Dust and Shadow

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A Man in a Uniform

Close upon four o’clock the following afternoon Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

“Miss Monk is here to see you, Mr. Holmes. She’s brought a man with her as well.”

“Capital, Mrs. Hudson. Send them up!” With a display of energy that surprised me, Holmes leapt to his feet. “We progress, Watson, despite the odds. Miss Monk, how are you?”

She must have taken the stairs at a run, for we heard the slower steps of her companion still plodding upward. “I’ve brought him!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve followed the grape trail ever since you put me onto it, and strike me dead if I haven’t found him. Took a shilling’s worth of persuading to do it, but he came round in the end.”

The man who walked through our doorway was grey and wizened with a prominent nose, deeply furrowed jowls, and an expression of permanent chagrin which we soon learned could shift toward resigned disappointment or deep disdain depending upon immediate circumstance. Just then, his watery blue eyes and obstinate chin seemed to indicate he was even more displeased than was usual.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend cordially, “and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

“I know who you are,” he snapped, “and I know what you do. What I don’t know is why I’ve been dragged across London to assure you of it.”

“This is Mr. Matthew Packer,” Miss Monk put in hastily. “He lives across town, right enough, on Berner Street as it happens. Mr. Packer’s digs have a very nice front window to ’em and he uses it to sell fruit out of. Don’t you, Mr. Packer?”

“Never said I didn’t.”

“Mr. Packer, I am very gratified to meet you,” said Sherlock Holmes enthusiastically. “Would you care to sit here, by the fire? I find the cold troubling at this time of year, and your rheumatism must render it well-nigh intolerable.”

“Never said I had rheumatism. But I don’t care how you know it, so don’t bother to tell me,” said Mr. Packer as he made his way to the basket chair.

“Dr. Watson,” said Holmes, hiding his amusement beneath a mask of perfect innocence, “have I not heard you remark that there is nothing better for rheumatism than a glass of good brandy?”

“Many times, Holmes. Might I pour you a glass, Mr. Packer?”

“You might, and then this young woman can start explaining why an old man can’t be left in peace to tend his shop of a morning.”

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” obliged Miss Monk, “there I was walking down Berner Street when I sees that Mr. Packer has a mess of fresh black grapes in his window. Then it comes to me—that poor woman what was killed near the club! She’d a stalk of grapes in her hand. The same kind you sell, Mr. Packer,” she added with a radiant smile. “Black ones, if you please.”

“I suppose you mean to say I killed her,” sneered the old scoundrel, “and you have brought me to these gentlemen for interrogation.”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Packer,” said Holmes sadly. “In fact, I’m afraid it’s nearly an impossibility that you may have seen anything of use.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling this young madwoman.”

“Our only hope of success would hinge upon your having seen a woman with a flower pinned to her jacket on that evening. Red, backed by white fern. But as I’ve said, the situation is quite hopeless. This Jack the Ripper seems far too clever for any of us.”

Mr. Packer’s face shifted slowly from contempt to condescension as he sipped his brandy. “You say a red flower pinned to her jacket?”

“Yes,” sighed the detective. “Futile, is it not?”

“Funny thing is, I do seem to recall having sold grapes to a woman with a red flower; the man paid for them, of course, but she was standing there the whole time.”

“Really? That is a strange coincidence. I don’t suppose you recall anything else about her face or figure?”

“She was a sad sort,” Mr. Packer replied, “fair-complected, dark curls, and dressed all in black—black skirt, black bonnet, dark bodice—with fur trim on her jacket.”

“Indeed?” Holmes replied coolly.

“She had what I might call a strong face—square-jawed, high cheekbones, if you understand me.”

“And her companion?” Holmes appeared as nonchalant as ever, but I could see he was entirely engrossed.

“He was a plain fellow—not thin, of healthy build, I suppose, average height. Simply dressed, like a clerk or a shopkeeper. And he wore no gloves. A frock coat and hat but no gloves.”

“You interest me exceedingly, Mr. Packer.” My friend’s zeal was beginning to infuse his tone. “And his face? Can you describe the fellow?”

“He had regular features, clean shaven, wearing a cloth hat. I’d seen him before, to be sure.”

At this Holmes could not help but start forward. “Oh, indeed?”

“Must live in the neighbourhood, for he seemed that familiar.”

“Can you recall where you had seen this man before?”

“Somewhere about. Could have been in a pub or a market.”

“But you have no clue as to his occupation or place of residence?”

“Said I’d seen him before. Didn’t say I knew him, did I?”

Holmes clenched his fist in frustration, but his voice remained even. “What time do you imagine you sold them the grapes, Mr. Packer?”

He shrugged. “Close to twelve, I should think.”

“And have you spoken to the police?”

“The police!” he snorted. “Why should I speak to the police, I wonder. They spoke to me right enough—knocking on my door, demanding to know what I’d seen. Well, of course I told them what I’d seen when I closed shop at twelve thirty. Nothing.”

“You failed to tell the police you had seen anything suspicious?”

“I saw nothing suspicious. What in God’s name is suspicious about folk buying a bunch of grapes?”

“Quite so. Well, Mr. Packer, is there anything further you can recall about that night or the man you saw?”

