Dust and Shadow

I think you will agree he is in need of one.

“What I intend to say to you all must go no further than this room. I am telling you what I know because I require your help. When I have said my piece, you are welcome to pose any questions you wish, but I had better lay our cards on the table in my own fashion so that you will be able to see the matter as I do.

“It really all began with Stephen Dunlevy here. Not long after Miss Monk consented to serve as our contact in Whitechapel, she met Mr. Dunlevy, who confessed to her that he was the soldier who had awaited his friend’s return on the night of Tabram’s murder. Because the circumstances cast a great deal of suspicion upon this other guardsman, and no less owing to my own doubts regarding Mr. Dunlevy’s chosen career, his story arrested my immediate interest, especially as other women began meeting equally inexplicable and violent ends. I endeavoured to learn more by venturing myself into Whitechapel, which is why Dr. Watson and I happened, through purest coincidence, to catch the Ripper at his foul work. A deduction based on the pony’s behaviour led me into Dutfield’s Yard; the Ripper escaped, as you know, to kill again after he failed in his attempt to dispatch me.

“After this fifth murder, it became obvious to me that we were dealing with no ordinary criminal. He was not a raving lunatic, for if he were, who would ever agree to accompany him with so many unfortunates already dead? Neither was he a thief, nor did he seek calculated revenge, for try as I might to link the poor souls, his victims followed no pattern other than that they were all, as I have said, unfortunates. Thankfully, because I have records of two or three earlier cases matching these particulars—bizarrely motiveless slaughter of anonymous victims—I was able to conclude that the man calling himself Jack the Ripper is a severely diseased monomaniac whose habitual demeanour remains nonetheless perfectly genial.”

“That’s the most atrocious notion I’ve ever heard,” Lestrade muttered, but Holmes took no notice.

“My mention of the name Jack the Ripper brings me to the letters. When he described in exact detail my own cigarette case, and Mr. Lusk received half a human kidney, I had final proof that the man who had murdered five women was writing these letters to bait us. I have no doubt that another note sent to Dr. Watson purporting to be from me was also the Ripper’s work. At first these letters helped us in no way. But finally, I discovered a curious series of numbers which had made an impression on the page beneath. These proved far from negotiable without any context, and so I filed them at the back of my mind until such time as their meaning could be determined.

“After I ascertained his true vocation, Mr. Dunlevy confessed that, while he may have been dressed as a private on the night of Bank Holiday, he was in actuality a journalist whose candid stories were often aided by disguise. He informed me that he had observed Johnny Blackstone, for that was the other soldier’s name, lead Martha Tabram into an alley a mere half hour before the time the medical examiners assured us she met her death. Mr. Dunlevy revisited the pub, but he returned to await his acquaintance and while doing so met with Constable Bennett. Finally giving up on Blackstone, Mr. Dunlevy returned to his home and only later discovered that any foul play had taken place.

“I had the strongest intuition that this terrible series of murders had begun the night of Martha Tabram’s death, and thus locating the elusive Johnny Blackstone became of the utmost importance. He disappeared following his relief from service for erratic and disturbing behaviour, and he was reportedly hiding in Whitechapel, all of which made me very eager to lay my hands on him. After all, any man who would stab a woman thirty-nine times and then coolly walk away was no doubt a very dangerous individual.”

“Dangerous enough,” Miss Monk put in darkly.

“Then another, rather oblique clue fell into my lap. Matthew Packer had heard Elizabeth Stride remark that the man she was with, the man who all evidence suggests was her killer, was not clad in his habitual attire. Now, the notion that Blackstone considered himself in a sort of negative disguise when he was not in uniform was a very attractive one. Most people identify casual acquaintances through dress and bearing as much as their faces, and if Blackstone could shed his uniform, changing one or two other significant details about his person, he would be well on his way to traveling invisibly through his neighbourhood.”

