by Lyndsay Faye
“Oh, I daresay we could accomplish something nice with paint, and there’s always dead rats to consider,” Miss Monk remarked with an air of delighted nonchalance. “There’s a horse slaughterer not far from Dunlevy’s East-end digs. And of course, once we were in the office—”
“This little pleasantry may take us considerably more time than one would think,” I finished.
“With all his papers just lying about, it would be a shame not to glance through them, eh, Doctor?”
“Wait a moment. We know nothing of Tavistock’s hours, or indeed, those of the building itself.”
“Harding has proffered very eager cooperation,” Dunlevy explained. “It seems he was once investigating a story which Tavistock got wind of, and had it stolen right out from under him. He took an impression of Tavistock’s office key, and this duplicate was in my hands a day later. There is no getting into the building undetected during the week, for as you must know the press keeps all hours. Saturday night is the only clear time, for as they have no Sunday publication, Harding says that the lot of them scatter to pubs in the area or go home to their families.”
“What of security when the building is locked?”
“Harding is prepared to lend us his own outer door key in light of the nobility of our mission. As for security, the offices have not seen fit to employ a night guard. There will no doubt be a beat officer of some kind nearby, but that is easily ascertained.”
“It will put us in a monstrous position to rifle through his office in such a manner,” I cautioned.
“That may be, but the cause is righteous and the quarrel just. Mr. Holmes has a right to know who has invented these aspersions, and though he seemed to accept my protestations of innocence, I would be very glad to see it proven.”
“It is alarming to consider what steps Tavistock could take if we are caught.”
“I know, Doctor,” said Miss Monk sympathetically, “but if you’ll just reread those two articles what weren’t fit for dead fish to be wrapped in, it’ll shore up your nerve right quick.”
I may say without undue pride or fear of contradiction that I have never been a man to back away from danger where a comrade’s interests are concerned. “Saturday,” I mused. “It gives us three clear days to perfect our plans.”
“And who knows but that Mr. Holmes may be back by then!” Miss Monk exclaimed. “But if we’ve still seen no sign of him, we can at least try to clear up one dark spot in this bloody mess.”
“Miss Monk, Mr. Dunlevy,” said I, rising from my chair, “I congratulate you. Here’s to the health of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
In such a depth of numbing uncertainty, it was impossible not to feel uplifted at the mere idea of a mission. Still later that night, when I at last blew out my bedside candle, I began to wonder if—for a mind as incandescent as that of my friend—perhaps inaction could truly be so torturous that a syringe and a bottle of seven-percent solution seemed the only tolerable recourse.
Our schemes developed quickly. Miss Monk was kind enough to hawk some handkerchiefs in the vicinity of the building until she was warned off by a policeman, after which she quietly pursued him and found that his route took him directly past the entrance: a cause for anxiety, perhaps, for a callow housebreaker, but hardly of any concern for one possessed of a set of keys. Moreover, the enthusiastic Harding informed us that Tavistock’s office did not look out upon the street, so that a lamp could be lit there and never be noticed in the darkness of the surrounding building.
There was initially some discussion regarding who would attempt the endeavour itself, but Miss Monk would not hear of being left behind, and as Dunlevy’s presence was deemed likewise necessary, I faced breaking into Leslie Tavistock’s place of employment as part of a courageous band of three. We met on Friday to work out a story in case of emergency, the following evening at eleven fixed as the start of our nocturnal enterprise.
At a quarter after ten that Saturday night, I walked as far south as Oxford Street, then hailed a cab, for the air had cleared considerably and the last traces of fog swirled about the windows as playfully as a child’s toy ribbon, tempting faceless passersby further into the night. We approached the Strand by way of Haymarket, and I alighted from the hansom with ten minutes to spare. Turning onto a side street, I descended the steps of a tiny public house and hailed Miss Monk and Mr. Dunlevy, who had engaged a small corner table lit by an oil lamp which I do not think had ever been cleaned.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” declared Stephen Dunlevy, a smile tugging at the corner of his moustache as we raised our glasses, “I give you Mr. Alistair Harding, a man who holds a grudge with vigour and enthusiasm.”