“Well, for the sake of the brandy I’ll say one more word on the matter,” Mr. Packer deigned to reply. “This gloveless fellow, then—they may not have been friends, but the woman had seen him before, sure as I had.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Packer?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“He’s buying the grapes when the woman says, ‘They won’t be missing you tonight, then?’ ‘Who won’t be?’ he says, irritated. ‘Oh, I see the game,’ she says. ‘Right enough, no offense meant. But you do look splendid in those clothes.’”

“She mentioned his attire specifically?”

“That she did,” Mr. Packer assented, downing what remained in his prodigious snifter. “Can’t think why, for it was nothing to speak of. Shame she seemed so taken with the bloke, if what you say is true. An hour later she was dead.”

Holmes made no reply, for his mind was elsewhere. Our guest made a studied harrumphing sound and arose. “In any event…that’s all the time I’m willing to give you gents, for I don’t see what good any of you have done so far.”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” I exclaimed.

“Five women dead and not a suspect to show for it. I don’t call that a good average, do you? Well, let me know if anything comes of it, which doesn’t seem likely. I’m off to my shop.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Packer, but I do not believe you can deny us your company just yet,” said Holmes casually.

“Is that so? And why in hell not, might I ask?”

Holmes advanced toward the elderly man and stopped at a distance of no more than two inches. My friend towered over the irascible fellow, and even pallid of complexion with one arm in a sling, his physical presence was daunting in the extreme.

“While I am grateful for your call, you may well have heard that Scotland Yard is also pursuing Jack the Ripper. And while you may not have realized you possessed valuable evidence before, I believe we have now made your position abundantly clear to you. You and I will take the cab downstairs directly to Scotland Yard, where you will tell a friend of mine named Lestrade precisely what you told me. Do not for one instant make me suspect, Mr. Packer, that you have the Ripper’s best interests at heart.”

Mr. Packer struggled in vain for a reply.

“Very well, then. Watson, my coat, if you would be so kind. Miss Monk, I have greater respect for your time than to suggest you accompany us. You have my warmest congratulations for having managed to get him here in the first place. After you, Mr. Packer.”

So began a day that proved enjoyable for us only insofar as it was inconvenient for Mr. Packer. Lestrade eagerly took his statement, then required him to visit the morgue, where he was shown the face not of Elizabeth Stride but of Catherine Eddowes. At his adamant refusal that he had ever laid eyes on her, he was shown Stride, whom he confidently proclaimed to be the girl with the grapes. Evening drew near when, as a reward for his correct identification, he was taken to see Sir Charles Warren and deliver his statement a third time, at which point we gratefully took our leave of him.

“I must say,” I remarked to Holmes in the cab, “your tip to Miss Monk bore fruit swiftly enough.”

“It narrows our search exceedingly,” drawled my friend, as he leaned his head against the side of the hansom. “Rather than exert ourselves looking for a five-foot-seven Englishman, we shall set our caps for a five-foot-seven Englishman who is ‘clean shaven,’ with ‘regular features.’”

“Then what have we gained by Packer’s account of the man?”

“Well, two features of interest present themselves.”

“The lack of gloves?”

“Excellent, Watson. The glove detail narrows the social sphere, for I do not believe the lowest denizens of Whitechapel would balk at eating with gloves on. And the other feature?”

“That Packer recognized him from the neighbourhood?”

“My dear chap, surely we have not so soon forgotten that this man’s intimate knowledge of Whitechapel hints at his having been there before.”

“The odd remark about his clothing, then, if Packer heard aright?”

“Watson, you really do improve all the time. Yes, that remark interests me exceedingly. The fellow seemed to think that by wearing the apparel of any innocuous Britisher, he would be less recognizable.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“Can you not?” he smiled. “You surprise me, my boy. Let us take you as an example. Now, I could, if pressed, deliver a very detailed description of you indeed. However, if you were a stranger to me and I had not made it part of my vocation to recognize traits of human physiognomy, I might describe you as having ‘regular features,’ for what does the term mean if not symmetrical and evenly spaced?”

“I fail to see what I have to do with Stride’s recognition of the man who would be the death of her.”

Holmes laughed suddenly. “Very well—your friends in London, they are astute enough to recognize you when they see you. If you were dressed to the nines as a common seaman, would they still recognize you?”

“I imagine so.”

“Do you? Dressed as you are now, if you were suddenly transported to India, would your acquaintances there know you?”

“Some would. Possibly some would not,” I granted.

“Why not?”

“My appearance has changed significantly. And I was always in uniform.”

“And there I rest my case,” said Holmes with his habitual far-off expression. “If your colleagues might not know you in a crowd when out of uniform, why should a stranger be expected to do so? There are people in this world with an eye for faces, and Elizabeth Stride was one of them. While most would not have recognized an unexceptional face without its context, she did so. Sadly, she would not live to tell of it.”

“You are right, Holmes,” I reflected, my friend’s idea now perfectly clear to me. “The garb of a civilian would significantly alter a man’s appearance if he were perpetually in uniform.”

“I am currently devoting all my resources to locating this Johnny Blackstone,” Holmes replied. “Whenever we do so, it will be not a moment too soon.”