Dust and Shadow

CHAPTER SEVEN A Whitechapel Rendezvous

Holmes was absent for much of the next day, revealing when he returned only that we were to meet Miss Monk in the East-end on the following evening. No more would he say regarding either the case or the mysterious letter, and when, against my better judgment, I pressed the subject, he embarked upon a discussion of architecture as a reflection of national ideals, steadfastly refusing to be led astray from that intriguing though irrelevant subject.

The following afternoon proved an arena for the wind to strew showers against windowpanes and blow gusts of cold, wet air through timidly cracked doorways. My friend arrived for supper in high spirits, and we sat down over a bottle of Bordeaux before embarking upon our journey east.

“I have been returning Mr. Vandervent’s property,” said Holmes as he poured me a glass. “I was not thanked for my trouble. That poor misanthrope has no patience for his own kind, but he’s a decent enough sort, and as you have seen, occasionally invaluable.”

“What do we intend to accomplish this evening?”

“We shall stay a reasonable distance behind Miss Monk and see whether this mysterious soldier has had any luck in tracing his friend Johnny Blackstone. I have not yet had a look at the fellow, after all, and he has piqued my interest enormously.”

“In what way?”

“Surely it is apparent that Dunlevy is not all that he seems.”

“Is it?” I inquired. “We have never laid eyes on him.”

“Yes, but she has, and if what she says is accurate, he is a slippery fish, this Mr. Dunlevy. Consider: a woman has been brutally murdered. You were present at the scene. You know who has done it, or you think you know. You never say a word about it to anyone and you fail to inform either the police or your superiors what has happened.”

“He claimed they were fast friends.”

“Even more baffling. Rather than request a leave of absence to seek out your fallen brother, or even go so far as to place an ad in the agony columns, you leave the city and only upon your return develop a burning desire to find him. He cannot be both fiercely loyal and glaringly negligent. Now, look here, Watson, we haven’t much time. It is nearly seven. We shall finish this excellent vintage, and then into evening dress.”

“Evening dress? In Whitechapel?”

“We’ll be far less visible that way, and we shall incorporate, beneath our coats, your revolver and my bull’s-eye lantern. I assure you that evening dress is the best possible measure to avoid undue attention. Better for us to appear swells of dubious morals than gentlemen of mysterious purposes. Besides, Watson,” he added, with a glint of humour in his grey eyes, “you, after all, are a man of the world. We must put your skills to use, for there is no greater tragedy on God’s green earth than that of untapped talent.”

Thus, attired as elegantly as if our destination were the opera and not the East-end, we set forth into the glittering streets as the evening deepened into night. The freshly lit gas lamps flung yellowed light across the rain-streaked windowpanes but grew ever more scarce as we drove east. At length, when we had left the vast tracts of brick dwellings behind us, our cab turned onto Whitechapel High Street. Light poured from the doorways of the gin palaces, illuminating the fruit peddlers who laboured at the end of the day to sell their remaining wares. An organ-grinder with his chattering simian companion stood before a music hall upon a crumbling street corner. Everywhere men leaned in doorways puffing at cigars, and everywhere women strolled about, some housewives with hair in loose buns gossiping with their neighbours, some ladies of more mercurial design who kept in constant motion to avoid the attention of the local constabulary. Gentlemen of leisure too, weary of concerts and of dinner parties, lounged from temptation to temptation with cynical aplomb. The place was a veritable hornet’s nest of whirring activity, illicit and otherwise, and the rawness of it reminded me less of London than it did the heaving markets of Calcutta and of Delhi I had encountered during my time in service.

At length we turned north onto Commercial Street, where pools of water stood in front of the narrow shops illuminated from within by greasy tallow candles. Rats scurried from under our clattering wheels, and doors leading to derelict stairwells stood yawning in the rain. I peered into them, but to no avail; the glow and bustle of Whitechapel High Street had been replaced by pervasive darkness. It was a black so heavy that its weight appeared only to be deepened by the efforts of the meager lamps, and I wondered aloud to Holmes what deeds might with impunity be committed in such a realm.

“To live in these houses, one cannot survive without either condoning or incorporating the criminal element,” my friend replied. “See here—this street we are passing, Flower and Dean—it is one of the most dangerous places in the known world, and it is not in the wilds of Africa but mere miles from the place where you and I so peaceably hang our hats.”

One glance down the road he had indicated sufficed to prove his point. The air was heavy despite the recent rain, and there was hardly a window which had not been smashed in, then vainly patched over with paper or scraps of cheap cloth.

“Here is our destination. I thought it best to establish our connection early in the evening. Follow me, and please try not to draw attention to yourself.”

Holmes has, as I have remarked elsewhere, an air of self-importance about him which occasionally tries the patience of his few friends. However, upon entering the establishment called the Queen’s Head, on the corner of Commercial and Fashion Streets, I at once took his meaning. The place was populated by gentlemen—if one could stretch the word to its outer limits—of the roughest character; by rouged women awkwardly holding babies in their arms, pausing for a glass of gin before returning home; and by Miss Mary Ann Monk, who sat at the bar near the doorway and shot an eye at us as we entered.

“How about that one, Middleton?” Holmes said brightly after surveying the room. “She looks likely enough, and that glorious hair. You won’t do better than that, my friend, not in these parts.”

My look of dismay must have registered with many of the patrons, who chuckled quietly at Holmes’s words.

“Oh, come off it, man, we haven’t got all week. See here,” he said to Miss Monk in a lower tone. “My friend is about to leave London for the Australian colonies, and—well, it would be pleasant to remember England as a welcoming land, if you understand me. You are not engaged at the moment?”

Miss Monk regarded us appraisingly and made no reply.