“Miss Monk, have you the bag?” I inquired.
She tapped a small burlap sack with the toe of her boot.
“In that case, let us be on our way. Miss Monk, we will see you in ten minutes.”
Leaving Miss Monk in the pool of light at the table, Dunlevy and I strolled past the last stately buildings of the Strand, through the demarcation of the Temple Bar where the great stone archway had once stood, and thus entered Fleet Street, that strident nucleus of British journalism. The area was calm so late on a Saturday, and the general impetus of the pedestrians seemed that of departure rather than arrival.
Dunlevy approached the front door of 174 Fleet Street, stolid block lettering declaring it to be the home of the London Chronicle, and inserted Mr. Harding’s key in the lock. Seconds later, we were within the vestibule, Dunlevy pulling a dark lantern from within his voluminous coat.
“I see no sign of occupation,” he mouthed cautiously.
“We will know for certain once we have reached the upper floor.”
With painstakingly silent tread, we advanced up the stairs to the first floor, where no more light met our eyes than the beam of our own lantern. I knew my way, and passing through the common room, we proceeded directly to the second office, secured with one simple lock. I withdrew the key from my pocket and opened the door.
Dunlevy fully unshuttered the eye of the dark lantern and the room flooded instantly with light. Papers lay strewn across the desk, and files sat upon bookcases and lay open over reference volumes. We began shuffling through the scattered texts, careful to keep them in order lest the true reason for our nocturnal visit be revealed. We had been reading every scrap of paper we could lay our hands on for several minutes when a low whistle from Dunlevy arrested my attention.
“Hullo! Here is something.”
I abandoned the disjointed jottings of my own chosen page and focused instead upon Dunlevy’s, which read:
There have been no murders since Holmes was wounded, which is very likely not a coincidence.
Has expressed contempt for police in past cases.
Continues to frequent the East-end.
Then, scrawled at the bottom of the page:
Holmes has disappeared. An admission of guilt?
“Good lord, Dr. Watson, I never anticipated there may be more of this garbage in the works.”
“I confess I feared as much, but this is uglier than the others combined.”
“But see—this page could not have been written by Tavistock. The handwriting is different.” From down the stairs, I heard the creak of the outer door.
“What sort of papers are those?” I asked.
“This is the beginnings of an article, and here is a letter, signed by Tavistock, not yet sent. These are in the same hand as most of the documents on the desk. The note about Mr. Holmes must be suggestions from the rascal’s source.”
Miss Monk entered and shut the door behind her. “What’s up, then?”
“This note seems to have been penned by the cause of all this trouble,” said I.
She looked over my shoulder. “A man’s writing. Mr. Holmes would make something of it.”
“I would take it to him, but there cannot appear to be anything missing,” I considered, copying the noisome text into my pocketbook.
“Is there an
envelope?” Miss Monk asked. We cast about for one in the basket full of crumpled scribblings. Soon she emerged from under the desk with a flush of triumph.
“Dated Saturday the twentieth. Paper matches the envelope, addressed to Leslie Tavistock, London Chronicle. It’s in the same hand! We can take the envelope, for it won’t be missed.”
Our search brought to light more documents but no new information. The same man had written three other letters to Tavistock, once to arrange an appointment and twice to forward fresh news of Holmes, but as they had already resulted in calamity, they told us nothing. At length, as the hour approached one o’clock in the morning, I suggested we depart.
As Dunlevy and I cast a final glance over the room to ensure we had not left any identifying traces, Miss Monk picked up the burlap sack she had propped against the wall, and, with an air of courtly ceremony, deposited its contents upon the desk, dropping the bag in the dustbin with a final toss of her head.
