaped the assault, roared with rage, threw his club to the ground, reached under his trouser leg, and charged me and my new ally with a vicious short-handled knife.

Though I at last drew my revolver, I was ultimately spared its use. The sweep dealt him a crushing jab to the solar plexus, then hissed, “Down the passage and keep at my heels.” Sherlock Holmes then took my arm and we flew through the alleyway into a series of mews, over a low fence, and into the windswept autumn night.

Though we ran for perhaps ten minutes, I had the impression we did not get very far. Holmes executed a few simple dodges and once stopped to listen intently for our pursuers, then led me through a series of interconnected alleys littered with wood and broken shipping crates before finally, to my great surprise, he ducked into a low doorway and ushered me inside.

Hastening up the dark stairway with more regard for speed than for caution, I would likely have plummeted through to the floor below had not Holmes pulled me back just in time to prevent my falling down a rotting gap. At last, after two positively archaeological flights of stairs, we reached a door at the end of a brief hallway. My friend flung it open with a flourish, so far as such a rude assemblage of slats can be said to be flung.

“May I present, with all attendant welcome and ceremony, the Baker Street Private Consulting Detective Agency, East-end Division, the pulsing nucleus of the Ripper investigation.”

Sherlock Holmes maintained, so far as his fortunes permitted, no fewer than five and more probably seven secret lairs throughout London. Some boasted no more comforts than a basin and a trunk of clothes, but he often employed these nooks when a disguise or pursuit necessitated immediate private rooms. In all my many years of partnership with Holmes, I was introduced personally to a total of three such dwellings, as my friend’s native passion for secrecy prevented me from ever so much as laying eyes on the others.

This startling Whitechapel refuge consisted of a rectangular room, slightly longer than it was wide, with no windows, walls entirely papered with maps and news clippings, and two new, stout inner bolts of differing builds which Holmes proceeded efficiently to lock, finally fastening me with a look of inquiring concern.

“I should have liked to introduce you to our secondary branch under more relaxed circumstances, my dear fellow, but in any event you have immediately seen its usefulness. We are now on Scarborough Street, just south of Whitechapel Road. You will note that we have as much relevant information as possible at our fingertips, that we are fully equipped to maintain every requirement of hygiene and civility, and that a rather fine brandy rests upon the corner table. Pray help yourself to any amenities you see fit.”

The “corner table” referred to an upended water barrel adjacent to a straw mattress and a pile of clean, if worn, grey wool blankets. The room had no other rugs or furnishings save a dangerous-looking stove next to the fireplace, a battered desk, and two chairs, one of which appeared in a former life to have been an orange crate.

“Holmes, what exactly have you been doing in this cave?” I asked, advancing without hesitation toward the spirits on the makeshift side table and shaking my head at my friend’s considerable eccentricities. Holmes sat down upon the orange crate, removing his coat and vigorously applying a damp cloth to his blackened visage.

“I have been making the acquaintance of a great many members of Her Majesty’s army who have fallen under the spell of Papaver somniferum. * In fact, I’ve every hope of discovering Blackstone’s lodgings tomorrow.” Though jubilant, freed from its mask of soot, my friend’s face showed clear signs that he skirted the edge of complete exhaustion.

“But that is marvelous, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “By the by, I suppose I mistook the instructions, but however did you happen to find me?”

Holmes’s expression of perplexity, so rarely in evidence, only increased. “Finding myself without occupation for the evening, I was patrolling the streets, and I flatter myself with more discernment than your acquaintances of the alley. My dear Watson, I believe that there is not a soul in the world I should be happier to see just now, but may I ask what on earth you were doing wandering about Whitechapel with a medical bag and a sinister expression?”

“You summoned me here. Is this not your message?”

After casting an eye over the brief letter, Holmes looked at me in dismay.

“I corresponded with no one this afternoon.”

“Then you did not send for me?”

“Not I. When did you receive this?”

“Half past five in the afternoon.”

“It did not come through the post.”

“No, it was delivered.”

“Did you ask Billy what sort of man he got it from?”

“I thought it immaterial once I had seen your signature.”

“You know nothing of this note’s origin, then?”

“Nothing whatever.”

At length he cried out, “I cannot imagine what object you had in mind to follow these instructions, but this epistle is certainly penned by an adversary.”

“What object I had in mind?” I retorted readily. “You required my help!”

“No, no, Watson, it is all wrong. These certainly are my t s, y s, and m s, and the capital A is very good, but what on earth induced you to obey a note with such a manifestly inaccurate q ?”

“My training as a doctor of medicine, I regret to say, was deficient in handwriting analysis,” I returned with greater asperity. “I supposed it written under some duress.”

“A thousand small clues should have given this away! For example, you and I have known each other for over seven years, yet in this brief note, I somehow see fit to include your prefix, given, and family names.”

“Surely not surprising if the conveyor of the message did not know me.”

“The paper, then! My stationery—”

“Is irrelevant as you were not at home,” I shot back heatedly. “However, if you wish, in the future I shall treat all your emergency summonses with suspicion and disbelief.”

Holmes softened with a visible effort. “It is only your safety which worries me, after all. I regret that little business back in the alley, but now that we have it, this note…this note is of immense interest. Its author has done a very workmanlike job of my signature; however, the remainder of the lettering was formed very slowly, which is a sure indication of forgery. Still, it is quite obvious that whoever penned this message to plague us has had access to a genuine sample of my handwriting.”

“Where on earth could he have obtained such a thing?”

“Ah, but we may draw still more conclusions: the document he has in his possession, while featuring a signature at the end, evinces fewer examples of my other characters. A short note, then, and I would wager fifty pounds one lacking the letter q entirely.”

“Some villain has access to your correspondence?”

“I hardly see how.”

“Your bank?”

“The Capital and Counties is renowned for its trustworthiness.”

“Well, then, you may have dashed off a note to your solicitor or penned a response to a client. It is impossible to know where the sample was obtained.”

“I will not say that you are wrong,” my friend replied abstractedly, “but surely the balance of probability is enormously against an agent of evil happening upon my handwriting by chance. It is far more probable that he stole a missive from some party who could be assumed to possess a sample of my script. At once the field is narrowed considerably. There is yourself to consider, my brother, several inspectors of the Yard, and those agencies to which you have already so shrewdly alluded, such as my bank or solicitor.”