Read Online Dust and Shadow by Lyndsay Faye - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lyndsay Faye
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lumber, perhaps?”
“I believe not,” called Holmes from across the yard. “I see no trace of it.”
Lestrade’s shoulders collapsed still further at this dire revelation.
It was not long before my friend had finished his intent perusal, but to Lestrade and to me it seemed an age had passed since we had first set foot into that terrible pen, open to the sky but closed off from every vestige of the human decency we had been raised to cherish. Finally, Holmes approached us.
“The body is that of an as yet unidentified unfortunate of approximately fifty years of age. She entered the yard voluntarily in the company of her killer, who approached her from behind and took a moment to grapple with her before slitting her throat. After he had delivered the fatal wound, he looked over the fence between the yards to ascertain that there was no one nearby. Before he began mutilating the remains, he removed the contents of the deceased’s pockets: one piece of muslin and two combs. Then he proceeded to dissect his victim with a very sharp, narrow knife. When he had finished, he somehow managed to escape the way he had come without leaving the slightest drip or mark from his…trophy.”
“It is horrible,” Lestrade murmured. “It is positively inhuman.”
“Lestrade, my dear fellow, don’t look so cowed. We have progressed significantly since the Nichols case.”
“The Nichols case? Then you think it the same man?”
“We would be deeply foolish to suppose it were otherwise,” Holmes replied impatiently.
The inspector groaned in despair. “The Yard has not the slightest lead even in those murders, let alone—” He stopped abruptly. “By George! But we do! That terrible bootmaker with the leather apron! Mr. Holmes, you yourself gave me his address.”
“Lestrade, it would be very ill-advised to—”
“Here’s the surgeon! Good morning to you, Dr. Phillips. I’m afraid I must be off upon official business.”
“Stop a moment and I shall save you a deal of trouble,” Holmes cried heatedly.
“Inspector Chandler is outside, should you need anything. Right, then. I must take immediate action. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson—good day to you.” The inspector, looking for all the world as if he had stared evil in the face directly, scurried away to pursue his new lead.
“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “It’s quite hopeless. We must see if we can make any progress with the neighbours. Good morning, Dr. Phillips. We have left all as it was, I am afraid.”
We exited to the sound of a muffled oath uttered by the surgeon and hurried back down the passage. “Holmes,” I hissed, “please tell me you can see some light in all this. Who would be capable of such an act? A vicious gang? A new incarnation of Burke and Hare? * I begin to think that the act of murder has grown secondary to the defilement of the corpse.”
Holmes stopped to light a cigarette as we emerged from the other side. “Let us see whether the residents of twenty-nine and twenty-seven have anything relevant to convey.”
It proved a punishing task to interview all the frightened inhabitants of Hanbury Street without dwelling upon the particulars of the crime, which were so enormously sensational, and so scintillating to the pressmen, that the details had already spread like a plague. Holmes and I were forced to field almost as many questions as we posed. My friend’s granite gaze brightened subtly only twice: first, when he learned there was a cat’s-meat seller upon the ground floor of number twenty-nine; and second, when a young man named Cadoche related that he had heard a cry of “No!” and a thud against the dividing fence at approximately five thirty, which corresponded to my estimated time of death. Our last business was to relate, briefly but gratefully, news of Hawkins’s actions and whereabouts to his anxious, quivering mother.
Finally, in early afternoon, we set foot once more on the pavement, my friend making off in a
“I believe not,” called Holmes from across the yard. “I see no trace of it.”
Lestrade’s shoulders collapsed still further at this dire revelation.
It was not long before my friend had finished his intent perusal, but to Lestrade and to me it seemed an age had passed since we had first set foot into that terrible pen, open to the sky but closed off from every vestige of the human decency we had been raised to cherish. Finally, Holmes approached us.
“The body is that of an as yet unidentified unfortunate of approximately fifty years of age. She entered the yard voluntarily in the company of her killer, who approached her from behind and took a moment to grapple with her before slitting her throat. After he had delivered the fatal wound, he looked over the fence between the yards to ascertain that there was no one nearby. Before he began mutilating the remains, he removed the contents of the deceased’s pockets: one piece of muslin and two combs. Then he proceeded to dissect his victim with a very sharp, narrow knife. When he had finished, he somehow managed to escape the way he had come without leaving the slightest drip or mark from his…trophy.”
“It is horrible,” Lestrade murmured. “It is positively inhuman.”
“Lestrade, my dear fellow, don’t look so cowed. We have progressed significantly since the Nichols case.”
“The Nichols case? Then you think it the same man?”
“We would be deeply foolish to suppose it were otherwise,” Holmes replied impatiently.
The inspector groaned in despair. “The Yard has not the slightest lead even in those murders, let alone—” He stopped abruptly. “By George! But we do! That terrible bootmaker with the leather apron! Mr. Holmes, you yourself gave me his address.”
“Lestrade, it would be very ill-advised to—”
“Here’s the surgeon! Good morning to you, Dr. Phillips. I’m afraid I must be off upon official business.”
“Stop a moment and I shall save you a deal of trouble,” Holmes cried heatedly.
“Inspector Chandler is outside, should you need anything. Right, then. I must take immediate action. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson—good day to you.” The inspector, looking for all the world as if he had stared evil in the face directly, scurried away to pursue his new lead.
“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “It’s quite hopeless. We must see if we can make any progress with the neighbours. Good morning, Dr. Phillips. We have left all as it was, I am afraid.”
We exited to the sound of a muffled oath uttered by the surgeon and hurried back down the passage. “Holmes,” I hissed, “please tell me you can see some light in all this. Who would be capable of such an act? A vicious gang? A new incarnation of Burke and Hare? * I begin to think that the act of murder has grown secondary to the defilement of the corpse.”
Holmes stopped to light a cigarette as we emerged from the other side. “Let us see whether the residents of twenty-nine and twenty-seven have anything relevant to convey.”
It proved a punishing task to interview all the frightened inhabitants of Hanbury Street without dwelling upon the particulars of the crime, which were so enormously sensational, and so scintillating to the pressmen, that the details had already spread like a plague. Holmes and I were forced to field almost as many questions as we posed. My friend’s granite gaze brightened subtly only twice: first, when he learned there was a cat’s-meat seller upon the ground floor of number twenty-nine; and second, when a young man named Cadoche related that he had heard a cry of “No!” and a thud against the dividing fence at approximately five thirty, which corresponded to my estimated time of death. Our last business was to relate, briefly but gratefully, news of Hawkins’s actions and whereabouts to his anxious, quivering mother.
Finally, in early afternoon, we set foot once more on the pavement, my friend making off in a
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