We made our way downstairs. As I reached my hand toward the door handle and the outside world beyond it, I started at the sound of approaching footsteps. I signaled my companions to step back. Scarcely breathing, I prayed silently to hear the same tread depart, but to my dismay, the handle of the door was tested and then pushed carefully open.
In an instant, Stephen Dunlevy opened the shutter of the dark lantern and sprang before the door, his hand raised as if to open it when a grey-whiskered police constable entered with his truncheon in hand.
“Oh, I say! How you startled me, Officer,” Dunlevy exclaimed.
The stout fellow returned his truncheon to his belt but regarded us with suspicion.
“Do you mind telling me what the three of you are doing here? There’s never a soul in the building at this time on a Saturday.”
“To be sure, my good man. I admit, though, you gave us a fright.”
“No doubt,” he replied tersely. “You have a set of keys, do you?”
“Indeed, yes. I must say, sir, I admire your thoroughness in policing, if you always check locked doors while on your beat.”
“I string the locked doors, as most of us do. The string was broken.”
“Aha! Very workmanlike, Constable…?”
“Brierley.”
“Well, then, Constable Brierley, my colleague and I required absolute secrecy in order to interview this young woman.”
“And why might that be?”
“She claimed to hold very valuable information about the Ripper murders.”
Miss Monk nodded shyly, half hidden behind my shoulder.
“And why was it necessary to meet in the dead of night in a deserted press building?”
“It’s very dangerous information, Officer,” she whispered.
“Well, if you’ve information about the Ripper murders, miss, you must tell me what it is that you know.”
“Please, sir,” she said, shuddering, “they’ll come after me, I know it.”
“Who will come after you?”
“His friends—they’ll murder me in my sleep.”
“Come now, my dear,” the constable said serenely. “If you are in any danger, we will provide you with protection.”
“You don’t know them! It’s as much as my life is worth to gab to the Yard.”
“Nevertheless, I must insist upon it.”
“Very well,” Miss Monk replied in an agony of distress. “I know who the killer is.”
“And who might that be?” the patient constable demanded.
“Prince Albert Victor.”
I did my best to regard Miss Monk with the air of an abundantly disappointed and exceedingly irritable newsman. It was difficult to achieve.
Constable Brierley sighed heavily. “Is he indeed? I will pass that startling piece of news on to my superiors. And now, the three of you had best go on about your business. I strongly suggest that your business take you home without delay.”
Our return journey to the Strand was a silent one for some three blocks, until we had left all trace of Constable Brierley behind us and Stephen Dunlevy threw his head back with a peal of relieved laughter.
“Prince Albert Victor?”
“I’m sure he would be glad to know his name came in handy,” Miss Monk remarked.
“Miss Monk, you are absolutely unparalleled. Well, Dr. Watson, I dearly hope that the envelope will be of some use to Mr. Holmes.”
“You may be sure I will keep you apprised.”
“In any event, the evening has been most enormously satisfying. Miss Monk, I beg you will do me the honour of sharing a cab with me back to the East-end.”
“The honour is granted. Oh, Dr. Watson, I do hope we’ve helped Mr. Holmes.”
“We have helped Alistair Harding, in any event,” Dunlevy proclaimed gaily. “I’m to return his keys in the morning. I have not a doubt but that when he hears the news, he will be the happiest man in London.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The East-end Division
As I sat at the breakfast table next morning, feeling not a little self-satisfied, I turned the envelope over in my hands pondering the best way to get it to Holmes. No doubt he had made excellent arrangements, for he was continually darting off to the country or to the Continent and never had I seen him without prompt postal service. However, perhaps from a sense of innate pride in our accomplishment and perhaps from a certain leery caution, I found myself in midafternoon with the hard-won object still resting in an inner pocket and realized that I had grown irrationally determined to deliver it to my friend in person. How I could go about that task I had barely begun to surmise, but circumstances soon occurred which lifted the burden of ingenuity from my shoulders entirely.
