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
