Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“Well done indeed, Watson. I have reached the same conclusion. Whether Tavistock merely bewailed his misfortune to his friend the police constable, or urged Bennett to identify those who had humiliated him, the results were the same: Bennett was warned off. He could not take the chance that his relation to the London Chronicle had been discovered.”

“But Mr. Holmes,” ventured Miss Monk, “if Bennett hadn’t run off, what would have happened?”

My friend crossed to the window and looked down into the street. “In all likelihood, complete disaster. In my responsibility to lay hands on him immediately, I would have unleashed all the fury of hell upon the good men of Scotland Yard. Imagine it—the killer in their midst all the while, slaughtering five women in two short months without exciting the least suspicion. Worse still, I have not a scrap of hard proof against the man. It’s ten thousand to one we could have convicted him. As much data points to me as it does Bennett, which well illustrates the value of circumstantial evidence. Name the calamity and it would no doubt have befallen us—riots against the force, chaos in the streets. Even now, Sir Charles Warren has already tendered his resignation; Mr. Matthews will accept it at any moment. The case has ruined him. Bennett has ruined him.”

Holmes turned to face Lestrade. “I shall not permit him to ruin the Yard itself.”

Some moments passed in silence. “Well, then,” said the little inspector simply, “what are we to do?”

Unexpectedly, Holmes laughed. “I’d nearly convinced myself that you would not believe a word of it.”

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” chided Lestrade, “I’ve always known you to take an odd line, but you do occasionally stumble upon the truth.”

“Quite so.” My friend smiled. “As to our plans, we have one, and I am afraid only one, advantage at the moment. The paper I mentioned to you, as I have said, revealed an impression. I’ve the original here, marked over with lead pencil.” He passed it to Lestrade and we both examined it.

245

— 11:30

1054

— 14

765

— 12:15

“What the deuce are these meant to indicate?”

“They are nearly as good as a map, my dear Inspector. These are the collar numbers of three police constables, followed by the time it takes them to complete their beats.”

“Wonderful!” cried Lestrade. “You’ve worked out who they are, I hope? There are nearly five hundred constables in Whitechapel’s division alone, not including those who have been reassigned.”

“My dear Lestrade, of course I have. They are Sample, Leather, and Wilding, and their beats proscribe quite a small area, half in Spitalfields and half in Whitechapel. After I found out their names, I wired Inspector Abberline, who was kind enough to send me a map.”

“Did you tell him why?”

Holmes shook his head emphatically. “With the exception of my brother, and the high officials he has chosen to consult, we five are the only ones who know the identity of this madman. Whitehall has every wish to avoid a monumental scandal, and they are aware of my discretion in such cases. I want to impress upon you all that aside from the weeks following the double murder, which must have rattled his nerve, the Ripper has followed a pattern of dates in his crimes. I cannot promise you that he will attack again tomorrow, in time for the Lord Mayor’s Show, exposed and on the run as he is. But nevertheless I believe that he will. He has shown a contempt for the Yard and a hatred for me that will not cease simply because he has abandoned his former persona. You and I, Lestrade, are the last line of defense. With any luck, if we keep our hand close, Bennett will never know the alarm has been raised against him.”

“When do those Yard fellows begin work?” Miss Monk asked.

“All three have the night shift, from ten until six. I wired George Lusk the moment Abberline related their territory to me. Lusk has shifted half his Vigilance Committee to assist the official force this evening and the next. Anonymously, of course, Inspector.”

“Mr. Holmes, I am beyond the capacity to protest anything you may do.”

“That is an appalling admission, Lestrade,” my friend noted amusedly. “I very much hope that you may recover swiftly from all the shocks to which I’ve subjected you.”

“As do I.” Lestrade smiled. “Have you anything further to tell us?”

Holmes shook his head. “You know all that I do.”

“Then I will set myself back to work,” he said, rising. “I’ve beats to redraft now, on top of everything.”

“If you will not dine with us, I wish you luck back at the Yard. I shall see you in Whitechapel at ten tomorrow, no doubt, Lestrade?” Holmes asked, shaking his colleague’s hand.

“It is an honour to go hunting with you, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector returned. “I would not miss it. Good night to you all.”

The four of us sat down to supper, although Holmes refused to say another word about the case until after the dishes had been cleared, brandies had been savoured, and Miss Monk had sleepily allowed Dunlevy to drape a wrap over her. We had already said our farewells when Dunlevy squared his shoulders and approached my friend.

“Mr. Holmes, I am very grateful to have been told the truth about these terrible crimes, and I thank you for it. But I am still curious—why did you ask me here this evening? Miss Monk is an ally, no doubt, and I hope you know you may rely on me, but all the same…You don’t seem one for idle confidences.”

“Nor am I, I promise you.”

“Then I cannot understand it.”

“No? Well, I do hope you will accompany us to Whitechapel tomorrow, where we intend to defend its inhabitants tooth and nail, if necessary.”

“Of course, but—”

“You wish me to be clearer. Very well,” said he, assuming an air of command. “I require you, Miss Monk, without unduly alarming the district, to warn as many of your acquaintances as you can that there is likely to be trouble tomorrow night. No dark alleys. No lonely rendezvous. I know you cannot reach everyone, as they are great in number and are already saturated with wild conjecture, but do your best.”

“I’ll start in tonight, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you. As for you, Mr. Dunlevy, you are a rather rare commodity, you know. Tomorrow night we shall attempt to prevent a murder with the aid of a vast force, not one of whom can be allowed to know the identity of the man we are seeking. Watson and I saw him at Elizabeth Stride’s funeral. That leaves Inspector Lestrade, and finally you, Mr. Dunlevy, who have ever seen the face of our quarry. Call it a whim on my part, but I rather think having three people who are fully apprised of the facts on my side will not be excessively cautious.”

The next evening was wet and cold, with dark spears of rain striking our windows, and feeling chilled from within as well as without, I piled more coal upon our innocent fire than was necessary or reasonable. Peering out the bow window into the street below, my vision obscured by the glasslike curtain before me, I thought with apprehension that the odds of being able to see faces with any clarity in the gloom of Whitechapel were astronomically against us.

My friend entered near eight o’clock, dripping wet and deeply fatigued, but his entire hawklike visage fired with zealous determination. When he had emerged from his bedroom, he was clad once more in the shabby garb of Jack Escott. Recognizing the wisdom of this precaution, I wordlessly made my way upstairs to follow suit. From my bedroom, I could hear the strains of Holmes’s violin as they rose and fell, a hauntingly austere melody in a minor key, which I knew to be one of his own compositions from its quavering heights and deceptively simple twists of phrase. When I came down again, Holmes had replaced the Stradivarius in its case and was slipping his revolver in his rough woolen coat pocket.