“I heartily agree.”
“Fifth, Miss Monk asks that we wire her a convenient time to meet.”
“She has proven herself to be a woman of extraordinary fortitude.”
“For which I am exceedingly grateful. Item the sixth, calling card of Mr. Rowland K. Vandervent, who likewise begs an audience. Finally, there is a preposterous missive from a reporter who claims to know more than he should demanding an interview in the interests of public awareness.”
“Hardly worthy of your immediate attention.”
“I am inclined to be as dismissive, although there is an ominous tone to his wording. See for yourself.”
The paper was typewritten on a single sheet of cheap off-white paper, with some dark smudges near the margins.
I turned the inexplicable summons over in my hands. “Holmes, the author mentions nothing of being a pressman.”
“He needn’t, for it is all too obvious to any specialist in typewriters. Observe the characteristics of this particular machine. Mr. Tavistock ought to be deeply ashamed, if for nothing else, of the nearly nonexistent tail of the
“Surely other professions than journalism are hard on typewriters?”
“None that brings one’s fingertips into such intimate congress with cheap newsprint ink. There are several other points I might make, but I fear we must return to the bloody business of Saturday night and leave our mysterious reporter to his own devices. Here is the autopsy report writ brief by Major Smith. Read it aloud, would you, Watson, so that I may be sure of my facts.”
“‘Upon arrival at Golden Lane, a piece of the deceased’s ear fell from her clothing. There were three incisions in the liver of varying size, a stab to the groin, and deep cuts on the womb, colon, lining membrane above the uterus, the pancreas, and the left renal artery. I regret to say that the left kidney was taken entirely out of the body and retained by the killer.’ But this is despicable, Holmes!” I exclaimed in disgust. “He has taken another grisly memento.”
“I had anticipated as much.”
“But Holmes, the kidney is lodged behind several other significant organs, not to mention shielded by a membrane. He must not have feared interruption to have absconded with the kidney of all objects.”
“Hum! That is indeed remarkable. Pray continue.”
“‘The lack of clotting from the abdominal region indicates that she was entirely dead when these acts occurred. Enclosed is a complete list of the deceased’s belongings and attire at the time of her death.’ It is signed with respects from Major Henry Smith, and with regrets that you could not yourself have been in attendance.”
“I can assure the major his regrets are entirely dwarfed by my own.” Holmes sighed. “I’ve made an unspeakable hash of it, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Are we really no further along?”
“Well, I would hardly say that. We know that this ‘Jack the Ripper’ letter may well be the work of the killer, for a detail like notched ears is very unlikely to turn up in both jest and in fact. We know that he has an iron nerve to locate and remove a kidney. We know that one effective method of carrying off organs is to cart about an empty parcel, for I have no doubt but that the package I observed under his arm was later used to transport a very sinister object indeed. And I have my reasons for suspecting that this ‘Jack the Ripper’ has taken a very strong dislike to your humble servant.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Watson, do you recall the letter I received in March of last year just after we returned from Colwall?”
“After the affair of the Ramsden heirloom? I seem to remember something of the kind.”
“I have been looking over the handwriting. Though disguised, I am certain that it was the work of the same man; the hooked end-strokes are indicative, but the pressure on his descending lines concludes the matter. Which means he wrote to me—”
“Before a single murder had been committed!”
“Precisely.” Holmes looked pensively at me for a moment. “If you would go so far against your conscience as to prepare a dose of morphine, Doctor, I shouldn’t refuse it. I’ll do it myself if you prefer, but…”
I located his bottle on the mantel amongst a litter of pipe cleaners and reflected, as I was readying my friend’s pristine little syringe, upon the oddity of the situation. When I turned back to Holmes, I saw with dismay that he was attempting to extricate himself from the bedclothes with no very great degree of success.
“Holmes, what the devil do you think you are doing?”
“Readying myself to go out,” he replied, using the nearest post of the bed to steady himself as he rose.
“Holmes, have you completely taken leave of your senses? You cannot possibly expect—”
“That any evidence will remain to be found?” he lashed out in vexation. “That is one damnable fact, Watson, of which I am all too well aware.”
“Your condition is—”
“Of the utmost irrelevance! In any event, I do myself the honour of assuming I shall be accompanied by a skilled physician.”
“If you imagine that I have any intention of allowing you to leave these rooms, you are delirious as well as badly injured.”
“Watson,” he said in another voice entirely. To my immense surprise, it was not a tone I had ever heard from him before. It was far quieter than his usual measured voice, and far more grieved. “I have maneuvered myself into an intolerable position. Five women are dead. Five. Your intentions are commendable, but take a moment to imagine what it would be like for me to receive news of the sixth.”
I stared at him, weighing considerations both medical and personal. “Give me your arm,” I said at length. The sight of innumerable tiny scars scattered like miniature constellations pained me as it always did, but I made a sincere effort not to show it as I administered the injection.
“Thank you,” said he, starting haltingly for his wardrobe. “I will see you downstairs. I advise you to wear your old army coat if you do not wish to look hopelessly out of place.”
Hesitantly, I donned an old astrakhan and the heavy coat I had needed so seldom in actual service, and dashed down the stairs to procure a four-wheeler. If Holmes was determined to visit the crime scene, best it be done immediately, for the sake of his health more than of any evidence remaining.
Cabs were plentiful, and Holmes himself was seated on the front steps of 221 when I returned. He wore the loose-fitting attire of a disengaged naval officer, complete with seafaring cap, heavy trousers, a rough work shirt, cravat, and a pea jacket through which he had managed to pass his left arm, the other side draped over his sling.
“You wish to remain anonymous?” I remarked as I helped him into the hansom.
“If there are any neighbours willing to communicate useful gossip, they’ll do so far more readily to two half- pay patriots.” He added ruefully, “In any event, the garb of the British gentleman is well-nigh impossible to achieve with one arm.”
On our route to the East-end, as Holmes appeared to doze and I gazed out the window in uneasy contemplation, I saw that London had changed since I had last set foot out of doors; a veritable snowstorm of papers printed in bold block capitals was pasted to every ready surface. I soon discerned the leaflets were all identical appeals from the Yard to the citizenry, urging the public to come forward with any helpful information.
We had turned north on Duke Street and approached one of the entrances to Mitre Square when the cabbie stopped abruptly and began to grumble sotto voce about “thrill seekers” who evinced “all the human decency of vultures.” When he saw the denomination of coin I offered him, he grew more acquiescent, however, and agreed to wait until we had finished in the square.
Sherlock Holmes leaned heavily on his stick as we traversed the long passage, but he scanned the floor and
