“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.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Trophies
The morning of October sixth dawned misty and chill, with tendrils of fog making concerted, sinuous efforts to penetrate chimneys and windowsills. It must have been nearing eight o’clock when a brief knock at my door presaged the appearance of Sherlock Holmes with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“What is it, old man?”
“Elizabeth Stride is to be buried today,” said he. “I wondered if you might wish to accompany me to the East London Cemetery, for I gather she’ll be interred there.”
“I can be ready in ten minutes.”
“Good. The cab will be here at half past the hour.”
I finished dressing quickly and after a brief repast mounted a four-wheeler with Holmes. “What do you expect to happen?” I inquired.
“I haven’t the slightest notion, my dear Watson, which I might add is why we are going.”
“But you suspect something?”
“Look—there is the new vegetarian restaurant on the corner of Marylebone Road. I have heard it said that the spread of such establishments is due in large part to the influence of our Indian colonies, but the practice has a long British history as well. Sir Isaac Newton harboured an absolute horror of black pudding.”
I stifled my curiosity, for nothing on earth would induce Sherlock Holmes to proffer information against his will. We huddled into our overcoats, Holmes deep in his own thoughts and I cursing the thin walls of cabs, which were never adequate proof against the weather. As I watched the streets fade into one another, the damp frost soon set my leg to aching.
An iron fence separated the East London Cemetery from the road, and beyond the gate an expanse of grass edged with alder, field maple, and young wych elm trees shimmered in the mist. The fog hung in the air like a spectral presence, and I drew my muffler tighter about my throat.
“Holmes, where is the chapel?”
“There is none. This cemetery is hardly more than fifteen years old. It was built by professionals of the district to provide a resting place for locals. One of the overlooked consequences of a city doubling in size to four million in fifty years’ time, Watson—what to do with the dead?”
A group of ten or so men and women waited near a low shack, clustered around a cart holding a long bundle wrapped in torn burlap. A police constable stood a few yards away observing the Dr. Moore Agar proceedings.
“Good morning, Officer,” Holmes greeted him. “What brings you here?”
“Good morning, sir. Inspector Lestrade thought it best that there be a representative of the force at the victims’ ceremonies, sir.”
“Very thorough of him too.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, though whether it’s to keep the peace or simply be visible to the public I can’t say.”
Holmes laughed. “I suppose even the appearance of work is of some use to the Yard.”
“Well, I didn’t say that, sir,” the constable replied judiciously, adjusting his collar. “But there are expectations of us, if you take my meaning.”
“Assuredly. The chaplain has arrived. Shall we join the procession?”
An employee of the parish, with the white collar of a clergyman just discernible beneath his overcoat, came puffing up the path toward the cart, slick-faced and scowling darkly. We followed the body at some little distance, far enough to avoid comment but close enough that I could catch some of the mutterings of the other mourners. I doubted not that Holmes, with his keener senses, heard still more.
“Not much of a showing, eh?” said a blond fellow who even from yards away smelled sharply of fish.
“You know well enough Liz had no kin,” replied a young female in a black straw hat and shawl.
“Never had much of anything. She always was unlucky.”
“At least she weren’t slit up like the other girl. I call that lucky enough.”
“If I could take my mind off who’ll it be next for half a moment, I might sleep again,” came a gentler voice,
