Dust and Shadow (4 page)

“Lestrade, you really must lead me through the steps which brought you to that conclusion, as they are dark to me,” Holmes murmured.

The inspector puffed up noticeably. “I am disappointed you don’t see it. Martha Tabram ducked into the shadows of George Yard with this sergeant, intending to ply her trade. The young grenadier waited for his comrade to return. He did not return, however, as he was engaged with Tabram, fought with her, and killed her, leaving her body on the landing of George Yard Buildings.”

“It is becoming more clear,” Holmes laughed. “In fact, I have very few questions to pose. First, have you any notion of what they quarreled about?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. He was a young soldier on holiday but very likely to have been a rogue. She had no money on her person when she was discovered, therefore it is clear to me that they fought over a question of payment.”

“Dear me. He could not pay?”

“They had been frequenting public houses, and he had probably run through what scant coin he had. When Martha Tabram demanded recompense, and he could not deliver, she would have grown very insistent.”

“I understand she was jabbed nearly forty times with a common pocketknife.”

“Yes, so we think. But one wound, the cause of death, was inflicted to the sternum with a bayonetlike blade, which implicates the soldier yet again,” declared Lestrade triumphantly. “Finally, her death occurred at very close to two in the morning, which shows that Tabram had not the time to make any new acquaintance before she was killed.”

Holmes steepled his two index fingers before his lips. “Lestrade, I must congratulate you, for your hypothesis does not directly oppose any known facts. Unfortunately, it abysmally fails at covering all of them, but you have done worse, my good Inspector, and this theory shows some salient points.”

“And what, if you don’t mind telling me, is wrong with it?” demanded Lestrade.

“I will do you the courtesy of elucidating the benefits straight off.
For one, it is indeed extremely suspicious that Tabram was found in the alley she entered with the soldier; very likely she was occupied there until the time of her death.”

Lestrade looked as though he was about to say something self-congratulatory but was prevented by my friend.

“I have not quite finished. It is also of the greatest interest to me that Tabram was mutilated with a different variety of knife than that used to end her life. I suppose a bayonet would not allow a very effective range of motion for such a free-form exercise, but I have not yet made up my mind on that point. And now, inevitably, to your theory’s flaw. Murders motivated by money are immensely practical crimes, of the most transparent motivation and prosaic execution. You suggest that this guardsman killed Martha Tabram in order to silence her demands for money, and rather than flee the scene, he put away his bayonet, pulled out his pocketknife, and proceeded to stab her chest, groin, and abdomen, presumably because he wasn’t sure he’d finished the job.”

“I challenge you to show me another explanation that so closely covers the facts,” cried Lestrade. “We know nothing of this soldier, after all. For all we know, he may be an extremely perverse individual.”

“Ha! You are right. He may indeed be. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the other witnesses, this so-called Pearly Poll and the second guardsman?”

Sulkily, Lestrade shuffled through his file. “As far as Pearly Poll is concerned, not only is her address hardly permanent, but we’ve put her through two police lineups and she’s proven an utter waste of our time. As for the private—well, he has disappeared into thin air.”

“One more question, if I may.”

“Yes?” Lestrade replied, looking as though his good nature had been sorely tried indeed.

“The constable did not happen to note the colour of stripe on the soldier’s cap, did he?”

“It was white,” he snapped, “so of course he was a member of the Coldstream Guards. And now you’ll have no difficulty whatsoever in identifying the suspect that the entire force has had their eye out for.
Just wire me when he’s found the culprit, will you, Doctor? Good day to you, Mr. Holmes.”

When the door had slammed testily behind us, Holmes set off down the hallway which led to the front exit of the Great Scotland Yard building. Though few policemen were present with the leisure to stop and speak to each other, those who could spare the time were muttering in hushed tones as they attempted to make sense of the events. I little knew what my friend was thinking, but Lestrade’s explanation seemed to me to fall far short of the mark.

“Holmes, surely Martha Tabram’s murder was an act too brutal for a brawl over a few pence?”

“Agreed,” replied Holmes as we regained the street, surrounded comfortingly by leafy trees and solid red brick. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that whoever is responsible was in the grip of a powerful emotional force.”

There was a brisk wind flowing through the Yard’s open spaces, and I welcomed its invigourating influence as Holmes hailed a cab and we made our weary way back to Baker Street.

