Dust and Shadow

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Killer

I have always been struck by my friend Sherlock Holmes’s temerity in the face of adversity. In all our long years of association, I have never once known his courage to fail him, and his actions later that night, or rather early the next morning, reflected the dauntless tenacity I had come to expect of him. It is a brave man who awakens Mycroft Holmes at four o’clock in the morning.

We stopped at Baker Street for a wash and a change of clothes, but Holmes, on the instant he emerged from his bedroom, announced his intention of going out again.

“You will hardly find it a reflection on you, friend Watson, when I suggest that the fewer individuals storming my dear brother’s rooms at this hour, the better for Queen and country. In any event, I trust he will know better than I what steps should be taken.”

“Can I do anything in your absence?”

“Read all my correspondence the instant it arrives; I shall stop by the post office when it opens to redirect my mail. And get some rest, my dear fellow. You’ll need it, if I have not completely lost my mind.”

The notion of resting initially struck me as ludicrous, yet a hot bath and the reflection that I would be as good as useless that night without some respite soon convinced me to follow Holmes’s advice. I awoke near nine o’clock that morning and rang for breakfast, little expecting Mrs. Hudson to appear in my doorway in a far more severe fit of temper than I would ever have given the kindly woman credit for. I was told that the mysterious disappearance of two lodgers, during a time when they are known to be in danger, is unspeakably vexing to an affectionate landlady. I soon forged the appropriate truces.

Knowing Holmes’s obsession with presenting a complete case, I was not in the least surprised that I remained in the dark. It was as unlike him to explain a problem before its conclusion as it was for him to leave unfinished threads at the end of one. Something of the detachment of my days in combat entered my bones; there was a war on, and Holmes was the general leading the assault. Even if I could not propose a strategy, now that my friend had returned, I could at least follow orders.

The first telegram for Holmes arrived at half past one in the afternoon and stated, “The officers in question patrol an area bordering Whitechapel and Spitalfields north of Wentworth Street and south of Spital Square. Map follows by post. Abberline.”* The second was from Mr. Vandervent of the News Agency, demanding an immediate interview at his offices, with me alone if Holmes still could not be found.

Vandervent’s caveat proved unnecessary, as my friend arrived home at slightly after three in the afternoon in an exceedingly bad temper.

“I believe it is the sole business of government to invent elaborate impediments to swift action,” he snapped, flinging his hat on the settee emphatically.

“Your brother has been taking you round, I see.”

“To hell and back. It is no wonder they depend upon him so. He at once set about notifying the proper channels, which I need hardly tell you took three hours longer than it ought to have done. Mr. Matthews was not without a certain grasp of the problem, however.”

“The Home Secretary!” I exclaimed. “Is it truly as bad as that?”

“I am afraid so. Are there any messages?”

Holmes read his telegrams gravely, then jotted down another. I caught a glimpse of George Lusk’s address on the form.

“Holmes, you really must eat something.”

“No doubt I must. But we must also find a cab, for you do not wish to entertain the notion of inciting Mr. Vandervent’s wrath. I have seen it before.”

“I should like to know what good you think you’ll be to anyone lying helpless in hospital.”

He ignored me. “Come along now, my dear Watson, for in light of the notes you discovered, we’ve every reason to believe Vandervent’s news is no trifling affair.”

The Central News Agency’s offices were located in New Bridge Street in the City, and though I had never seen them, I had been prepared by the air of barely harnessed chaos in the offices of the London Chronicle for the thunderous atmosphere within. Pressmen, tweed jackets rumpled and collar ends loosened, flew to and fro throughout the large chamber, comparing papers and smoking endless cigarettes. Few amid the general hubbub glanced our way initially, but those who did so arrested conversations in midsentence as they paused to stare.

“I say, Mr. Holmes—” one began, but he was interrupted by the advent of a whirling dervish wielding a crutch as if it were a pikestaff.