“Well, well, it is no matter,” said Holmes suavely, passing her a half-sovereign. “Now, I expect this is more than you make in a month, and I further expect you to earn it. We shall stay here for a drink, then continue on to the Bricklayer’s Arms down the road apiece. A thicker* when all’s said and done ought to persuade you to meet us there, I think? Many thanks, my dear girl.”

After purchasing two glasses of beer and two glasses of gin from the proprietor, we sat down on a bench near the back of the room. We sipped the beer, leaving the gin untouched.

“I suppose that we intend to grant Miss Monk an ironclad justification for giving Dunlevy the slip when she feels it necessary,” I remarked dryly.

“Precisely so. My apologies, my dear Middleton, but apart from an assignation, I could not devise any excuse that would so effectively ensure her safety.”

“Your vaunted imagination fell so short?”

“Come now, my dear fellow! It is a dark enough investigation without a touch of sport to lighten it. But I say, what have we here—no, do not look toward the door, I beg of you,” he stopped me softly. “The reflection in that excellently placed mirror should serve you every bit as well.”

Stephen Dunlevy, his face slightly distorted by the ageing of the mirror, was casting an affable blue eye about the crowded room. He was a genial fellow with a modest, upward-tilting moustache set over a pleasant mouth and a square jaw. Holmes looked him over in his careless, languid fashion, but I knew that he was recording every salient detail as the ex-guardsman strode further into the room and hailed our diminutive friend. On their way to sit down, Miss Monk nodded once in our direction, which immediately prompted her companion to question her.

Holmes smiled. “Now that Dunlevy has seen us, let us take our leave.” We exited the bar and the air hit our faces in damp gusts as he continued. “You see, my dear fellow, the only way I could feel absolutely sure of Miss Monk’s security was if she had an appointment—not a fabricated one, mind you, but an established fact—that her companion discovered as if by accident. Should she not appear, she will be missed, and Dunlevy knows it.”

We walked slowly down Commercial Street as the skies began to clear. “I have no doubt but that you are aware of every possible eventuality,” said I, recovering my equanimity outside the close confines of the Queen’s Head. Falling into a more comfortable silence, we drifted in the direction of our meeting place with Miss Monk.

By the time we had reached Whitechapel High Street once more, all the revelry and apathy of a hedonistic Carnevale permeated the smoky atmosphere. Had Holmes or I wished to lose any of the money in our pockets, every corner boasted either a cardsharp, skittle sharp, or some other variety of bold-faced cheat. As we passed the intersection into the morass of Commercial Road, I confess that I should have doubted the safety of our route had Holmes not so clearly known precisely where he was going. Indeed, I believe that only my friend’s air of total self-assurance prevented us from harm as we strolled down the jaggedly cobbled street.

While I cannot vouch for the history of the Bricklayer’s Arms, it had likely once served as a local guildhall, for it boasted the banner of its trade name above the low-linteled door. It was perhaps eleven o’clock by the time Holmes and I arrived, as we had more than once been forced to extricate ourselves from the attentions of inquiring ladies of the evening. I will be pardoned, therefore, for having expressed a degree of relief when we at last entered the crowded tavern.

A stranger to all, my companion was within half an hour the intimate confidant of every unhappy sot within the premises. Though seeped through with tallow smoke and careless splashes of gin, the atmosphere grew less unpleasant as I realized that Holmes was as at ease in our present environs as he was in our own rooms, and thus I settled back in my chair and tried my own hand at observation. Close upon my right was an elderly fellow, clearly a sailor, I thought, from his tattoos, who declaimed to a curly-headed boy that he had more women at his beck and call in Asian ports than any other seafarer he had either seen or heard tell of. Directly in front of us sat a woman who I imagined to be in mourning owing to her dark garments, then remembered that the denizens of that neighbourhood possessed at the most one entire set of clothing.

When over an hour had passed without a sign of our comrade, I began to shoot Holmes worried glances, only one of which he responded to by pressing my arm reassuringly. My friend was lifting his glass once more in the direction of the barkeep’s daughter when Miss Monk at last appeared at the doorway. Upon spying us, she rushed over, leaping into the nearest chair.

“I’d bet my life that bloke’s onto summat,” she declared delightedly, drawing Holmes’s half-sovereign out of her garments and tossing it back to him. He placed it in his waistcoat pocket and then quite inexplicably glanced down at her shoes.

“Well, then,” he prompted, raising his eyes, “pray report. What did he tell you?”

“Wouldn’t talk about that soldier friend of his for nigh on an hour. Just asks what I’ve been about and who you lads are, and I tells him some stories so everything’s warm and comfortable. Finally he lets on that he thinks he’s found a way to trace Johnny Blackstone.”

“This gentleman grows ever more enthralling,” Holmes remarked. “Did you discover anything further?”

“Only where he lives!” she whispered.

“How on earth did you accomplish that?” I exclaimed.

“Well, when I left him to meet my swells, I’m off with a peck and a nod, but I ducks into an alley to see which way he goes. When he comes out, he walks straight down Commercial Street and ends up on Ellen Street, down a passage or two and into a doss house. I spies a woman at the front entrance, and I offer her a shilling to let on what sort of callers he has. ‘No one,’ says she, ‘but he’s out all hours, and only the devil knows what he’s about. He’s true enough to you, so far as I know.’ Well, I weren’t about to wait around for him to come out again. But I’ll show you his digs, and the woman what keeps the entrance will tell me for a few pence if he’s there, like as not.”

“It is a sterling idea, Miss Monk. I may have a mind to follow him myself tomorrow. Quietly now, and so as not to cause any curiosity over our departure, do take my friend Middleton’s arm and lead us out of the bar.”