The frail light had begun to fade and the combative autumn winds come to blows with the last of the dry leaves when the pageboy arrived with a hand-delivered note from Holmes. The message was addressed to Dr. John Watson and read:
Am on our quarry’s scent. Meet me at the corner of Commercial Street and Brick Lane at once, on foot, and bring your medical bag, as I fear we may have need of it.
Sherlock Holmes
I need hardly say that not only my black bag but my cleaned, loaded revolver were at hand in an instant, and I bounded into the street to hail a cab. It was just past seven o’clock in the evening as I set off, and the stolid, pastel houses passed by me in a darkening blur. Descending from the hansom just as night officially triumphed over day, I cast about for the correct orientation.
To my complete dismay, almost instantly, my direction grew twisted and confused due to the bizarre fact that the streets Holmes had indicated ran parallel to each other. After some deliberation, I determined to follow Brick Lane to see whether it intersected any roads of a similar name to Commercial Street, for often the names of London thoroughfares repeated themselves, and after turning off Stoney Street, one would hardly be surprised to find oneself in Stoney Lane. It was not a mistake typical of Sherlock Holmes’s exhaustive memory, but I could account for it in no other way and so determined to find the true cross street even if it took me all night.
I fell victim to nothing more than a few haphazard jeers for the first half hour, but as I retraced my steps down Brick Lane past Hebraic fellowship halls and the smell of frying sausages, sick at the thought I might have failed Holmes at the culmination of his labour through a simple misdirection, I became aware that the shouts of the locals were increasing in frequency as they narrowed in scope.
“Oy, you doctor! Out to sew up a whore?”
“Looking for a fresh one to patch together, are you, or will you do it yourself?”
These gibes soon became so antagonistic that I ducked down a quiet alley to think of a way to contact Holmes, if that were even possible. I had not been there two minutes, however, leaning against a barrel and straining to recall every detail of Whitechapel’s topography, when a group of five men approached me from the left, their mean figures silhouetted by the single jaundiced lamp. Even had I not been accustomed to the advent of sudden dang
er, my instincts would have alerted me to their postures and the cudgels they carried in slack, cavalier grips.
Initially I hoped they had some other object in mind and would pass me by, but the leader of the gang, a heavyset man with bristling hair and weighty jowls, nodded to the others to stay back and advanced toward me, tapping his stick against a meaty palm.
“Good evening,” I began. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, lads? What say you? I believe Underhill thought there might be a problem, is that not so?”
His four footpads laughed, slapping a thin, evil-eyed man with a wicked gash for a mouth upon the back. “That’s it! Underhill! He’s not easy in his mind, he isn’t,” one of them chuckled.
“Look here, sir,” I attempted, “I am—”
“Wait just a tick, guv. These is dangerous times we find ourselves in. So let’s say it comes to our attention that there has been sighted a bloke, a medical type of bloke, what’s pacing the area as if he’s…well, he has a prowling manner about him, if you understand me.”
“Now, see here, my good man—”
“And let’s further suppose that I, Ezekiel Hammersmith, being a chap of upstanding character, let’s say I calls me lads from the pub so as to get a better look at this medical bloke what’s lying in wait in a dark alley ten yards from me sister’s lodging house.” The brute smiled evilly and glanced up at a dingy hellhole of red brick.
“No, no, guv’nor,” he continued sadly. “Folk of your type need a powerful reason to be in these parts after dark.” He dropped his voice to a gravelly undertone. “By God, you’ll wish you’d never seen a whore before we’re done wi’ you.”
I reached for my revolver in an effort to deter them from five-on-one hand combat, but a swarthy fellow missing the majority of his left ear leapt forward and hacked my arm away with a cane. He had attempted two more solid blows, one narrowly missing my forearm and a second aimed at the neck that I managed to take on the shoulder, when his proximity afforded me the opportunity of delivering the left-handed hook which had many years previous granted me total freedom of movement at my rough-and-tumble grammar school.
