Dust and Shadow by Lyndsay Faye

Author:Lyndsay Faye [Faye, Lyndsay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Traditional British, Historical, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781416583318
Google: TO_9w7LFmPkC
Amazon: 1416583319
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2009-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Man in a Uniform

Close upon four o’clock the following afternoon Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

“Miss Monk is here to see you, Mr. Holmes. She’s brought a man with her as well.”

“Capital, Mrs. Hudson. Send them up!” With a display of energy that surprised me, Holmes leapt to his feet. “We progress, Watson, despite the odds. Miss Monk, how are you?”

She must have taken the stairs at a run, for we heard the slower steps of her companion still plodding upward. “I’ve brought him!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve followed the grape trail ever since you put me onto it, and strike me dead if I haven’t found him. Took a shilling’s worth of persuading to do it, but he came round in the end.”

The man who walked through our doorway was grey and wizened with a prominent nose, deeply furrowed jowls, and an expression of permanent chagrin which we soon learned could shift toward resigned disappointment or deep disdain depending upon immediate circumstance. Just then, his watery blue eyes and obstinate chin seemed to indicate he was even more displeased than was usual.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend cordially, “and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

“I know who you are,” he snapped, “and I know what you do. What I don’t know is why I’ve been dragged across London to assure you of it.”

“This is Mr. Matthew Packer,” Miss Monk put in hastily. “He lives across town, right enough, on Berner Street as it happens. Mr. Packer’s digs have a very nice front window to ’em and he uses it to sell fruit out of. Don’t you, Mr. Packer?”

“Never said I didn’t.”

“Mr. Packer, I am very gratified to meet you,” said Sherlock Holmes enthusiastically. “Would you care to sit here, by the fire? I find the cold troubling at this time of year, and your rheumatism must render it well-nigh intolerable.”

“Never said I had rheumatism. But I don’t care how you know it, so don’t bother to tell me,” said Mr. Packer as he made his way to the basket chair.

“Dr. Watson,” said Holmes, hiding his amusement beneath a mask of perfect innocence, “have I not heard you remark that there is nothing better for rheumatism than a glass of good brandy?”

“Many times, Holmes. Might I pour you a glass, Mr. Packer?”

“You might, and then this young woman can start explaining why an old man can’t be left in peace to tend his shop of a morning.”

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” obliged Miss Monk, “there I was walking down Berner Street when I sees that Mr. Packer has a mess of fresh black grapes in his window. Then it comes to me—that poor woman what was killed near the club! She’d a stalk of grapes in her hand. The same kind you sell, Mr. Packer,” she added with a radiant smile. “Black ones, if you please.”

“I suppose you mean to say I killed her,” sneered the old scoundrel, “and you have brought me to these gentlemen for interrogation.

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