Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“But stop a moment, Holmes—forgive me, but it was for good reason that I was particularly eager to meet with you this evening.”

My friend indicated his interest with a tilt of his head, and I proceeded to tell him all that we three had accomplished in his absence. I am still delighted to recall that, when I had concluded my narrative, Sherlock Holmes himself appeared astonished in no small measure.

“And your tracks are entirely covered?”

“It will be thought a childish pleasantry enacted upon a particularly rank example of British journalism.”

Holmes’s eyes narrowed impishly. “What pleasantry?”

“An inspired whim of Miss Monk’s devising. Rest assured it was entirely anonymous and that he will come to no lasting harm by it. The only thing of any interest was the note. It came in this envelope.”

To my great shock, my friend’s wan face paled still further.

“Holmes, whatever is the matter?”

He rushed to the wall, where notes were tacked in jagged rows, and pulled down perfect facsimiles of the last two letters we had received purportedly from Jack the Ripper.

“I knew he had motive, but it seemed too fantastic to contemplate. Surely I was within the bounds of reason to think it a paid mercenary or a political opportunist…”

“My dear fellow, what is it?”

“Look at it!” he cried, holding up a letter next to the envelope. “They are disguised, yes, but there cannot be a doubt in the world that these are penned by the same hand!”

“Do you mean to tell me that the man who has been tracing your movements, the blackguard who has set this journalist against you, is none other than Jack the Ripper himself?”

“Identical unmarked stationery to the kidney package,” my friend murmured. “Dated only two days after I quit Baker Street. Postal district E one—Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and Mile End.”

“Holmes, what can this possibly mean?”

My friend’s eyes met mine with a hunted expression I had never seen there before. “It means that the Whitechapel killer is determined to see me blamed for his crimes. It also means that my movements, in any event those before I left Baker Street, were as open to him as the pages of a book. It is not a pretty thing to contemplate, Watson, but I very much fear the author of these murders has taken it upon himself to ruin me.”

I stared at him aghast. “I am heartily sorry not to have furnished you with better news.”

“My dear fellow, I am eternally grateful.”

“Then what can we do?”

“We can do nothing yet. I must think,” said he, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing his knees into his wiry frame.

I nodded. “In that case, I shan’t dream of interrupting you.”

Holmes eyed me suspiciously. “You are not staying.”

“Nonsense,” said I. “I am assisting you in your work.”

My friend leapt to his feet. “That is entirely out of the question,” he cried. “Whatever nightmare it was before, this has developed into an extraordinarily dangerous undertaking.”

“Precisely so,” I agreed, helping myself to a woolen blanket.

“I categorically forbid it! You could fall prey to the gravest possible consequences if I am discovered.”

“Then we must do our best to remain incognito.” It was near impossible to ignore Holmes at his most imperious, but I had never been so set on a course of action in my life.

“Watson, you are the very least apt dissimulator it has been my privilege to know: in fact, I have hardly met anyone in my life whose mind is on more open display.”

I felt my colour rise at these remarks, but then I thought of Holmes undergoing the same threats I had faced in that dark corridor, but every day and without an ally.

“Holmes, give me your word as a gentleman I could not possibly be of use to you here in Whitechapel.”

“That is not the point!”

“Given your reputation for superior mental faculties, I should have thought you’d have grasped that it was.”

After a glare of considerable acrimony, Holmes smiled in resignation.

“Well, well, if I cannot dissuade you, I suppose I must thank you.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

He returned to the pallet, spread himself across it, and crossed his feet upon the water barrel. “I daresay you’ll find the surroundings a difficult adjustment.”

“I served in the second Afghan war, Holmes. I imagine I shall be comfortable enough.”

At this my friend sat bolt upright again with an exclamation of glee. “You have hit upon the very thing! And doubtless without any knowledge you have done so. The Afghan war…well done indeed.”

“I am gratified to be of service.”

“Good night, Watson,” he called out, turning down the oil lamp and stuffing his pipe with shag. “I must beg you not to avail yourself of my razor come morning. Unshaven will do far better, I think. And Watson?” he added. I could hear from his tone he had largely recovered his good humour.

“Yes?”

“I shouldn’t venture into the near right-hand corner. I am afraid it leaves something to be desired in the structural sense. Sleep well.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Bonfire Night

I awoke the next morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing over me in his pea jacket and rough red scarf, tossing a heap of worn clothing in the corner. He was distressingly energized, and I knew from the deep arcs under his eyes that his night had been a sleepless one.

“What is the time?”

“Close upon eight.”

“You have been out?”

“I have been rambling about town and took the liberty of making a few purchases on your behalf.”

“Indeed? Have you eaten?”

“A cup of coffee. Now, Watson, I trust you won’t mind exercising a small precaution I’ve been forced to employ when traveling in these circles. I would appreciate your donning the exceedingly shabby attire to your immediate left, topped with that old coat. Forgive me for having torn it in a few places. Just at the moment, you appear far too affluent to be associated with Jack Escott, but that hearty fellow will meet you downstairs in ten minutes’ time, and we will take our morning wet at the Ten Bells public house, preceded by a good brisk walk.”

In less than the time specified, I met Holmes (or rather, Holmes in the guise of the seafaring type I took to be called Jack Escott) downstairs, and we struck off in the coarse beige light of morning. Twenty minutes had passed before the tavern appeared on the corner of Church Street, its doorway flanked by simple columns and its sign, black with “The Ten Bells” marked out in white lettering, swaying gently in the breeze. The single room inside was littered with chairs and knife-scarred tables, while the walls boasted pictorial tiling degraded nearly to ruins by a tenacious layer of grit.

“You are wondering what our intent may be,” Holmes responded softly, though I had said nothing. “Never fear—just be sure to agree with me at every turn, and we’ll soon come out all right.”

The bar was far busier than I would ever have guessed at that hour, the locals industriously draining their cups before setting off to accomplish the labours or leisures of their respective days. A knot of bedraggled half-pay soldiers soon spied Holmes and waved us lazily over to their table.

“Where’d you pick up this one, then, Escott?” hailed a short fellow of middle years, with regulation side-whiskers and the peering red gaze of a man who is seldom if ever free from the influence of strong drink.

“This is Middleton, an old mate of mine just back in town. Murphy! A round of porter for the table.”

“How are you, Middleton?” asked the soldier as more brews were poured. I was formulating a reply when my friend interjected.