“I cannot make it out yet, Watson,” my friend mused, drumming his long fingers against the side of the hansom, “but I would not have missed it. It is a far queerer matter than it appeared on the surface. As Lestrade has been at pains to remind us, these murders are in no way linked. But consider that in the case of Nichols, we have a killer who is exceedingly eager to cut women apart after they are dead, and in the case of Tabram, a killer so dedicated to the idea that he puts away his murder weapon to begin coolly stabbing his victim.”

“What can we do?”

“I must consider the options at hand. After all, we do not yet know these women. Speaking with their friends and loved ones may prove very profitable indeed.”

“We will at least learn more than we did this morning.”

Holmes nodded. “It was most peculiar. We unearthed no immediate alleys which demand investigation. I suppose I shall have to invent my own.”

The next morning I completed my ablutions quickly, as I could just make out voices emanating from downstairs. When I entered the sitting room, I found Holmes leaning against the sideboard with his hands in his pockets as he conversed with a man whose general appearance spoke of neither good hygiene nor good spirits.

“Ah, Watson,” cried my friend. “I was about to fetch you, as we have an important caller. May I present to you Mr. William Nichols of Old Kent Road, a repairman of printer’s machinery, if his fingertips had not already declared as much to you.”

Our guest was a weathered fellow of middle height with sly blue eyes and bushy grey side-whiskers. A tremor in his strong, ink-stained hands informed me he was quite disturbed by recent events.

“Do be seated, Mr. Nichols, and accept our condolences regarding your wife’s death. I have no doubt but that, despite the earliness of the hour, Dr. Watson would be happy to prescribe you something fortifying. You have had a most trying ordeal.”

I poured Mr. Nichols a brandy and led him to the settee. He drank slowly from it, then turned back to Holmes.

“I’ve not tasted a drop in years,” he confessed, “for I knew the ill of it. Polly Walker was a sweet girl in her youth, and no one knows it better than I do. But as for her drinking, and her other vices…Polly
Nichols turned into a bad sort, gentlemen, make no mistake about that.”

Holmes shot me a look and I located my notebook. “Mr. Nichols, if it would not be too terribly painful for you, I should like you to tell me all you can about your late wife.”

He shrugged. “There’s nothing I can say as will do any good. I hadn’t seen the woman in over three years.”

“Indeed? You were utterly estranged?”

Mr. Nichols pursed his lips, considering his words. “I’m no angel, Mr. Holmes, and I’ve my own mistakes to pay for…There was another woman, and Polly took on about it to the point of packing up her things and running off. I’ll say as much only because you’re said to know things you oughtn’t. But it was good riddance, so far as I was concerned. Polly more often than not had a drop in, and when she did, the children and I suffered for it. We had five, Mr. Holmes, and I think sometimes it was a strain on her. She wasn’t the mothering kind. When she left for good, I supported her for a year, but I cut off her allowance when I learned what she’d become.”

“I see. But what of the children?”

“Oh, I’ve care of the little ones, Mr. Holmes. I’d not let her lay one filthy hand on them once she’d set her course in that direction.”

“So you dissolved all contact with her, being yourself a man of unimpeachable moral character?”

I worried lest Holmes’s dig might offend Nichols, but our visitor merely answered gruffly, “She contacted me, all right, Mr. Holmes. She tried to cozen the authorities into forcing her maintenance money out of me. But they saw I didn’t deserve the keeping of her, common baggage that she was. She went from man to man and workhouse to workhouse. None of them kept her long. I’m sorry to say it, Mr. Holmes, but her death was less of a shock than it should have been.”

Holmes raised a single eyebrow coldly as he lifted the tongs and lit his pipe with an ember from the fire. “I should at least have thought the manner of her death would give pause to her kith and kin.”

At this, Nichols paled slightly. “Yes, of course. I’ve seen her. I would not wish that end on anyone.”

“I am very gratified to hear it.”

“It’s a hard push for me, though. I daresay it will cost me for the funeral, her dad not being well off and she without a penny to her name.”

“Yes, yes, I am sure it is a very trying time for you. You know of no enemies, nor of any further information which might aid us in our inquiries?”

“Polly’s only enemy so far as I could see was gin, Mr. Holmes,” replied Nichols with a knowing look.

“However, as I am sure you will agree, gin unfortunately was not responsible for her death,” returned Holmes with some asperity. “And now, Mr. Nichols, I must devote my entire energies toward my thoughts and my pipe, so you will forgive me if I bid you good morning.”

After I had shut the door upon Mr. Nichols, my friend exclaimed, “A nice spouse, Watson. He has at least absolved himself as a suspect. Crimes of jealousy require a measure of regard for the victim.”

