Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“You are correct on all counts, sir—how very extraordinary.”

Holmes nodded briefly. “This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson.”

“I am glad to meet you. I am glad to meet anyone willing to get to the bottom of this horrid affair.”

Holmes waved Lestrade and our nervous new acquaintance to their seats, the backs of the furnishings still entirely wreathed with newsprint. My friend then threw himself into his own armchair.

“You are here about Buck’s Row, I imagine,” he remarked. “You were knocked up yesterday, Dr. Llewellyn?”

“My surgery is at one fifty-two Whitechapel Road, some few minutes’ distance,” he acknowledged. “I was summoned at slightly before four yesterday morning. I completed a postmortem examination just now.”

“One moment, if you please. Lestrade, while I am delighted to see you, as ever, why in God’s name have you waited an entire day to consult me?”

“I’ve only just been reassigned two hours ago!” Lestrade protested. “Inspector Spratling began it, then Helson. I wasted no time in bringing Dr. Llewellyn round.”

“My abject apologies, Inspector.” Holmes smiled. “Your haste was not lax; it was unprecedented.”

“No more unprecedented than the corpse. If you had seen what I did at the morgue this morning, what Dr. Llewellyn here saw yesterday…” Lestrade shook his head. “Your methods may be unconventional, but we need an end to this case as quick as is possible. There’s something about it that’s very queer, Mr. Holmes, and correct me if I’ve the wrong end of the stick, but that’s where you tend to come in.”

Holmes settled back in his chair, half closing his eyes. “Very well, then. The story, as it happened to you, Dr. Llewellyn.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Llewellyn began hesitantly, “as I have said, I hold a medical practice in Whitechapel Road which I obtained after I finished my studies at the University of London. That main thoroughfare is quite respectable, and to a great extent, the same ailments parade across my consulting room from day to day—influenza, rheumatism, agues—the most peaceful of maladies. However, living in London’s East-end as I do, I occasionally find my work to be of a more unsettling nature. A regular patient of mine once burst into my offices with a nasty knife wound, as he’d forgotten himself and wandered into a corner where some roughs thought his pocketbook worth trying for. I suppose that the immediate proximity of the slums would be all too obvious if I ever had cause to treat any of my poorest neighbours, but I fear they haven’t the means. In the case of disease, they consult quack street doctors for penny compendia of gin or of laudanum. And in the case of injury, as their wounds were often got through misadventure, many deem it safer to suffer in anonymity than to risk dealing with police.

“That terrible murder in George Yard Buildings three weeks ago left a strong impression on my mind. We all were shocked by the ferocity of it. I cannot convey to you my horror at what I was called upon to witness yesterday.”

Holmes held up a cautionary hand. “Please,” said he, “everything just as you saw it.”

“Buck’s Row is one of those sordid pitch-black byways of which Whitechapel boasts so many once the main road is abandoned. The body was situated at the entrance to a stable yard beneath a decrepit gateway. I saw nothing out of the ordinary save the body, but the inspector may have more to say on that subject.”

“I wish I did,” sighed Lestrade. “As you say, the body was the only thing out of the ordinary, as it were.”

“And the body?” prompted Holmes.

“Something over thirty years of age,” said Dr. Llewellyn, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “She had brown hair and was missing several of her front teeth, but that characteristic did not seem to be a recent development. Nearly all of her was still warm, save her extremities. Her throat was savagely slashed two times. She may as well have been decapitated. Apart from her throat, I found her upper body to be completely intact, but the lower—she was ripped apart, Mr. Holmes. Her skirts were raised up to reveal the torso, and savage cuts penetrated her lower abdomen, exposing the internal organs.”

I regarded the doctor with dismay, but for Holmes, shock remained secondary to professional absorption. “Her chest was unharmed, you say? Surely her garments, at least, were soiled with blood?”

“She was wearing a brown frock, and I assure you it was entirely free of stain.”

“If that is the case, she was prostrate before the wound to her neck was administered. Where is she now, Lestrade?”

“At the morgue. Name of Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols, identified by a friend from Lambeth Workhouse who calls herself Mary Ann Monk. Mark of the workhouse was on the petticoats, which led us to seek identification there. Shabby clothing, black bonnet, and she had on her person a comb, pocket handkerchief, and a piece of mirror. More than likely it’s all she had to her name.”

“What do you imagine the time of death to have been, Dr. Llewellyn?”

“I arrived at three fifty a.m. She could not have been dead more than ten minutes.”

“And the gruesome discovery was made by whom?”

“One Charles Cross, a carman on his way to work,” said Lestrade as he consulted his notes. “In my opinion, he’s merely a passerby. Poor chap was terrified. Constable Neil arrived on the scene shortly after and sent for Dr. Llewellyn here, hoping to save her. It was too late by that time, of course.”

We sat silent as the wind picked up. I wondered briefly whether Polly Nichols’s family knew of her hideous fate, and then whether she had any family to tell.

“Lestrade,” Holmes said finally, “has the force had any luck in clearing up the murder of Martha Tabram early this month?”

Lestrade shook his head perplexedly. “The inquest has just been reopened. I was not myself working on the case, but we’re all of the mind it was a tryst gone terribly wrong. Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, you don’t think these events could have been connected in any way?”

“No, certainly not. I’ve merely the professional certainty that two such outrageous crimes committed ten minutes’ walk apart from each other is remarkable enough to note.”

Dr. Llewellyn rose and reached for his hat. “I am very sorry I have not more to tell you gentlemen. I’m afraid I must return to my practice, as my patients will be wondering what has become of me.”

“Be so good as to leave your card, Dr. Llewellyn,” said Holmes, shaking his hand absently.

“Of course. The best of luck to all of you. Do let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

After Dr. Llewellyn’s departure, Lestrade turned a grave face to Holmes.

“I don’t like your harping on Martha Tabram one bit, Mr. Holmes. Surely the same man couldn’t have fallen out with both these women? More likely Polly Nichols was killed by a jealous lover, or a gang, or one of her clients who’d fallen into a drunken rage.”

“You are probably right. However, I beg that you will humour me far enough to fill me in on the details of both crimes.”

Lestrade shrugged. “If Tabram is of interest to you, of course I’ve no objection. It shouldn’t be difficult for me to gather up the papers. I can have them for you this afternoon.”

“I shall cast an eye over the evidence immediately.”

“You have full access, Mr. Holmes—just mention my name at the morgue or at the crime scene. I shall see you both at the Yard.” The inspector nodded and made his way out.

My friend crossed to the mantelpiece, shook a cigar out of an empty bud vase, and commenced smoking with the deepest absorption. “This Tabram murder is a very curious affair,” he commented.