Holmes’s eyes darted to the charred remains of Tavistock’s latest attack in our fireplace. “By this time, the now notorious Mr. Leslie Tavistock had begun his deeply disquieting press campaign. While I worried that his information was far too close to the mark, much of his accuracy could be blamed upon Mr. Dunlevy here sharing what he knew of my movements to friends within the London press. I had very nearly convinced myself that any other hypothesis would be irrational when, as a result of an expedition masterminded by my associates, Dr. Watson informed me that not only did Tavistock’s source possess information about me that no one but my allies could know without tailing me (and I observed no such person), but that he also had access to my handwriting, and that he and the letter writer, and by extrapolation the Ripper, were one and the same person.”

“Dear God,” Stephen Dunlevy exclaimed softly. “So the same individual who proclaims himself down on whores has endeavoured to lay the blame for his crimes at your doorstep.”

“You see that it is small wonder such an outlandish theory did not attract me before,” Holmes stated grimly. “However, in retrospect, it was damnably clever of this fiend to ferret out an unscrupulous journalist, dangle the temptation of a career-making scandal before him, and thus so oppress my movements that I have at times been in danger of my very life.

“Soon after I made the connection between the Ripper, the letter writer, and Tavistock’s source, Dr. Watson and I discovered what had become of Johnny Blackstone. He was dead by his own hand, unable to live with the weight of his guilt bearing down upon him.”

“Then surely he was the culprit, and our troubles are over!” cried Lestrade. “If I were capable of such acts, I should lose no time in ending my life.”

“Therein lies an inherent logical fallacy, my good Lestrade,” Holmes said kindly. “You are not capable of committing such acts. Neither, in fact, was Johnny Blackstone. In a letter to his sister, which I have since posted, he admitted stabbing Mrs. Tabram with his bayonet in a convulsion of rage, then confessed himself wholly wracked by the crime.”

“But monomania is a very poorly understood malady; there is no reason for us to assume he remembers aught of his disgusting actions.”

“At first, I thought as you do,” my friend continued, packing more shag tobacco into his pipe. “But it is the maximal error, the unpardonable sin, if you will, to twist facts to suit theories rather than twisting theories to suit facts. I asked myself what it would mean if Blackstone’s letter were entirely true. The moment I did so, everything was as clear to me as if I had seen it with my own eyes.

“Consider the accounts. Blackstone states that some few minutes after he entered the alley with Tabram, he stabbed her with his bayonet—a fact corroborated by the coroner—and then, hearing footsteps approach, he ran. Mr. Dunlevy told me he stepped back into the bar for a few minutes, and Constable Bennett told you, Lestrade, that he saw nothing in the alley; a man approached him some hours later with news of the body. Surely Mrs. Tabram was not dead instantaneously from a single, hastily delivered stab wound, and just as surely, she would have been in a panicked and highly vocal state. No one saw anything. And yet Blackstone ran because he heard footsteps. Someone was lying, and I knew immediately that the key was to discover who, if not Blackstone, that could be. I am afraid, Mr. Dunlevy, though you were a very long shot indeed, I could not count you out. I made haste to see that Miss Monk was safe, for if you had been the one plaguing me with accusations of murder as you wreaked havoc in Whitechapel, I would not be overpersonalizing the matter to say your next victim ought to have been Miss Monk.”

He continued steadily, his eyes fixed on the journalist. “To my great relief, Miss Monk was in impeccable health, but I put you to a further test by obtaining a sample of your handwriting. I found you had not written any of the letters, which meant that, despite your initial false pretenses, you could not be the Ripper. I knew, therefore, that Bennett was lying when he said he had seen nothing in the alley, for however much like a pile of rags a slain body may appear in the dead of night in Whitechapel, just before Constable Bennett approached you, Mr. Dunlevy, Martha Tabram was still very much alive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A Hunting Party

Holmes paused to draw upon his pipe reflectively. It was a mark of his severely analytical nature that the