“He seemed more shaken by the cost than by the death of his wife.”

Holmes shook his head philosophically. “It is not difficult for me to envision Polly Nichols’s flight from his establishment. If she was everything he says she was, they must have made a charming pair.” He set his lit pipe on the mantel and made for his bedroom.

“And what is the agenda for today?” I called out, helping myself to the egg and tomato Mrs. Hudson had sent up on the silver breakfast tray.

Holmes emerged donning his frock coat and adjusted his collar in the mirror above the fireplace. “I shall devote myself to Lambeth, my boy, and the pursuit of those who were actually acquainted with the deceased at the time of her death. Miss Mary Ann Monk identified Nichols, and so to her we must appeal. Have you any appointments?”

“I have canceled them.”

“Then finish your eggs while I call for a cab. The undiscovered country of Lambeth Workhouse awaits.”

As we rattled up to the front gates of Lambeth Workhouse, I had the distinct impression our destination was a prison, not a charitable facility to aid the plight of London’s poor. The autocratic structure, with its grey façade and absence of any grounds whatever, silently proclaimed its total devotion to severity and order. We were shown in by the angular Miss Shackelton, who informed us that Miss Monk was indeed availing herself of the shelter afforded by the workhouse, that she was far too given to drink, that she gave herself airs, that she was clever enough when she wished to be, that she would come to a bad end if not careful, and that she was to be found picking oakum in the common room down the hall.

As we walked down the featureless corridor, I caught glimpses of row upon row of cots suspended from poles in the common sleeping areas. We eventually reached a wide room filled with women young and old dressed in cheap workhouse-issue uniforms who were pulling apart old ropes to reuse what hemp fibers could be salvaged. Holmes made inquiries, and an overseer soon delivered to us Mary Ann Monk, with instructions we were to take her into the front parlour for questioning.

“Here, then. What do you toffs want me for?” demanded Miss Monk, upon our arrival in a cramped but well-furnished sitting area. “If it’s to do with Polly, I ain’t seen nothing more than what I said already.”

Far from the downtrodden creature I had expected to encounter in those hateful surroundings, we were confronted by a diminutive young woman whose radiant eye and smooth neck led me to think she could not be above five and twenty. She was very slim, though she appeared even thinner in the ill-fitting clothing issued her, her hair escaping its bounds in thick black spirals and her hands raw from
the chafing of the rough rope she’d been picking apart. Her skin was greatly freckled with the effects of our brief London summer, and she had such an air of readiness about her, of good humour in her green eyes mixed with open challenge in her set shoulders, that I could not help but think that her friend’s killer was lucky not to have chosen Miss Monk as his victim.

Holmes smiled sympathetically. “Do sit down, Miss Monk. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and partner, Dr. Watson. We are aware of our imposition, but we would very much appreciate your recounting the details of your relationship with Mrs. Nichols.” The detective offered her his hand to help her into a chair.

Miss Monk laughed outright at this display of courtesy. “Well, if you don’t mind sitting down with a girl of my character, I’ve no objection. You’re no cops…I can tell by your shoes. All right, then, lads. What are you on to, and what the devil have I to do with it? I chummed about with Polly for a year or more, but that don’t mean I can tell you who done her in.”

Miss Monk’s careless manner did not shield from me her obvious regard for her friend, for as she finished, her eyes meandered over the worn Persian carpet beneath our feet.

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Nichols before her death, Miss Monk?”

“I was out of the workhouse last week for four days and saw her at the Frying Pan. We had a drop or two, she met a gent, and I went on my way.”

“Do you know where she was living at that time?”

“She’d used to live in Thrawl Street, but two of the judies she shared digs with couldn’t cough up ha’pence between ’em for three nights running, so of course they were chucked out. Polly had slept rough before, but she knew if the law caught her in a park, she’d wind up back here straightaway, so she took a berth at the White House on Flower and Dean. They don’t take exception if a woman brings a friend home with her, if necessary.”

“What sort of woman was Mrs. Nichols? Did she have enemies you are aware of?”

Miss Monk sighed and tapped her severely abused man’s work boot against the chair leg. “Not a one. Polly weren’t the sort to have enemies. She swept her doss room and she kept herself tidy and she always had a kind word when she was about. She was a real good sort, Mr. Holmes, but you may as well know she was in the drink as often as she was out of it. Couldn’t bear the workhouse for more than a week at a time before the lack of gin and lack of food got to be too much for her. I don’t suppose you know it, but Polly took up as a maid in Wandsworth not long ago. She had her room and board all settled like and thought she’d get on well enough. But they were religious types, Mr. Holmes, and by the time she’d been without a drop for two months, she finally cut clear of the place.”

