walls of the alley as a hawk seeks prey from on high. Mitre Square, far from being the sordid cul-de-sac my memory had painted it, was an open space, well kept by the City but surrounded by featureless buildings, few of which proved to be tenanted. Those warehouses which were occupied were also guarded, for a small knot of men chatted earnestly where we had viewed the body two nights previous.
“I take it the poor woman was found in that southwest corner?” queried Holmes.
“Yes, the City constable discovered her there. I don’t like to think of the condition she was in.”
“Very well. I shall search the rest of the square and surrounding passageways first, for it doesn’t seem likely we can peruse that area without inciting unwelcome conversation.”
I followed the detective as he made an exhaustive study, exiting the square by means of the constrictive Church Passage, which led to Mitre Street, and returning through the one corridor left to be explored, which passed by St. James Place and the Orange Market. Though Holmes had been at work for only perhaps half an hour, the strain of simply remaining upright had already begun to take a visible toll upon his haggard countenance.
“As far as I can make out by memory,” said he, “the path I followed after leaving you at Berner Street took me north via Greenfield Street, Fieldgate Street, then Great Garden Street and thus to the small maze surrounding Chicksand Street, which is where I encountered our quarry. I then made my way back to Berner Street, whilst he, inexplicably, proceeded here to a largely emptied commercial district. I imagine he traveled down Old Montague Street, which becomes Wentworth Street, then narrows again into Stoney Lane, which finally led him straight to where we stand. Then, and here we are blessed, for the extraordinary is always of use to the investigator, he did something positively absurd. He killed a woman, then disemboweled her in an open square with three separate entrances and any number of guards within—but we have visitors, Watson. It was only a matter of time. Let me do the talking, if you don’t mind.”
A middle-aged man with greying muttonchop whiskers, a shabby bowler hat, and the physique of a dray horse approached us, a tentative smile fighting for supremacy with his suspicious and hooded eyes.
“Excuse me, sirs, but I can’t help but notice that you’ve been in this square and out again more times than is natural. I wonder if you might be good enough to say what your business is here.”
“Tell me who’s asking,” my friend replied with a surly glare and, I noted with amusement, a perceptibly Welsh turn of phrase.
The man crossed his powerful arms expectantly. “That’s no more than your right, I suppose, though I’m under no obligation to tell you with the Ripper still at large. My name is Samuel Levison, and I’m part of a group organized to keep the peace in these parts. The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee we go by, and if you’re reasonable, you’ll tell me your business before I call a policeman to do my work for me.”
Holmes’s eyes lit up eagerly. “I’ve heard of your men,” he cried, “and you’re just the help I’ve been wanting. Yesterday, it was—I’d been to a few more pubs than I should, I don’t mind telling you, and close toward morning someone told me I was but a quarter mile from the spot where another poor creature was killed. Sounds absurd in the light of day, but I’d a terrible urge to see the place. I’d hardly entered the square when I heard someone behind me. A rogue and a rascal if I ever saw one, and he flashed a blade, saying he’d have my money or my blood. Well, I’ve never been one to back down from a fight, so I pulled out my knife, but drink had the better of me and the bloody scoundrel cut me straightaway—here, in the shoulder. By the time I’d dragged myself home, I never realized I’d dropped my pipe in the scuffle. It’s been with me for many a voyage, and I wasn’t easy in my mind until I’d had a look round. Stem was burnished wood, with designs I’d carved—birds and such.”
“Lads?” Mr. Levison called to his companions. “Seen anything on the ground that might belong to this fellow? I am sorry, sir, but like as not someone’s pawned it by now.”
“Ah, more’s the pity. I’d little enough hope as it was.” Holmes squinted at the murder site. “You’ve more important things on your minds than my pipe. The body was in front of those houses?”
“Yes, opposite Church Passage.”
“And what did the neighbours hear?”
“Unfortunately, the buildings are unoccupied.”
“Ah, that’s a shame, it is. Seems an empty enough place, to be sure.”
“Kearly and Tonge’s Warehouse yonder is guarded by night, and a police constable lives just there, but no one heard a thing.”
“Police just on the other side of the square?” Holmes whistled softly. “I might never ha’ lost my pipe if I’d known that.”
“Don’t see how you could have known—not unless you were Sherlock Holmes, that balmy cove.”
The men laughed heartily at this incomprehensible jest, and Holmes flashed a ready smile in return. “What, that unofficial ’tec? Don’t tell me you know him.”
His question provoked another bout of merriment. “Know him!” chuckled Mr. Levison. “That’s rich. I think Lusk, our president, knows him, but if he’s a careful man, he’ll steer clear of Sherlock Holmes. I know I would, if I were him.”
Torn between burning curiosity and the sight of a colourless Holmes leaning ever more urgently upon his stick, I ventured, “Hadn’t we best return home?”
“Yes indeed, see your friend home, my good man,” agreed Mr. Levison genially. “I’m right sorry about your pipe, sir, but you’re a good deal too peaked to be out of doors.”
“There’s days I’ve felt better, and that’s certain,” Holmes replied. “My thanks for your help, such as it was.”
We slowly, for my friend grew steadily more faint, passed back through the narrowest of the entrances. Holmes made no protestation when I took him firmly by the arm.
“What in the world could that fellow have meant?”
My companion shook his head. “I haven’t the first idea,” he answered, “but I fear that we shall soon enough find out.”
CHAPTER TWELVE Dark Writings
By the time I got Holmes up the stairs, he was so drained of all energy that I lost no time in administering a fresh injection of morphine before consigning him to his bed. Afterward I felt compelled to clear my thoughts and, with no immediate object in mind, ambled toward Regent’s Park where a hailstorm of brown leaves lay strewn over the spacious grounds.
Our visit to Mitre Square appeared only to have raised still more mystifying obstacles. Why should our quarry have killed again when he knew the alarm had been raised? Why should he have done so where at any moment he may have been interrupted from one of three directions? Above all, I dwelt upon the bizarre remarks the committee man had made about my friend. For all the Yard’s reticence to consult a self-labeled amateur, there was scarcely a more respected figure in the layman’s eye, and with each successive case Sherlock Holmes solved—in the rare instances he received full credit—he was compelled by his natural Bohemian reticence to turn down countless congratulatory invitations proffered by rich and poor alike. What extraordinary rumour could possibly have run him afoul of public opinion?
I must have wandered for an hour, lost in pointless speculation. I had just turned the corner, my steps leading back down Baker Street, when I observed from half a block’s distance an angry altercation taking place upon our doorstep.
“It is undoubtedly a sad circumstance which brings harm to the faultless health of the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” growled Mr. Rowland K. Vandervent, “but I will be damned, my good lady—and I use the word
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vandervent,” I said sternly. “I should like to have a word with you in private. Your gross disregard for both courtesy and Holmes’s frail state of health has been well noted, I warn you. Mrs. Hudson, I will deal with this person.”
Thanked with surreptitious glances of gratitude from both parties (neither of whom, providentially, observed
