Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“Lestrade, you really must lead me through the steps which brought you to that conclusion, as they are dark to me,” Holmes murmured.

The inspector puffed up noticeably. “I am disappointed you don’t see it. Martha Tabram ducked into the shadows of George Yard with this sergeant, intending to ply her trade. The young grenadier waited for his comrade to return. He did not return, however, as he was engaged with Tabram, fought with her, and killed her, leaving her body on the landing of George Yard Buildings.”

“It is becoming more clear,” Holmes laughed. “In fact, I have very few questions to pose. First, have you any notion of what they quarreled about?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. He was a young soldier on holiday but very likely to have been a rogue. She had no money on her person when she was discovered, therefore it is clear to me that they fought over a question of payment.”

“Dear me. He could not pay?”

“They had been frequenting public houses, and he had probably run through what scant coin he had. When Martha Tabram demanded recompense, and he could not deliver, she would have grown very insistent.”

“I understand she was jabbed nearly forty times with a common pocketknife.”

“Yes, so we think. But one wound, the cause of death, was inflicted to the sternum with a bayonetlike blade, which implicates the soldier yet again,” declared Lestrade triumphantly. “Finally, her death occurred at very close to two in the morning, which shows that Tabram had not the time to make any new acquaintance before she was killed.”

Holmes steepled his two index fingers before his lips. “Lestrade, I must congratulate you, for your hypothesis does not directly oppose any known facts. Unfortunately, it abysmally fails at covering all of them, but you have done worse, my good Inspector, and this theory shows some salient points.”

“And what, if you don’t mind telling me, is wrong with it?” demanded Lestrade.

“I will do you the courtesy of elucidating the benefits straight off. For one, it is indeed extremely suspicious that Tabram was found in the alley she entered with the soldier; very likely she was occupied there until the time of her death.”

Lestrade looked as though he was about to say something self-congratulatory but was prevented by my friend.

“I have not quite finished. It is also of the greatest interest to me that Tabram was mutilated with a different variety of knife than that used to end her life. I suppose a bayonet would not allow a very effective range of motion for such a free-form exercise, but I have not yet made up my mind on that point. And now, inevitably, to your theory’s flaw. Murders motivated by money are immensely practical crimes, of the most transparent motivation and prosaic execution. You suggest that this guardsman killed Martha Tabram in order to silence her demands for money, and rather than flee the scene, he put away his bayonet, pulled out his pocketknife, and proceeded to stab her chest, groin, and abdomen, presumably because he wasn’t sure he’d finished the job.”

“I challenge you to show me another explanation that so closely covers the facts,” cried Lestrade. “We know nothing of this soldier, after all. For all we know, he may be an extremely perverse individual.”

“Ha! You are right. He may indeed be. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the other witnesses, this so-called Pearly Poll and the second guardsman?”

Sulkily, Lestrade shuffled through his file. “As far as Pearly Poll is concerned, not only is her address hardly permanent, but we’ve put her through two police lineups and she’s proven an utter waste of our time. As for the private—well, he has disappeared into thin air.”

“One more question, if I may.”

“Yes?” Lestrade replied, looking as though his good nature had been sorely tried indeed.

“The constable did not happen to note the colour of stripe on the soldier’s cap, did he?”

“It was white,” he snapped, “so of course he was a member of the Coldstream Guards. And now you’ll have no difficulty whatsoever in identifying the suspect that the entire force has had their eye out for. Just wire me when he’s found the culprit, will you, Doctor? Good day to you, Mr. Holmes.”

When the door had slammed testily behind us, Holmes set off down the hallway which led to the front exit of the Great Scotland Yard building. Though few policemen were present with the leisure to stop and speak to each other, those who could spare the time were muttering in hushed tones as they attempted to make sense of the events. I little knew what my friend was thinking, but Lestrade’s explanation seemed to me to fall far short of the mark.

“Holmes, surely Martha Tabram’s murder was an act too brutal for a brawl over a few pence?”

“Agreed,” replied Holmes as we regained the street, surrounded comfortingly by leafy trees and solid red brick. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that whoever is responsible was in the grip of a powerful emotional force.”

There was a brisk wind flowing through the Yard’s open spaces, and I welcomed its invigourating influence as Holmes hailed a cab and we made our weary way back to Baker Street.

“I cannot make it out yet, Watson,” my friend mused, drumming his long fingers against the side of the hansom, “but I would not have missed it. It is a far queerer matter than it appeared on the surface. As Lestrade has been at pains to remind us, these murders are in no way linked. But consider that in the case of Nichols, we have a killer who is exceedingly eager to cut women apart after they are dead, and in the case of Tabram, a killer so dedicated to the idea that he puts away his murder weapon to begin coolly stabbing his victim.”

“What can we do?”

“I must consider the options at hand. After all, we do not yet know these women. Speaking with their friends and loved ones may prove very profitable indeed.”

“We will at least learn more than we did this morning.”

Holmes nodded. “It was most peculiar. We unearthed no immediate alleys which demand investigation. I suppose I shall have to invent my own.”

CHAPTER THREE Miss Mary Ann Monk

The next morning I completed my ablutions quickly, as I could just make out voices emanating from downstairs. When I entered the sitting room, I found Holmes leaning against the sideboard with his hands in his pockets as he conversed with a man whose general appearance spoke of neither good hygiene nor good spirits.

“Ah, Watson,” cried my friend. “I was about to fetch you, as we have an important caller. May I present to you Mr. William Nichols of Old Kent Road, a repairman of printer’s machinery, if his fingertips had not already declared as much to you.”

Our guest was a weathered fellow of middle height with sly blue eyes and bushy grey side-whiskers. A tremor in his strong, ink-stained hands informed me he was quite disturbed by recent events.

“Do be seated, Mr. Nichols, and accept our condolences regarding your wife’s death. I have no doubt but that, despite the earliness of the hour, Dr. Watson would be happy to prescribe you something fortifying. You have had a most trying ordeal.”

I poured Mr. Nichols a brandy and led him to the settee. He drank slowly from it, then turned back to Holmes.

“I’ve not tasted a drop in years,” he confessed, “for I knew the ill of it. Polly Walker was a sweet girl in her youth, and no one knows it better than I do. But as for her drinking, and her other vices…Polly Nichols turned into a bad sort, gentlemen, make no mistake about that.”

Holmes shot me a look and I located my notebook. “Mr. Nichols, if it would not be too terribly painful for you, I should like you to tell me all you can about your late wife.”