Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“On the contrary, there is a rumour among the detective inspectors to that very effect,” Lestrade retorted. “They are saying that Sherlock Holmes does not run into burning buildings without cause.”

My friend appeared abashed. “That is potentially a very dangerous notion.”

“You likely think it best for me to quash that bit of gossip,” Lestrade nodded. “Well, I won’t. I’ve been approached by a good many of the other inspectors. They seem to think if anyone’s likely to know aught of the matter, I’m their man. Well, I haven’t told them anything. But if they’ve suggested that you’ve put an end to this wretched affair, Mr. Holmes, I’ve as good as shaken their hands and winked a friendly eye.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in indignation.

“Listen here, Mr. Holmes, and see it from my side for a moment. From what we know of Bennett, he hated the force and everything it stood for. Mad he may well have been, but this is a man who actually performed the most evil acts he could conjure up, and then used them against us. We won’t ever understand why, but he did his utmost to make us look like fools, gentlemen, to make us all look like fools, and if you ask my opinion, he would have succeeded if not for you, Mr. Holmes. I’m under no illusions about the business. You did an extraordinary thing, and the more at the Yard who work out you had a hand in it, so much the better. All London is in your debt, sir, and I will be damned if I lift one finger to keep it secret.”

“Hear, hear,” said I.

Lestrade stood. “In fact, we inspectors have taken it upon ourselves to give you a token of our appreciation. I rather thought you might have done with the old one. But we hope this one serves.”

My friend opened a small box which Lestrade had produced. Inside lay a beautiful silver cigarette case monogrammed with Holmes’s initials, underneath which ran the words, “With the Respects of Scotland Yard, November 1888.”

Sherlock Holmes sat with his lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Thank you,” he managed at length.

Lestrade nodded firmly. “It’s our honour, Mr. Holmes. Well, I’ve said my piece. I’m afraid I must be off.”

The inspector strode purposefully to our door but stopped upon reaching it. “I hope if anything out of the ordinary comes up, I may call on you?” he asked.

“I have not felt much inclined to take any cases of late,” my friend replied hesitantly. “However, you know that should you ever require assistance, you are welcome to consult me.”

Lestrade smiled. “You do occasionally stumble on the truth, I’ve always said that much in your favour. Well, as it’s late, I won’t keep you.”

He had stepped outside the door when my friend called out, “Lestrade!”

The inspector’s head reemerged. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“That housebreaking business in Hounslow—it is obvious that there was no break-in at all. You must lay your hands on the nephew.”

Lestrade grinned at me broadly.

“I’ll pass the word along. Thanks for the tip. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

My friend rose from his chair and threw the curtains back from the bow window. The air outside was crisp and clean, and the wind had died. Holmes glanced back at me.

“What do you think of a ramble through London?”

I smiled cautiously. “Do you mean a silent trek, or an explication of every passerby we happen to encounter?”

“I leave it to you.”

I considered the question. “Your deductions are always of the greatest interest to me.”

“In that case, I have no choice but to hone my skills,” he replied with a shrug.

“Will a bite of supper be involved? For the both of us, mind,” I added emphatically.

“It is entirely possible,” he granted. “If we are agreed, let us be off. ‘Beneath is all the fiends’. There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulfurous pit…’”

“My dear fellow, I don’t imagine Shakespeare intended that speech to describe the view from our window. He had never seen it, after all.”

“Hadn’t he?” Holmes smiled. “Then I suppose you’ll have to do in his stead; you’ve a penchant for the dramatic as well. Let me know when you’ve worked out something better. Come along, my dear fellow.” He disappeared down the stairs.

Acknowledgments

My thanks are first owed to my parents, John and Vicki Farber, whose interest in literature in general and the Sherlock Holmes mysteries in particular led directly to my having the gall to write this book in the first place. They should also be credited with my having the gall to think I can do any thing I set my mind to, which is uncommonly kind of them. Key credit must also be given to my late uncle Michael Dobbins, who once gave a ten-year-old girl his hardback red suede copy of the Adventures and the Returns . He is missed and will be remembered.

Credit for Fight Choreographer, and President of the Department of Sticking to the Plot for the Love of All That’s Decent, goes to Johnny Farber: my brother, my first editor, and my first collaborator. I would pay him, but I probably couldn’t afford him.

To my actual editor, Kerri Kolen, and all the team at Simon & Schuster including Victoria Meyer and the band of talent who have made my book what it is, thank you from the bottom of my heart. My vague notions of the concept “editor” were blown to smithereens by Kerri, who is unfailingly kind while she is being critical. I couldn’t have asked for a more sensitive and forthright commander in chief.

Dan Lazar’s dedication is, as far as I am concerned, the gold standard for agents. If he ever sleeps, I haven’t seen it, or at least he sleeps about as much as Sherlock Holmes does. Josh Getzler, also of Writers House, was the first person who ever laid eyes on my book who felt inclined to do something about it. They are both impossibly good to me, and Dan deserves a medal.

My love of Sherlockiana is deep-rooted, but a few scholars must be singled out for mention. William S. Baring-Gould’s annotated collection was an invaluable staple, drawing from Sherlockian luminaries too numerous for me to list. Likewise Leslie Klinger’s New Annotated Sherlock Holmes provided answers of all varieties, and I am grateful for his scholarship, as well as that of all those authors cited in his work.

My most grateful thanks are due to the Estate of Dame Jean Conan Doyle, and in particular its representative Jon Lellenberg, for their invaluable assistance and support. As a lifelong admirer of the world of Sherlock Holmes, their blessing is a prodigious honor. I hold the highest respect and love for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters, and the Estate’s encouragement of my project has meant more to me than I can express. In addition, I am in debt to the vast international web of Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts, whose generosity and heartfelt enthusiasm continually astonish me. They share their lives with me, and that is what writing new tales of the Great Detective is about. As John le Carré said, no one writes of Sherlock Holmes without love.

There are a great many Ripper scholars whose research was mined for this volume, and they deserve far more than my thanks. To be specific where specificity is due, Stewart Evans is the sole reason this book appears remotely free of error, and any remaining mistakes fall squarely on my own head. Donald Rumbelow, Martin Fido, Paul Begg, Keith Skinner, Philip Sugden, Stephen Knight, Philip Rawlings, Peter Underwood, Peter Vronsky, Scott Palmer, Roger Wilkes, Patricia Cornwell, James Morton, Harold Schechter, Jan Bondeson, Colin Wilson, Andrew Maunder, Brian Marriner, Paul H. Feldman, Melvin Harris, Paul West, Peter Costello, Nathan Braund, Maxim Jakubowski, Eduardo Zinna, and the press reports archives of the comprehensive www.casebook.org were critically helpful to me in grasping the details of these still-harrowing crimes.