below average in height, with sharp, alert brown eyes which bespoke cunning rather than intellect. His light brown, slicked-back hair and expressive hands enhanced the impression of a man who had ascended to his current position by whatever means he had thought necessary.
“It is an honour to meet you in person, Mr. Holmes,” he cried, approaching my friend with a hand outstretched, which my friend studiously ignored. “Ah, well,” he continued, turning the failed greeting into a flourish of understanding with a flick of the wrist, “I can hardly blame you. Public figures grow so accustomed to hearing their praises sung by the adoring masses that any censure can be most disconcerting.”
“Particularly when said masses take it into their heads to kill you,” Holmes replied dryly.
“By Jove!” Tavistock exclaimed. “You didn’t venture into the East-end again, did you? It isn’t a safe neighbourhood, you know. But how you interest me, Mr. Holmes. Would you care to elaborate on what you were doing there?”
My friend smiled the slow, frigid smile of a bird of prey. “Mr. Tavistock, beyond the facts that you are a bachelor, a snuff user, a union advocate, and a gambler, I know nothing whatever about you. However, I do know that if you refuse to reveal to me your source for these damning articles, you will very soon come to regret it.”
While I was familiar enough with Holmes’s methods to note the disheveled attire, the fine dust on his shirt cuff, the discreet pin, and the two open racing periodicals upon the table, the journalist was not. A twinge of fear crossed Tavistock’s features, though he attempted to hide his chagrin with a laugh while he poured three glasses of brandy.
“So you can make clever guesses about people. I thought that an invention of Dr. Watson’s admirable style.”
“The guesses, as you term them, are in fact the very least stylistic aspect of the good doctor’s literary efforts.”
Tavistock handed us two snifters of brandy, which we accepted, though I have never been less inclined to share a drink with anyone in my life. “Mr. Holmes, you seem to have got it into your head that I have done something terribly wrong. I assure you, though my humble pieces may have afforded you some temporary inconvenience—which, believe me, I heartily regret—my responsibility is to inform the public.”
“Do you really wish to act in the public interest?” Holmes asked.
“Without question, Mr. Holmes.”
“Then tell me who approached you.”
“You must understand that is impossible,” the insufferable man replied smugly, “for his interests are also those of defending the populace, even if it means defending them from you.”
“If you dare to imply to our faces again that my friend is capable of such barbarities, you will answer for it to me,” I could not help but interject in fury.
“We are going,” Holmes said quietly, setting his glass down untouched.
“Wait!” Tavistock called out, anxiety clouding his clever features. “Mr. Holmes, I am a fair man. If you were to grant me an interview, I assure you our next publication would present you in a very different light indeed.”
“Mr. Tavistock, it should not shock you to hear that you are the very last person in London to whom I would entrust any words on that subject,” my friend replied icily.
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but that is absurd. You have the opportunity to emerge from the mud a figure of the purest intentions.”
“You are dreaming.”
“It is the most compelling story in decades!” he cried. “Sherlock Holmes, noble sentinel of justice or perverse scourge of carnality? All you have to do is provide me with a few salient details.”
“If you will not reveal your source, you are not of the slightest use to me.”
Tavistock’s eyes narrowed slyly. “Do you really think your investigation stands any chance of success if the residents of Whitechapel consider you the killer?”
Holmes shrugged, but I could see from the tightening of his jaw that the same thought had crossed his mind.
“Come, now.” The reporter pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket. “Just a few statements, and we’ll make the most stirring headline you’ve ever set eyes on.”
“Good night, Mr. Tavistock.”
“But your career!” Tavistock protested desperately. “Can’t you see, it doesn’t matter to me, so long as the story is mine!”
Holmes shook his head, disgust at the pressman’s admission clouding his brow. “I think the air is cleaner out of doors, Watson.”
Outside, the acrid atmosphere remained viscous and faintly sickening. Cabs could not operate in such weather, so we walked toward Regent Street in silence, each lost in uneasy reflections. I could not help but agree with Tavistock’s taunting declaration: if feelings against Holmes continued to run as high as they had the night before, not merely his investigation but his very life was in danger.
We had nearly reached Baker Street when Holmes broke the silence. “You are entirely correct, my dear fellow. I cannot hope to act with impunity in Whitechapel while Tavistock’s slanders still retain their power. In the last five minutes, you have glanced at my profile four times; you are right in observing that the
I smiled in spite of myself, and Holmes sighed ruefully. “It’s a lucky thing I have only one confidant. Explaining myself only knocks little holes in the masonry of my reputation.”
“Your reputation—”
“Has greater problems just now, to be sure. I am glad I have laid eyes on Tavistock, in any event. I was willing to take your word he was a scoundrel, but there is nothing like exposure to the genuine article. He let one curious phrase drop.”
“Did he?”
“He said his source wished to protect the populace. If he thinks the populace will be any better off without me, he is either a lunatic himself or a—” I waited hopefully, but soon Holmes shook his head and continued. “We can discard one hypothesis—that this Tavistock cur has some reason to persecute me. He made it nauseatingly clear I could be inducted as prime minister or be drawn and quartered with my head on a pike just so long as he is allowed to write it up.”
“Is there anything I can do, Holmes?”
We had reached our own door, though it was barely discernible through the gloom. “No, no, my dear fellow. I fear that it is I who must act. And act I shall.”
That night Holmes folded himself into his armchair with one knee drawn up to his chin, staring fixedly at the numbers on the torn page from the Ripper’s gift of a cigarette case. For more than an hour he remained in the same position with his eyes nearly closed, as still and solitary as an oracle, smoking endless bowls of shag, until I retired to bed and my own ruminations about the trials before us.
The next morning I found a note in my friend’s clear, fastidious script wedged under the butter dish.
I need hardly state that the postscript rather worked against Holmes’s prior instruction not to fear for his own safety. While acknowledging to myself that he could indeed work more efficiently alone, and had done so during many of our shared cases, unbidden thoughts also flew into my mind of occasions when the danger had proven too great for one man, even if that one man was Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson poked her head round the edge of the door. “It’s Miss Monk to see you, Dr. Watson.”
Our colleague’s expressive features were weighted with concern. She pulled off a new pair of gloves and concealed them in a pocket.
