younger three. I’ve been a princess, a maharaja’s slave girl, a genie, and a pack horse since I arrived last night, so if I can stay awake long enough to—” She interrupted herself at the ringing of the downstairs bell.
“Miss Monk, if you would take the basket chair,” Holmes suggested. “Dr. Watson, in your usual place, and we’ll leave the whole expanse of the sofa for our guest’s comfort.”
I do not know what I had expected when the door swung open, but the tall, fair, broad-shouldered young fellow, dressed in quiet check trousers and a coat of dark grey, appeared in the worst state of contained agitation. His pleasant features, clean shaven save for an upturned moustache, were marred by a terrible apprehension. In the gleaming light of afternoon, for an instant I was unable to place him, but in a flash I recognized the young man Miss Monk had met for drinks at the Queen’s Head on that night of abominable memory.
“Mr. Stephen Dunlevy, I presume,” the detective declared. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, although I flatter myself you are already aware of it. Dr. Watson you will likewise recall, and I know you have had the pleasure of Miss Monk’s company on numerous occasions.”
Stephen Dunlevy, who had appeared not in the least surprised to see Sherlock Holmes awaiting him, gave an unabashed cry of relief at the sight of Miss Monk, whose expressive brows were aloft in surprise.
“What ho, Dunlevy,” she said at length. “You’ve had a wash since last I saw you, at any rate.”
Our guest appeared deeply taken aback by this remark, but Holmes, as ever, was in control of the room.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Dunlevy,” my friend requested. “I am pleased to say your presence here confirms the opinion I had formed of you. Perhaps you would be so good as to answer any little questions we may care to pose.”
“Certainly, sir. Since your summons, I hardly know what has happened.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled enigmatically. “I fancy I can describe the chain of events to you. There are, of course, one or two trifling details I require you to supply.”
“I am at your service, so glad am I to see Miss Monk here at Baker Street.”
Miss Monk and I exchanged puzzled looks at this, but Holmes continued unperturbed.
“I am glad to hear it. At the outset I was unsure whether you were a City plainclothesman or a private detective, but I am now pleased to introduce you to Miss Monk and Dr. Watson as one Stephen Dunlevy, journalist at the
I drew a sharp breath in surprise. “A journalist! Then what of this tale of the lost cohort and the murdered girl?”
“Ah, there’s the crux of the matter,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette complacently. “I shall begin at the beginning, and just interrupt me if there are any points which are not clear.
“Stephen Dunlevy, for he has been using his real name, earns his bread and cheese by writing those incendiary social articles that my brother recently had reason to bemoan in these very rooms. There is a living to be made by exposing the shambles of British civilization known as Whitechapel, and for the more audacious members of the press, it is not unheard of to investigate in disguise if a better story is to be gained.
“The day before Martha Tabram’s murder was a Bank Holiday, and an already tumultuous metropolis was thus flooded with the idle, the curious, and the hedonistic. The promise of street markets and fireworks rendered the day a special one for the working classes, and any keen journalist would have been wise to attend. You, Mr. Dunlevy, rented the attire of a grenadier private for a few shillings, hid a notebook somewhere on your person, and sallied forth in hopes of garnering a compelling story.
“As they are a sociable set and inclusive of their own, it was not long before you fell in with a group of soldiers recently granted leave. Their failure to see through your ruse can be explained only by your being very cautious or their being very drunk, and I believe a combination of both factors enabled you to succeed. Together you stumbled from public house to public house, and as the evening drew on, you found yourself nearly as intoxicated and venturous as they.
“By all accounts, the most gregarious fellow of the regiment was one Sergeant Johnny Blackstone, known to all his fellows as a good sort when on duty but an absolute hellion when drunk. Not knowing anything of his character, you continued in his company long after his closer comrades thought it best to quit him, for he was notorious for starting brawls at the slightest provocation.