“If you so much as form the thought that this is an opportunity to pose questions to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I shall explore the potential of the typewriter as a deadly weapon,” Mr. Vandervent declared. With a jerk of his white-crowned head, he led us to a private office and elbowed the door shut.

“Thank heaven you’ve returned, Mr. Holmes,” he remarked, relocating stacks of news clippings from the chairs to the floor. “I had determined to meet with Dr. Watson, but it is far better that you both are here. Sit down, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Vandervent, I am afraid we haven’t much time. There have been some recent developments—”

“I wish to inform you of a development, as you call them, which has not yet come to pass. And despite my best efforts to smash it, including the employment of favours, pleas, threats, and my own considerable personal charm, it will nevertheless come to pass early tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Vandervent located what appeared to be the final draft of an article. Seating himself on the edge of his desk with a deft hop, he read it to us.

In a most distressing turn of events, it has become clear that, directly after suspicions lobbied against him by the official police came to light through this publication, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the aberrant private detective, has fled from his Baker Street dwelling. He had been observed to be spending a great deal of time in the East-end just prior to his unannounced departure, allegedly seeking out Jack the Ripper and further constructing his case. It has been noted by specialists that, in the interim since Mr. Holmes met with highly debilitating injuries on the night of the horrifying double murder, no further crimes have taken place, although such strong negative evidence can hardly be considered conclusive proof against so public a figure as Mr. Holmes. Nevertheless, it seems the clear duty of the Yard to ascertain the unorthodox vigilante’s whereabouts as quickly as possible, for the timing of his desertion appears from certain viewpoints to be an admission of the most damning variety.

Holmes whistled appreciatively. I recall a mad desire to use the paper as kindling to burn down its author’s residence.

“I’ve arranged to be kept well apprised of the cur’s pet projects, you see,” Vandervent continued. “This gem has no doubt already gone to the printer’s. I thought to be forewarned is better than nothing.”

“I shall have to take care not to end up in the dock at this rate.”

“The nerve of the scoundrel!” I fumed. “It is no worse than I expected, but it is hardly less vexing for that.”

Vandervent’s brows shot up in surprise. “You have been expecting another attack from this bounder?”

“Dr. Watson and I thought it highly improbable that Tavistock would cease his efforts once he had discovered so very fertile a ground for self-expression,” Holmes explained.

“Ha,” said Vandervent, skeptically. “Well, I have no doubt but that the pure venom of this beauty is due in large part to that caper pulled in his office Saturday night.”

“How extraordinary. And what caper might that be?” the detective asked serenely.

“Surely you’ve heard by now. Chaps ought to be given a knighthood, for my money. Broke untraceably into Tavistock’s office under cover of darkness and left a hailstorm of snowy white chicken feathers. The source of the feathers, a scrawny plucked little fellow, was found sitting in Tavistock’s desk chair presiding over his foul projects.”

A peal of laughter from Holmes caused me very quickly to examine the state of my shoes as he clapped me upon the shoulder. “So he has been shown the white feather. I shall make a point of thanking the culprit. That is, of course, if his identity is ever discovered.”

“Well, as we’re all plagued with troubles, I shan’t take any more of your time,” Vandervent dismissed us. “If you require any special assistance escaping the building, do let me know. There’s nothing those jackals outside would like better than to sink their teeth into Sherlock Holmes an hour or two before his incarceration. Just mention the word chicken on your way out if you’d care for a round of applause.”

Tavistock’s article blazed forth from the front page of our London Chronicle the next day. However phlegmatically Holmes had taken the news in Vandervent’s office, the sight of such personal vituperation in our morning mail was enough to make him fling the entire periodical into our fireplace.

“I must leave you for a time, Watson, but I beg that you will be here this evening,” he said after coffee, toast, and his morning pipe. “I’d planned we should visit Lestrade at the Yard tonight, but upon further reflection it seems best to avoid tempting them with my actual presence upon their threshold. The inspector will be here by eight, and we shall see what can be done.”

“I am very glad of it. We have been bullied by a shadow for far too long.”

