Dust and Shadow (21 page)

“I’ll be damned if there isn’t
something
we could do, even if it’s to patrol the streets with little striped wristbands.”

“Well,” I replied slowly, “it would certainly profit Holmes to have Leslie Tavistock discredited.”

“The journalist? I’d give a good deal to see his face in the mud.” My companion shot up again and took a turn around the carpet, her freckled brow tense with concentration.

“Miss Monk?”

“It may not wash. But if it worked…”

“My dear Miss Monk, what is it?”

“Doctor, it would do Mr. Holmes a world of good if we could discover where Tavistock digs up his trash, wouldn’t it?”

“I should think so indeed.”

“I know I can do it.”

“What precisely do you have in mind?”

“I don’t rightly like to tell you, as it may come to naught. But if it works, it might be a ream flash pull. It’ll take a bit of conniving on my part, perhaps, but if he can get it…” She came to a breathless halt. “Tell you what, I’ll bring it here to you and you can decide.” She retrieved her black gloves and waved them at me from the door.

“My dear Miss Monk, I absolutely forbid you to take any risks in this matter!” I called out.

It was to no avail. A moment later she was halfway down the stairs. I could just hear her good-natured apologies to Mrs. Hudson over the tea things as she lilted out the front door into the fog like a melody on the breeze.

As it happened, I did not see Miss Monk again until Tuesday, the thirtieth of October, during which heart-wrenching period I heard not a single word from Sherlock Holmes. According to Lestrade, the men of the Yard were greatly discouraged. Rumours of mad kosher slaughtermen and deranged doctors ran so wild in the district that it was all they could do to keep the peace. And as if it were not enough that they suffered defamation from every quarter for their failure to locate the Ripper, they now faced the burden of diverting a significant portion of their force to police the Lord Mayor’s resplendent annual procession on Friday, the ninth of November.

It may be imagined that, with the weight of the Whitechapel problem bearing down upon me, not to mention the disturbing absence of Holmes, I spent my days endeavouring to relieve my tumultuous state of mind without straying too far from Baker Street should matters come to a head. Novels were intolerable, and the atmosphere of my club stale and wearisome. On that sleepless Tuesday night, while attempting to defy all my friend’s injunctions against recording a case I had filed under “The Adventure of the Third Candle,” I had just determined that a glass of claret would do me more good than harm when I heard the avid ringing of the downstairs bell.

Knowing Mrs. Hudson to be long abed, I hurried down the stairs,
fully dressed, for I had not yet entertained any thought of sleep. When I unlatched the door, I discovered, to my great surprise, Miss Monk and Stephen Dunlevy.

“Forgive the lateness of the hour, Dr. Watson,” Dunlevy began, “but Miss Monk was determined not to let the matter wait.”

“You are most welcome. I have been expecting Miss Monk, in any event.”

Once upstairs, I opened the claret and located two more glasses. Dunlevy sat in the basket chair, while Miss Monk stood proudly before the fire with the air of an orator who has been asked to make a statement. When I had seated myself, she set her glass upon the mantel and drew a small object out of her garments.

“It’s a present for you, Doctor.” She grinned broadly as she tossed a piece of metal through the air and I caught it, turning it over in my hand.

It was a key. “All right,” I said, laughing, “I’m game. What does it open?”

“Leslie Tavistock’s office.”

“My dear Miss Monk!”

“I’d a mind to see whether Dunlevy here was good for anything apart from shadowing decent folk,” she said happily, settling herself upon the arm of the sofa. “But I know you was worried about taking any steps wi’out Mr. Holmes, for good reason too, so once we’d got it, we legged it straight here to turn it over.”

“Mr. Dunlevy, would you care to elaborate how this came into your possession?”

The young man cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Monk did me the honour of appearing at my door the Thursday before last, and explained to me her belief that, as I am a journalist and journalists are a clubbish sort of folk, always rubbing shoulders to be apprised of the latest developments, it was inconceivable to her that I would not have an acquaintance at the
London Chronicle.
Miss Monk’s conjecture was not entirely correct, but it may as well have been, for I’ve a friend at
the
Star
who has a very close connection with a chap by the name of Harding, who is employed there.”

“I see. And then?”

“The young lady’s idea, and a very clever one if I may say so, was to coerce Harding into taking an impression of Tavistock’s key. As it happens, no coercion proved necessary.”

“Tavistock’s a complete rotter,” Miss Monk interrupted. “We might have known as much, the way he went after Mr. Holmes.”

Dunlevy quickly suppressed what appeared to be the beginnings of a fond smile and went on. “As Miss Monk says, there is no one so universally reviled at the
London Chronicle
as Leslie Tavistock. It took a couple of days’ management, but I met with Harding in the company of our mutual friend for a glass of beer, made the suggestion, and was instantly heaped with praise for my idea of playing a prank on the most friendless man in journalism.”

“A prank,” I repeated, beginning to see the inspired simplicity of their plan. “What sort of prank do you intend?”

“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:

Then, scrawled at the bottom of the page:

“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?”