Dust and Shadow

“It is like trying to build a pyramid out of sand,” he stated contemptuously. “The dashed bits won’t hold together. I cannot believe that London has suddenly generated three separate and equally brutal killers, all roaming about Whitechapel having their way. No more is it possible that a gang of roughs could perform their perverse acts secretly within such a densely populated terrain, not to mention fit within the confines of the Hanbury Street yard. The odds against such notions are simply astronomical.” He rose abruptly. “I am going out, Watson. If these crimes are linked, then the women are linked. We do not even know the identity of our latest victim. It is ludicrous to theorize in such an abyss.”

“When shall you return?” I called as he disappeared into his bedroom.

“The answer to that conundrum, friend Watson, I could not even begin to guess,” came his reply.

“If you should need me—”

“Never fear. I’ll scale a tree and raise the flag. England expects that every man will do his duty.” With a nod and a wave, the unofficial investigator departed; I did not see him again that day.

The events in question left me in such a state of unease that I spent much of the night staring at my ceiling. When morning at long last lifted her golden head above the brickwork of the neighbouring houses, I was seized with an irresistible urge to get out of doors. Thankfully, I had given my word to a young medical friend that I would look in on an invalid patient of his, as he had left London for the weekend and would not return until Monday. I am quite certain that old Mrs. Thistlecroft was taken aback by my strenuous advice on no account to allow castor oil through her bedroom window, nor to forsake her daily dose of cold draughts. Mercifully, I did her no harm, as she brooked no traffic with the foolish or distracted, and I very narrowly avoided being thrown out on my ear with the ringing declaration that my friend Anstruther should soon hear of her treatment at my hands.

Making my way back up Oxford Street, I stopped for a copy of the Times, to see what progress Holmes had made. I swiftly found the column, as the papers were concerned with little else:

Annie Chapman, alias “Sivvey”—a name she had received in consequence of living with a sieve maker—was the widow of a man who had been a soldier, and from whom, until about 12 months ago, when he died, she had been receiving 10s. a week. She was one of the same class as Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, residing also in the common lodging houses of Spitalfields and Whitechapel, and is described as a stout, well- proportioned woman, as quiet, and as one who had “seen better days.” Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who has been engaged in special inquiries surrounding the murder of Nichols, at once took up the latest investigation, the two crimes being obviously the work of the same hands. A conference with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well- known private consulting detective, resulted in the experts’ agreement that the crimes were connected, and that, notwithstanding many misleading statements and rumours, the murders were committed where the bodies had been found, and that no gang were the perpetrators. It is feared in many quarters that unless the culprit can speedily be captured, more outrages of a similar class will follow.

Suppressing a smile at Lestrade’s new views, I tucked the paper under my arm and dashed upstairs to see whether my friend was at home. He was not, but affixed to the mantelpiece with my letter opener was a note he had left for me:

My dear Watson,

Investigating the fascinating inner workings of the cat’s-meat trade. Might I suggest that you await the arrival of Miss Monk.

SH

I must admit to some surprise at Holmes’s afternoon appointment, and no less intrigue. I spent an hour organizing the notes I had made at Hanbury Street into some coherence, and just as I laid down my pen to stretch my legs, Mrs. Hudson peeped into the room.

“A young person to see Mr. Holmes, sir. Are you expecting her? She gives her name as Miss Monk.”

“Send her straight up, Mrs. Hudson. She is an associate of ours.”

Lifting her brows delicately, Mrs. Hudson departed. A minute later, the door burst open to reveal the petite frame of Miss Mary Ann Monk, clad this time in her own attire: a dark green cotton bodice fastened with seven or eight varieties of carefully salvaged buttons, a skillfully altered man’s vest, and a midnight blue figured coat which hung to the knee, revealing a profusion of skirts, the outermost an ancient green wool so much abused that it had deepened nearly to black. Her riot of hair was pinned and then tied back over the crown of her head with a narrow strip of cotton fabric, but it nevertheless showed signs of impending escape. She approached me and extended her hand.

“Very pleased to see you again, Miss Monk. Do sit down.”

She did so, with a poise implying that she had not always been in her present circumstances. However, she was soon up again, perusing the assortment of curiosities above the fireplace and tossing an ancient spearhead nervously from hand to hand before speaking.

“I can’t say as I know why Mr. Holmes asked me to tea, nor how he come to know I was lodged at Miller’s Court. Though,” she added, smiling, “I think Mr. Holmes does what he likes and knows a great many things he oughtn’t.”

“What you say is very true. I am afraid I cannot answer any of your questions just yet, though it is certainly within my purview to ring for tea.”

At the mention of this precious article, a gleam appeared in her eye, which she quickly buried beneath studied nonchalance. “Well, if Mr. Holmes won’t be offended. He did say four o’clock in the telegram, and I’m before my time. First wire in British history to be delivered to Miller’s Court, like enough, and I’d still his money in my boot for paying the shoful. Don’t know the last time I’ve ridden inside a cab. You could have knocked my pals down with a feather. I waved out the window as I left.” Miss Monk laughed at the thought, and I could not help but join her.

“As Mr. Holmes has charged me with keeping you comfortable until he arrives, I think immediate refreshment is in order, don’t you?” I inquired, ringing the bell.

“Tea,” she said languorously. “Served in good china, I’d wager. Maybe even with cream. Oh, I am sorry, Dr. Watson,” she exclaimed, embarrassed. “Here, then, I’ve some tea in my pocket—just enough for three, I’d say. I had a run of luck last night. Should you like some?” Miss Monk produced a small leather pouch stuffed with dusty brown tea leaves, obviously an item of immense value to its owner.

“I am sure Holmes would prefer not to accept such a courtesy when you are a guest in our home, Miss Monk. Here is Mrs. Hudson now.”

Our landlady had indeed arrived, hefting a tray loaded with far more than the usual sandwiches required by Holmes’s erratic appetite and my discretion.

“It’s just as it was when I was a girl! I remember trays like these—tiered, ain’t that the word? Shall I pour, Dr. Watson?”

“By all means.” I smiled. “But do tell me, if you are not offended by the question, where were you born, Miss Monk?”

“Here in England,” she replied readily, making surprisingly elegant work of pouring the tea. “Mum was Italian, and Dad convinced her to throw her own family over and put her hand in with him. We had land once, but there was a disputed will…I was seven, if I remember rightly. Lord knows but it’s been ages since they both died. Cholera struck ’em down, one right after t’other. So here I am. Staggered at the sight of a decent tea.”

Though she smiled, I could not help but feel I had awkwardly broached a painful subject, and I had just opened my mouth in hopes an appropriate reply would emerge when Sherlock Holmes entered our sitting room.

“Halloa, halloa, what have we here?” he cried. “Miss Monk, you are most welcome. I have spent my time— well, perhaps I had better just splash some water on my face and be with you directly. I have been in a most pernicious environment.” He disappeared for a brief period but returned looking quite his orderly self again and plunged a lean hand into the slipper which held his tobacco.

“You will excuse me, I am sure, if I light my pipe. Did this spearhead interest you? It is a very ancient object, recently the instrument of death in a very modern crime.”

All of Miss Monk’s nerves, which I flatter myself had been largely dispelled, returned at the sight of my friend. “Thank you kindly for the tea, Mr. Holmes, but I’ve already answered all the questions I could, honest I have.”

“Undoubtedly. However, I did not invite you here to interrogate you. I brought you here to ask you plainly, Miss Monk, do you feel as if you could play a part in bringing the Whitechapel killer to justice?”

“Me?” she exclaimed. “How do you expect me to help? Polly’s cold in her grave, and the other lass had her