“At the Two Brewers public house, you made the acquaintance of Martha Tabram and an associate of hers, Pearly Poll. Pearly Poll has disappeared into the netherworld of London, but Martha Tabram has the distinction of having been the first woman Johnny Blackstone ever killed in a violent rage. Or at least, the first we know of. I’ve a good approximation of what led up to his bloody deed, but perhaps you could provide more precise, firsthand information.”
Stephen Dunlevy had grown more and more agitated during this narrative. At Holmes’s suggestion, he mopped his brow with his pocket handkerchief and nodded resolutely. “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes, for everything you’ve said is perfectly true. Knowing what you do already, I can hardly fail to oblige you; by the time we arrived at the Two Brewers, we were both in the drink, and we fell to chatting with a few of the girls. Blackstone was everything you’ve said—a very dashing, dark-haired fellow, who’d fought at Tel-el-Kebir in ’eighty-two with the Coldstream Guards. He was near to thirty, so far as I could tell, and very popular with all around him.
“I saw past the fog in my head that we’d stayed too long when a brawl broke out at the next table and Blackstone smashed a bottle against a man’s hand. We left the pub in a disgraceful state, at perhaps ten minutes to two, walking down the road with the girls for a short distance. Blackstone soon enough excused himself so he could duck into a dark crevice with Martha, and I made as if to do the same, but I’d recovered a fraction of my senses by then and sent Miss Poll on her way with a shilling for her trouble. I thought to stake out the entrance of the alley and wait for Blackstone to reappear.
“Five minutes passed, then ten. I returned to the pub to see if he’d changed his mind as I had, for the men we’d fought had gone, but as there was no sign of him, I retraced my steps. It must have been a quarter after two o’clock when a police constable coming out of the dark alleyway nearly walked right into me. I was so startled, I couldn’t think of a thing to do but maintain my charade, knowing that any admission I was not a soldier would lead to awkward questioning. I said my friend, a fellow guardsman, had gone off with a girl and that I was awaiting their return. The constable said he’d keep an eye out for any other soldiers and told me to be on my way.”
“And you took his advice, I believe. It was not until the next day, as you nursed your head and perused the papers, that you learned a woman had been stabbed thirty-nine times.”
Stephen Dunlevy nodded gravely, darting an occasional glance at Miss Monk. “It was as you say, Mr. Holmes.”
“Now we come to the more raveled thread. You determined that, no matter how important your evidence might prove to the Yard, not only were you uncertain about the role Blackstone may have played in Tabram’s death, but your own masquerade put you in such a false position as to make it impossible to consult the police. Not a very manly decision, Mr. Dunlevy, if I may say so.”
“I have these two months been working to redress my mistake,” cried Dunlevy.
“Indeed you have, for when Polly Nichols was killed nearby in a similarly violent manner, you took it upon yourself to discover Blackstone’s whereabouts.”
“He returned to the company barracks the night Tabram was killed—early in August, the seventh, I believe. But he complained of a number of ailments, behaving most irrationally, and soon fell into a low fever. He was relieved of his duties within the week and found himself free of all obligation.”
“And you very astutely decided that he may well have had something to do with the second murder, so you mounted your own investigation. By doing so, you could not only appease your conscience but further your career, for if you managed to discover Jack the Ripper, you would have made a journalistic coup never before equaled.
“It took time to contact Blackstone’s regiment. It took time to locate his friends. Indeed, you went so far as to seek out Pearly Poll to determine if she had any prior acquaintance with Blackstone. This inquiry took you to Lambeth Workhouse, Miss Poll’s occasional address, and there, through a very odd twist of fate, you observed us with Miss Monk. I must deduce that you recognized me and questioned why I was shaking hands with this young lady on the workhouse steps, for I can supply no other reason for your approaching her in a public house with a tale of murder most foul.”
“Mother of God!” exclaimed Miss Monk.
“I did recognize her,” Dunlevy conceded, flushing with colour, “and I had heard of your practice of employing…East-end associates, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson has written of such things. I freely admit I hoped she was an ally of yours and that I might learn something from her. But I wasn’t certain of your collaboration until after I
