found, and found quickly.’”
“One moment,” Holmes interrupted. “This guardsman—he believes his missing comrade to be responsible for the other murders as well?”
“Seemed troubled enough by the question,” replied Miss Monk calmly. “So I tries to draw him out, but I must have looked so rattled that he thinks he’s said enough and shuts it. Keeps telling me he’s sorry to have upset me. Had the devil of a time after that to even get his name. I says to him, looking a mite faint, ‘I must go home…,’ and he takes my arm and leads me out. I stagger on the doorstep and clutch at his jacket, and he helps me up like a proper gentleman, but by then I’d tooled the reader straight from out his gropus.”
“You lifted his wallet?” Holmes repeated incredulously. I must confess that I was grateful for the interjection.
“I beg your pardon,” she blushed. “Been at it so long, it’s a job not to voker Romeny.* That’s right—I pinched it. His name is Stephen Dunlevy,” she finished.
Holmes and I looked at each other in amazement. “Miss Monk,” said my friend, “you have done splendidly.”
She smiled, a little shyly. “It was a ream job right enough, and I’m proud of it.”
“However, I fear that you may have burned a significant bridge by stealing this fellow’s wallet.”
“Oh, never fear for that, Mr. Holmes,” she replied, laughing. “I put it back.”
At that moment we detected the sound of a muffled argument on the ground floor. Before we could guess as to its source, the singular sound of two feet accompanied by two crutches approached our sitting room at an alarming speed, and seconds later one of Holmes’s most peculiar acquaintances tore into the room like a winter’s gale.
Mr. Rowland K. Vandervent of the Central News Agency was approximately thirty years of age and exceptionally tall, nearly on par with Holmes himself, but he appeared much less so as he was bent at the waist from a crippling bout with polio when he was a child. He had an unruly mop of shockingly blond, virtually white hair, and I fear that this combined with his frail legs and crutch-assisted gait gave me the perpetual impression that he had just fallen victim to electric shock. He had once watched Holmes spar, I believe, when a spectator at an amateur boxing match, and Mr. Vandervent, who held my friend in the highest regard, occasionally sent wires to inform Holmes of stories which had just been broken to the agency. Nevertheless, I was startled at the sight of the man himself, wheezing after his rapid ascent of the stairs. His right arm, clad as always in a shabby pinstriped frock coat, held aloft a small piece of paper.
“Mr. Holmes, I’ve a matter to discuss with you which can brook no delay. However, I encountered serious impediments downstairs. You’ve a most uncouth and tenacious landlady. By the Lord Harry! Here she is again. Madam, I have explained that it is a matter of profound indifference to me whether he is engaged or no.”
“It is all right, Mrs. Hudson,” cried Holmes. “Mr. Vandervent has had scant exposure to polite society. Do excuse us, if you will.”
Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands upon the tea towel she was holding, regarded Mr. Vandervent as she would a venomous insect, and returned downstairs to her cooking.
“Mr. Vandervent, you never call upon me but you upset the fragile balance of our household. Dr. Watson you know, of course. May I introduce our new associate, Miss Mary Ann Monk. Now, whatever it is you’ve got there, let us have a look at it.”
We all crowded around the table and examined the curious missive Mr. Vandervent had brought with him. I read the letter aloud, which was penned with vivid red ink and went in this manner:
“It is hardly the natural correspondence of our readership, as you can see,” stated Mr. Vandervent, collapsing unceremoniously into a chair. “A bit more about repealing the corn laws and a bit less about clipping off ladies’ ears, and I should not have troubled you.”
Holmes lifted the object by its edges and took it to his desk, where he commenced a meticulous study through his lens.
“Any envelope?”
“Thought you’d say that. Here it is.”
“Postmarked September twenty-seventh, eighteen eighty-eight, receipt same day, mailed from the eastern side of the metropolis. Address straggling and unbalanced—you see, he has no regard for uniformity of line.”
“What’s got me concerned,” continued Mr. Vandervent, “is not the compelling style of the note itself. It’s that the mad bastard—my apologies, Miss Monk, to your delicacies—should ask us to hold it back until he ‘does a bit more work.’ I am in the position, for quite the first time in my life, of not knowing what to do.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Vandervent.”
“Indeed! Yes. It is a very disquieting sensation. But as I understand it, rum notes and dark plots are quite your arena, Mr. Holmes. You’ve traced his whereabouts by now, no doubt.”
“I think I would do well to exchange my actual powers for Mr. Vandervent’s imagined ones,” the detective replied. “In fact, I cannot make out his game at all.”
“His game is clear enough. States it right there—fourth sentence, I believe: ‘down on whores.’”
“No, no, the note itself. You’ve called attention to the key oddity already: why should this man, if he is not the killer, ask that the letter be held back until after he has killed again? The casual prankster would wish the letter to be published immediately, seeking only to frighten the public and see his handiwork in print.”
“Is there anything that could help us to trace the author?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged. “The man is moderately educated. The irregularity of the baseline, as well as the downward-slanting script, indicate he is moody and unpredictable. His
“Moncton’s Superfine watermark. You don’t say. But let us address the real problem, Mr. Holmes,” drawled Mr. Vandervent. “What am I to do with it? I’ve done my civic duty in bringing it here, but I fear the citizenry might be nonplussed at reading it over breakfast.”
“May I keep this document for further study?”
“So you advise me to hold it back for the time being? A very roundabout way you have of putting it too. Very well, Mr. Holmes, I shall leave the thing in your hands, to be retrieved the day after tomorrow, at which time I shall forward it to the Yard. Make good use of it. I have no doubt but that it would prove excellent kindling.” Mr. Vandervent, with a supreme effort, raised himself from his chair and descended the stairs.
Holmes drained his glass thoughtfully. “Miss Monk, would it be at all possible for you to see this Dunlevy fellow a second time?”
“We’ve fixed Saturday evening to meet at the Queen’s Head. Nine o’clock sharp,” Miss Monk replied innocently.
“Brava! Miss Monk, you are of inestimable help. Dr. Watson and I will be on hand in Whitechapel to provide support. Meanwhile, I intend to study this letter until it can house no secrets from me. The author may not be our man, but this ‘Jack the Ripper,’ whoever he is, certainly bears investigating.”
