Dust and Shadow Read Online Free PDF Page B

It has been washed, Watson,” he exclaimed. “Most obtusely and effectively washed.”
    I nodded. “It is a common enough practice, as you know. Some even argue one cannot see the wounds effectively otherwise.”
    Holmes practically snorted. “I tell you, Watson, if Scotland Yard were to reimburse my time for retrieving every clue lost due to negligence or hysterical hygiene, I could no doubt retire this afternoon. As it is, I am forced to glean the leavings. Do you observe anything Dr. Llewellyn may have missed, being less intimately acquainted with the criminal element than you yourself?”
    “Really, Holmes.”
    His eyes glinted wickedly over my shoulder. “Come now, my dear fellow. Expertise is none the less admirable for being of an unsavoury variety.”
    I looked her over. The poor wretch had come to a sorry end; a blessing indeed if her killer saw fit to cut her throat first, leaving the remainder of his rage for a lifeless shell.
    “Her neck has been slashed nearly to the vertebrae, lacerating the two major arteries, and there are seven senseless cuts through her abdominal tissue. She does not appear to have been victim of any other indecencies, for I see no sign of recent connection, and thecuts are smooth-edged and deliberate. What do you make of it, Holmes?”
    The detective hovered over her pensively. “Notice the discolouration near the jaw; he robbed her of consciousness, then slit her throat upon the ground, for she exhibits no bruising on the arms consistent with fending off her attacker, and it would explain the lack of blood upon the upper torso that Dr. Llewellyn mentioned. From the cleanliness of the other cuts, which you noted so astutely, we may also deduce that she was dead, drugged, or in some other way incapable of struggle when they were performed, else they would be jagged or torn. I believe all these injuries were made with the same weapon, that is to say, a six-or eight-inch knife kept well sharpened, possibly with a double blade. He killed her, cut her apart in near total darkness—at a serious threat to his own safety, if we consider the surplus time required—and then made his escape.”
    “But why? What could possibly have occurred between Polly Nichols and her killer to enrage him so?”
    “Why, indeed. Come, Watson—off to Buck’s Row. If we are miraculously lucky, we may find something the police have not already either trampled on or swept into the rubbish bin.”
    When we arrived at the scene of the murder, the bustling cacophony of Whitechapel Road faded, replaced by the headlong rushing of the Northern Railway Line. Mean two-story houses, hastily constructed and poorly maintained, crept along one side of Buck’s Row, while the blank faces of austere warehouses stood like sentinels on the other. Holmes leapt down from the hansom and approached a knot of reporters and policemen while I paid the driver and elicited a promise to await our return.
    “Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” a young constable replied as I approached, tipping his rounded hat. “We were about to scrub down the whole area, but we can give you ten minutes if you like. We’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”
    Holmes, every sinew of his slight frame alive with that nervousenergy only apparent within the boundaries of a crime scene, set to work. The detective was as avid in his pursuit of a case as he was lethargic at the lack of one, and no patch of the surrounding roads or stable yard escaped his steely scrutiny. After nearly twenty minutes, he struck his stick impatiently against the stable yard fence and returned to where I stood.
    “Any progress?”
    Holmes set his thin lips and shook his head. “From the blood upon the ground, I believe she was not moved from another site, which is a point worth knowing. The quarrel ended here. Apart from that, I can only tell you that the apothecary over there was recently the victim of a robbery, that two gentlemen of leisure came to blows over a bet near that patch