“He is flesh and blood enough. I assure you, Watson, I don’t mean to hold you in suspense, but I’ve had to be very sure of my facts. Tonight I shall make everything as clear as I can.”

“I will be here.”

“You’ve been both constant and fearless over this wretched business, my dear Watson. It makes you quite invaluable, you know.” I raised my eyes to attempt a response to this unprecedented display of esteem, but he had already risen abruptly and secured his hat. “Tell Mrs. Hudson there will be five for supper. If I am not back by eight, I will have no doubt been arrested. In that case, of course, there will be four.”

As I glanced at my watch for the second time to assure myself it was only a quarter to eight, I heard the clatter of four hooves below our window. Energized by the tension of long-stifled curiosity, I threw open the sitting room door long before our bell rang, and I smiled at the sight of Miss Monk and Stephen Dunlevy climbing the stairs.

When I had ushered them in, I noted that Miss Monk, under her usual dark blue fitted coat, wore a simply tailored linsey* dress of deep beige, narrowly striped with a vivid emerald green the shade of her wide-set eyes.

“Miss Monk, you look lovely.”

“Oh. It’s warmer, over the old skirt. I mean—thank you.”

“He’s right, you know,” Dunlevy observed innocently.

“I believe as I recall your saying so. In the growler. Or was it outside my lodgings? Both, I think.”

“The point bore repeating.” He shrugged cheerily.

“Where’s Mr. Holmes?” Miss Monk inquired.

“He’s due to return at any moment. Ah, Lestrade! Come in, Inspector.”

The doughty Lestrade stood in our doorway as if he had all that week been pursued by rabid dogs and had only just taken the time to change his collar. He shook my hand and nodded to our guests.

“Miss Monk, was it? I’m not likely to forget a single moment of that night. And you are, sir?”

“Mr. Dunlevy is a journalist,” I explained.

“Is he indeed?” Lestrade questioned, with a cold eye.

“He has been assisting us. He was in Whitechapel the night of Martha Tabram’s murder in August.”

“Martha Tabram! It’s a wonder Mr. Holmes doesn’t start investigating the Drebber* case again, for all it has to do with Jack the Ripper. I suppose he’ll be here soon?”

“I certainly hope so,” I replied.

As if by magic Sherlock Holmes flung open the door and hung his hat on the peg. “Good evening to you all! I see that Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself. Please do sit down.”

“Here’s the author of this charming note: ‘Whatever you are doing, cease by seven thirty so as to be at Baker Street by eight,’” the inspector pronounced.

“Lestrade, you look very much in need of a drink.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade impatiently, “I’ve no doubt that whatever you have to say to us is of great importance, but I’ve enough work at the Yard to keep me there all night through as it is. Apart from the heightened patrols, we have the honour of keeping the peace at the Lord Mayor’s Show on Friday. From Guildhall to the Courts of Justice and back again, we are expected to maintain order, prevent demonstration, and repress rioting, all while policing a meat tea for three thousand destitute in the heart of Whitechapel. Suffice it to say that neither of us should be here. We ought by rights to be at the Yard, with me outside the bars and you behind them.”

“Shall we have a bite of supper, then, or shall I begin at once?”

“At once, if you would.” Lestrade seated himself with an expectant air and we all followed suit excepting Holmes, who procured his pipe from the mantelpiece and then leaned against the sideboard as he lit it.

“Very well, then. In the first place, Lestrade, you are going to have to redraw the beats in the northwest corner of Whitechapel abutting Spitalfields, to be implemented tomorrow.”

“Do not toy with me.”

“I am deadly serious.”

“But why?”

“Because the man who calls himself Jack the Ripper is intimately acquainted with them—their exact layout, the constables posted, and the time required for each circuit.”

“That is the most preposterous statement I have ever heard you pronounce.”

“How many other preposterous statements have you known me to make?”

“A great many.”

“And how many of them were true?”

