“How the devil did you—”

“You do, then.”

“Well, yes.”

“Then if you would be so kind as to make me aware of any recent developments.”

Miss Monk did so, omitting nothing she had told me, although her narrative had smoothed through repetition.

“There it is, Mr. Holmes,” she concluded at length. “What am I to do with the blighter?”

Holmes considered briefly. “Have you any objection to continuing in his company?”

“No objection, save that I know what I’m in for.”

My friend rose with an effort and crossed the room. “Nothing perilous, I assure you, provided you keep to public areas and take no risks once the sun has set. Carry this somewhere about your person—disguised, mind.” He produced from a drawer in his desk a small collapsible blade and tossed it to Miss Monk.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, then remembered herself and replied, “Right then. I’m to gad about with Dunlevy looking for staring, mad soldiers, eyes glazed over and trousers covered with dried blood, and report back to you, shall I?”

“If you would be so kind. Dr. Watson and I can cover most lines of inquiry, but it is essential that someone remain in the field.”

“Seems best, with Blackstone on the lam,” she returned lightly. “Hope we find him soon, at any rate. Wouldn’t want to wander the Chapel with Dunlevy wi’out a specific agenda. Poor lad might get the wrong idea.”

“By the way, Miss Monk, do any of your companions, in your experience, carry pieces of chalk about with them?”

“Chalk? Like what that batty message about Jews was written with?” She reflected. “The girls I know might carry a stub of pencil, but it’s long odds. Half of them wouldn’t know the use of it. Chalk would be used to mark lengths, I suppose—a bolt of cloth, maybe, or a piece of lumber?”

“One more thing, Miss Monk,” Holmes added as she made her way to the door. “I discovered a stalk of grapes near the dead woman. If you would be so good as to look further into the matter, I should be grateful.”

“What sort were they?”

“The stem was consistent with black grapes.”

“There ain’t but a few merchants in that area who’d be selling black grapes. I’ll ferret ’em out, never fear.”

“Thank you, Miss Monk. Please be careful.”

“That I’ll be, make no mistake,” she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the stairs. “I may work for you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not entirely daft just yet.”

I closed the door and turned on Holmes as he lit a cigarette. “Are you quite certain you know what you’re doing, old man?”

“You mean to ask whether I am certain I know what Miss Monk is doing,” he shot back, and I was once more made aware of just how excruciating it must have been for a man of his active nature to find himself restrained by his own body. “For the moment, I am rendered physically inert. Do you imagine it possible for you to saunter into Dunlevy’s digs and demand Blackstone’s whereabouts? She’ll play the game nearly as well as I could, and one mystery, at any rate, will be solved.”

“The whereabouts of Johnny Blackstone?”

“The intentions of Stephen Dunlevy.”

“Did we not venture into Whitechapel in the first place to safeguard Miss Monk from him?” I queried bluntly.

“I know far more now than I did then.”

“That is very gratifying. But in any event, there are key discrepancies surrounding the Tabram murder. What if the thread leads us nowhere?”

“You regard the matter from the wrong angle entirely, which hardly surprises me,” Holmes replied caustically. “This thread cannot lead us nowhere, for wherever it leads, it exposes more of Stephen Dunlevy, who interests me in no small degree. And now, Watson, you are going out.”

“Indeed?”

“You are to meet with one Leslie Tavistock, in the offices of the London Chronicle, that shining beacon of ethical journalism. You’ve an appointment at half past three. And on your way back from Fleet Street, do stop by our tobacconist’s for a fresh supply of cigars,” he finished, nudging their receptacle with his foot. “The coal scuttle, I am afraid, has run entirely dry.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Lestrade Questions a Suspect

I was made to wait for a quarter of an hour after my designated time in the bustling antechamber of the London Chronicle’s headquarters, rife with shabbily appointed journalists and far too short on both light and coal. From the moment I stepped into the office of Mr. Leslie Tavistock, I knew that the experience would not be a pleasant one. The man himself sat in his desk chair with a mixture of calm insouciance and deliberate irony on his clean-shaven, calculating features. I introduced myself, and before I could utter another word, he had half raised his hand in a gesture of amiable protest.

“Now, Dr. Watson,” he began, “I have no intention of insulting either your natural loyalties or your good sense by asking what brought you here. That story is already the talk of London, and I’ve followed up with my original source in order to furnish the public with a few more salient details regarding the unconventional Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But in the meanwhile, I am delighted you are here. I should like to pose a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I most certainly do. Mr. Holmes has already been shamefully abused at your hands, and my sole mission this afternoon is to determine whether you would prefer to reveal your source or defend yourself against charges of libel.”

If Tavistock was surprised at my words, I had hardly expected myself to engage in a frontal attack so suddenly and so soon. He arched his brows as if greatly disappointed.

“I have my doubts as to whether that course of action would be open to you, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes must resign himself to the glare of public scrutiny if he wishes to continue his extraordinary exploits. The facts behind my article are entirely true; if the particulars are couched in terms you dislike, perhaps you would care to clarify Mr. Holmes’s uncanny prescience.”

“Sherlock Holmes has always been the scourge of the criminal element. His motives in this case should be abundantly clear,” I seethed.

“Does he hold himself responsible for apprehending the culprit?” Tavistock asked casually.

“He intends to do everything in his power to—”

“How does Mr. Holmes feel about having failed to capture the Ripper that night, possibly enabling further killings?”

“Come, sir! This is really intolerable.”

“My apologies. Dr. Watson, considering the terrible mutilations that have become the overriding feature of these crimes, is it possible that a doctor could be responsible for them?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean to say, speaking theoretically, as a medical man, you would no doubt be aided in such work by your own skills and training?”

“The Ripper’s ‘skills’ are the merest butchery. As for my own medical abilities, I have so far confined their use to healing the sick, both practically and theoretically,” I replied coldly.

“No doubt, no doubt. Now, Mr. Holmes, though not a doctor, possesses a very workable knowledge of anatomy. I believe I may have read so in your own account of his work—that very engaging piece in Beeton’s Christmas Annual from last year. In your opinion—”

“In my opinion, you are guilty of the most outrageous perversion of the truth I have been witness to in the public print,” I exclaimed, rising from my chair. “Rest assured that you will hear from us again.”

“I have no doubt of it, Dr. Watson,” Leslie Tavistock smiled. “May I offer you and Mr. Holmes the same assurances? A very pleasant day to you, I am sure.”

The sun had etched long shadows across the brick walls of Baker Street before I arrived home once more. Though the crimes of Jack the Ripper had sickened me beyond words, this lesser grievance infuriated me in a much more personal fashion. My arrival in our sitting room must have been more violent than I intended, for Holmes, who appeared to have appointed the sofa as his base of operations, awoke immediately upon my entering.