“You learned this from Mrs. Nichols?”

“It was plain enough to see,” she answered. “She’d a new frock, but no doss money. I soon had it out of her. She vamped the togs the next day.”

“When she had run through the money from pawning the dress, she then returned to the workhouse?”

“The workhouse,” Miss Monk returned amusedly, “as well as other means of employment what every woman has at her disposal.”

“Quite so. And, to your knowledge, there is no reason why anyone would have wished her death?”

At this our companion flushed vividly and replied, “Wish her death? That ain’t the way of it, Mr. Holmes. We all of us takes our risks to keep aboveground in the Chapel. ’Twon’t be long before I’ve had enough of Lambeth and shoved off myself. We’re not allowed so much as a match, gents, nor a scrap of cloth or mirror, nor even our own water for washing, begging your pardon. I’ll take to the streets again soon, same as Polly did. And when I does, I’ll take the same chances. There’s blokes in these parts would kill you soon as kiss your hand.”

Holmes replied gently, “Should you ever in the future encounter such a man and wish to be rid of his company, I hope you will contact me. I only meant to inquire whether Mrs. Nichols was ever molested by a particular person, or if there was anyone of whom she was afraid.”

My friend’s words and the sincerity with which he spoke them soon had the desired effect upon his subject. Releasing a laboured breath and twisting her hands in her lap, Miss Monk replied, “I don’t know nothing about it, Mr. Holmes, but Lord knows I wish I did. Killing Polly wouldn’t serve no one. Only the devil would do such a thing.”

I found myself inexplicably moved by Miss Monk’s words, even jagged and rough as they were. There was something in the line of her jaw which demanded respect even as it defied judgment.

“Here is my card, Miss Monk,” said Holmes as he rose to leave.

“What use is it to the likes of me?”

“Tut, tut, you can read as well as I can, Miss Monk. When you entered the room, your eyes skimmed that deeply inspirational quote so delicately embroidered and mounted upon the wall. Verse three of the Beatitudes, if I am not mistaken. The eyes of an illiterate are never drawn to text.”

“Very well,” she acknowledged, smiling, “and what shall I do with it?”

“If any detail returns to your memory, or if you find yourself worried over anything to do with the matter, please let me know.”

She laughed, following us as we moved out into the hall. “Shall I send my man round with the message? Or come myself in the carriage and four?”

Sherlock Holmes put a finger to his lips and tranquilly handed her a crown. “If you manage to hide this from the matron,” said he, opening the heavy outer door and descending the steps into the open air, “and fail to spend it upon any other diversions, you’ll have the ability to wire me whenever you feel it necessary. Good afternoon, Miss Monk.” So saying, he extended his hand.

“You’re a strange one, you are,” she declared as she shook the detective’s hand. “You’re a private ’tec, ain’t you? I’ve seen your name in the papers. Well, as you’ve naught else to go on, I’ll leastways tell you who we spend our days avoiding. Goes by the name of Leather Apron. I’d not be caught in a dark alley in his company, make no mistake.”

When we had passed beyond the forbidding ironwork dividing the workhouse from the road, I could not help observing, “She seems a very intelligent young woman.”

I had expected Holmes, who regarded females solely as unpredictable and vexing factors in his criminal equations, to dismiss my remark entirely. Instead he replied with an amused look, “You are the connoisseur of femininity, my dear fellow. Still, she has an eye for trivia and a memory to repeat it. In addition, she has an intimate knowledge of the neighbourhood, and associations which could aid us if she decides to make use of them.”

“Is that the reason you enabled her to contact you?”

“Her natural talent for observation could prove very useful. I would rather have ten of her than fifty of Scotland Yard.”

“I should not like Lestrade to hear you say that.” I laughed.

“My dear fellow, I assure you I meant no offense.” Holmes chuckled in return. “The good inspector has many fine qualities to recommend him, as does Miss Monk, it seems clear. However, I would venture to say that it is unlikely that any of them overlap.”

The funeral of Polly Nichols took place at Little Ilford Cemetery, on the afternoon of September sixth. The day was a fittingly inclement one, the skies mourning the dead with a profusion of rain. I learned that Mrs. Nichols’s father, children, and estranged spouse attended, though few other people presented themselves: as many mourners who had known the deceased as members of the public who had come solely to remark upon the lurid manner of her death.