“I’ve no intention of redrawing the beats simply because you imagine someone has stolen the duty roster.”

“He had no need of stealing the duty roster. The person of whom I speak is a Metropolitan police officer.”

A terrible silence settled over the room. Holmes sighed heavily. “Will you pour the inspector a drink, Watson? I think you will agree he is in need of one.

“What I intend to say to you all must go no further than this room. I am telling you what I know because I require your help. When I have said my piece, you are welcome to pose any questions you wish, but I had better lay our cards on the table in my own fashion so that you will be able to see the matter as I do.

“It really all began with Stephen Dunlevy here. Not long after Miss Monk consented to serve as our contact in Whitechapel, she met Mr. Dunlevy, who confessed to her that he was the soldier who had awaited his friend’s return on the night of Tabram’s murder. Because the circumstances cast a great deal of suspicion upon this other guardsman, and no less owing to my own doubts regarding Mr. Dunlevy’s chosen career, his story arrested my immediate interest, especially as other women began meeting equally inexplicable and violent ends. I endeavoured to learn more by venturing myself into Whitechapel, which is why Dr. Watson and I happened, through purest coincidence, to catch the Ripper at his foul work. A deduction based on the pony’s behaviour led me into Dutfield’s Yard; the Ripper escaped, as you know, to kill again after he failed in his attempt to dispatch me.

“After this fifth murder, it became obvious to me that we were dealing with no ordinary criminal. He was not a raving lunatic, for if he were, who would ever agree to accompany him with so many unfortunates already dead? Neither was he a thief, nor did he seek calculated revenge, for try as I might to link the poor souls, his victims followed no pattern other than that they were all, as I have said, unfortunates. Thankfully, because I have records of two or three earlier cases matching these particulars—bizarrely motiveless slaughter of anonymous victims—I was able to conclude that the man calling himself Jack the Ripper is a severely diseased monomaniac whose habitual demeanour remains nonetheless perfectly genial.”

“That’s the most atrocious notion I’ve ever heard,” Lestrade muttered, but Holmes took no notice.

“My mention of the name Jack the Ripper brings me to the letters. When he described in exact detail my own cigarette case, and Mr. Lusk received half a human kidney, I had final proof that the man who had murdered five women was writing these letters to bait us. I have no doubt that another note sent to Dr. Watson purporting to be from me was also the Ripper’s work. At first these letters helped us in no way. But finally, I discovered a curious series of numbers which had made an impression on the page beneath. These proved far from negotiable without any context, and so I filed them at the back of my mind until such time as their meaning could be determined.

“After I ascertained his true vocation, Mr. Dunlevy confessed that, while he may have been dressed as a private on the night of Bank Holiday, he was in actuality a journalist whose candid stories were often aided by disguise. He informed me that he had observed Johnny Blackstone, for that was the other soldier’s name, lead Martha Tabram into an alley a mere half hour before the time the medical examiners assured us she met her death. Mr. Dunlevy revisited the pub, but he returned to await his acquaintance and while doing so met with Constable Bennett. Finally giving up on Blackstone, Mr. Dunlevy returned to his home and only later discovered that any foul play had taken place.

“I had the strongest intuition that this terrible series of murders had begun the night of Martha Tabram’s death, and thus locating the elusive Johnny Blackstone became of the utmost importance. He disappeared following his relief from service for erratic and disturbing behaviour, and he was reportedly hiding in Whitechapel, all of which made me very eager to lay my hands on him. After all, any man who would stab a woman thirty-nine times and then coolly walk away was no doubt a very dangerous individual.”

“Dangerous enough,” Miss Monk put in darkly.

“Then another, rather oblique clue fell into my lap. Matthew Packer had heard Elizabeth Stride remark that the man she was with, the man who all evidence suggests was her killer, was not clad in his habitual attire. Now, the notion that Blackstone considered himself in a sort of negative disguise when he was not in uniform was a very attractive one. Most people identify casual acquaintances through dress and bearing as much as their faces, and if Blackstone could shed his uniform, changing one or two other significant details about his person, he would be well on his way to traveling invisibly through his neighbourhood.”

