Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

I registered footsteps behind me. “What the devil are you two—” Lestrade began, and then a choked cry escaped his throat when he saw what had been done.

“He could not work out of doors,” I stated. “And so, he took her to her room.” I forced myself to stare at what had once been her face, but very little apart from the eyes had been left intact.

The inspector gripped the wood of the doorframe unsteadily, all the blood draining from his features.

Dunlevy entered slowly, like a man sleepwalking. “Dear God in heaven,” he whispered in a breaking voice. “He has torn her apart.”

“You must go,” said my friend without moving, his face still covered by his hands.

“What?”

“You must send a telegram to my brother. His name is Mycroft Holmes. Tell him what has happened. He lives at one eighty-seven Pall Mall. Tell him what you see.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

“Go quickly, for God’s sake! The stakes are incalculable!”

Dunlevy ran off into the rain.

My friend forcibly pushed himself away from the wall and commenced examining the contents of that abominable bedchamber. I stood stupidly by the door for several moments longer before making my way to the body and staring at the various piles of flesh which had been removed and rearranged.

Lestrade joined me. “What do you make of it, Dr. Watson?”

“It is impossible to know where to begin,” I replied dully. “I saw something like it once, in a gas explosion.”

“The door was open, you say, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. It has been open for perhaps twenty minutes.”

“How can—”

“The amount of rain which has saturated the floorboards.”

“Ah. Anything of interest in the fireplace?”

Holmes turned from his work with an expression of furious impatience, but a second sharp cry from Lestrade arrested whatever rebuke hovered upon his lips.

The inspector had unthinkingly plucked a gleaming silver object out of the tissue heaped on the table. The thickened blood dripped from his hand as he stared at it.

“What is it, Lestrade?”

Lestrade merely shook his head and continued peering at the thing.

“I believe it is your cigarette case, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a very small voice.

Holmes released a short breath as if he had been struck in the chest. The inspector began absently polishing the blood off with his pocket handkerchief. “Initials S. S. H., I see. Yes, it is undoubtedly yours. You lost it the night of the double murder, is that not so?” He offered it to Holmes on his right palm. “Take it.” Wiping his hands mechanically, Lestrade furrowed his brow in thought. My friend turned the case over in his delicate fingers as if he had never seen it before.

At length, Lestrade spoke more forcefully. “Have you nearly finished in here, Mr. Holmes?”

My friend shook himself. “I require a few minutes more.”

The inspector nodded. “Very good. Then, Mr. Holmes, I think you had better leave. Yes, I must ask you to leave very quickly. That is most important. And you as well, of course, Doctor. Then I will just lock this outer door if I can manage to, or shut it at any rate, and make my way to the procession route. I’ve duties to attend to there. And then, soon enough we shall hear of this matter.”

“You cannot be serious!” I cried in wonderment. “Do you honestly suggest that we leave this poor wretch here, as she is, and wait for someone else to discover her?”

“I do. If she is not found by this afternoon, I shall arrange something, but Mr. Holmes must have time to—” My friend glanced up sharply at the inspector. “That is to say, who’s to know what else may have been planted in this room. We can’t very well look under every piece of remains, disturbing the evidence as we do so. Dr. Watson, I know it is difficult, but when do you imagine this…butchery…took place?”

“The usual rigor mortis would have been wholly altered by the damage to her body. I would hazard a guess at four in the morning. If the door has been open for only twenty minutes, then he was with her for approximately two hours.”

Lestrade nodded, fidgeting with his watch. “Nearly through, Mr. Holmes?”

“I can learn nothing more here,” my friend replied, getting up from his hands and knees, in which posture he had been examining the floor.

“You have finished with the fireplace?”

“Quite finished.”

“Dr. Watson, you’ve nothing further?”

“There is nothing to be done in a matter of minutes. Perhaps you could send the complete report of her injuries on to Baker Street?”

“Certainly.”

“You must also find out when you are able if the neighbours heard anything, and determine who if any of our number was in a position to observe this girl enter her room,” said Holmes.

“Naturally, I will do so. Anything else?”

“There is nothing,” my friend replied in a very soft voice. He took the cigarette case from his pocket and regarded it once more. “I have seen enough, Lestrade. We have all of us seen more than enough.”

“Then for God’s sake, please disappear,” Lestrade said calmly. “It’s a police matter now. Not a word of that cigarette case, and I shall see to the rest.”

The rain continued to strike our faces as we began our return to the west of London, but I do not believe Holmes or I felt it any longer. Indeed, I found it a struggle to feel anything at all, once we had collapsed into a cab. Even so early, straggling crowds began to gather along the anticipated parade route, where labourers struggled on the slick cobblestones to erect heavy cloth banners dripping with water.

“Holmes,” I said at length, “have we any hope of success?”

“On which front do you mean, Watson?”

“On any of them, I suppose.”

My friend would have appeared perfectly composed at that moment to anyone save myself, but to a man intimate with his habits, his appearance was cause for the greatest trepidation. His eyes shone as hectically as quicksilver, and there were spots of frantic colour on his high cheekbones. He began ticking off points on deceptively steady fingers.

“Do I harbour hopes of running down Jack the Ripper? Undoubtedly. Am I at all likely to be prosecuted for his disgusting crimes? I am not, though such an ordeal would be no worse than I deserve, imbecile that I have proven myself. Do we near the end of our quest for this demon? I am certain of it. Will it matter to that poor girl, whose body has been strewn about that room like so much compost? Will it do her a trace of good, not merely dead as she is, which is tragedy enough, but dead solely so that her corpse could be desecrated beyond recognition by a depraved freak?”

“My dear fellow—”

“No,” he finished. “It will do her not the smallest particle of good. And I am to blame for that.”

“That is outrageous, Holmes!” I protested. “You cannot seriously assume any fault upon your own shoulders. You, who have done so much…”

“I, who have failed so utterly that the end of this case ought by rights to mark the end of this preposterous career.”

“Holmes, be logical—”

“I have done so!” he lashed out in fury. “See where it has gotten us! Driver!” He struck the roof of the cab with his stick and leapt out.

“Stay here, Watson. I shan’t be long.”

Looking about in confusion, I saw that Holmes had led us to Pall Mall and, I could only assume, the rooms of his brother. He was inside one of the stately cream-coloured buildings for nearly half an hour, and when he emerged again from the heavy door, his countenance was positively unreadable.

Wordlessly, I extended a hand and helped him back into the cab. I peered at him curiously, but we continued down the few remaining blocks to our rooms in silence. The hansom had barely paused across the street from 221 when Holmes jumped out of it, then stood rooted to the pavement.