Holmes’s eyes darted to the charred remains of Tavistock’s latest attack in our fireplace. “By this time, the now notorious Mr. Leslie Tavistock had begun his deeply disquieting press campaign. While I worried that his information was far too close to the mark, much of his accuracy could be blamed upon Mr. Dunlevy here sharing what he knew of my movements to friends within the London press. I had very nearly convinced myself that any other hypothesis would be irrational when, as a result of an expedition masterminded by my associates, Dr. Watson informed me that not only did Tavistock’s source possess information about me that no one but my allies could know without tailing me (and I observed no such person), but that he also had access to my handwriting, and that he and the letter writer, and by extrapolation the Ripper, were one and the same person.”

“Dear God,” Stephen Dunlevy exclaimed softly. “So the same individual who proclaims himself down on whores has endeavoured to lay the blame for his crimes at your doorstep.”

“You see that it is small wonder such an outlandish theory did not attract me before,” Holmes stated grimly. “However, in retrospect, it was damnably clever of this fiend to ferret out an unscrupulous journalist, dangle the temptation of a career-making scandal before him, and thus so oppress my movements that I have at times been in danger of my very life.

“Soon after I made the connection between the Ripper, the letter writer, and Tavistock’s source, Dr. Watson and I discovered what had become of Johnny Blackstone. He was dead by his own hand, unable to live with the weight of his guilt bearing down upon him.”

“Then surely he was the culprit, and our troubles are over!” cried Lestrade. “If I were capable of such acts, I should lose no time in ending my life.”

“Therein lies an inherent logical fallacy, my good Lestrade,” Holmes said kindly. “You are not capable of committing such acts. Neither, in fact, was Johnny Blackstone. In a letter to his sister, which I have since posted, he admitted stabbing Mrs. Tabram with his bayonet in a convulsion of rage, then confessed himself wholly wracked by the crime.”

“But monomania is a very poorly understood malady; there is no reason for us to assume he remembers aught of his disgusting actions.”

“At first, I thought as you do,” my friend continued, packing more shag tobacco into his pipe. “But it is the maximal error, the unpardonable sin, if you will, to twist facts to suit theories rather than twisting theories to suit facts. I asked myself what it would mean if Blackstone’s letter were entirely true. The moment I did so, everything was as clear to me as if I had seen it with my own eyes.

“Consider the accounts. Blackstone states that some few minutes after he entered the alley with Tabram, he stabbed her with his bayonet—a fact corroborated by the coroner—and then, hearing footsteps approach, he ran. Mr. Dunlevy told me he stepped back into the bar for a few minutes, and Constable Bennett told you, Lestrade, that he saw nothing in the alley; a man approached him some hours later with news of the body. Surely Mrs. Tabram was not dead instantaneously from a single, hastily delivered stab wound, and just as surely, she would have been in a panicked and highly vocal state. No one saw anything. And yet Blackstone ran because he heard footsteps. Someone was lying, and I knew immediately that the key was to discover who, if not Blackstone, that could be. I am afraid, Mr. Dunlevy, though you were a very long shot indeed, I could not count you out. I made haste to see that Miss Monk was safe, for if you had been the one plaguing me with accusations of murder as you wreaked havoc in Whitechapel, I would not be overpersonalizing the matter to say your next victim ought to have been Miss Monk.”

He continued steadily, his eyes fixed on the journalist. “To my great relief, Miss Monk was in impeccable health, but I put you to a further test by obtaining a sample of your handwriting. I found you had not written any of the letters, which meant that, despite your initial false pretenses, you could not be the Ripper. I knew, therefore, that Bennett was lying when he said he had seen nothing in the alley, for however much like a pile of rags a slain body may appear in the dead of night in Whitechapel, just before Constable Bennett approached you, Mr. Dunlevy, Martha Tabram was still very much alive.”