“Is irrelevant as you were not at home,” I shot back heatedly. “However, if you wish, in the future I shall treat all your emergency summonses with suspicion and disbelief.”
Holmes softened with a visible effort. “It is only your safety which worries me, after all. I regret that little business back in the alley, but now that we have it, this note…this note is of immense interest. Its author has done a very workmanlike job of my signature; however, the remainder of the lettering was formed very slowly, which is a sure indication of forgery. Still, it is quite obvious that whoever penned this message to plague us has had access to a genuine sample of my handwriting.”
“Where on earth could he have obtained such a thing?”
“Ah, but we may draw still more conclusions: the document he has in his possession, while featuring a signature at the end, evinces fewer examples of my other characters. A short note, then, and I would wager fifty pounds one lacking the letter
“Some villain has access to your correspondence?”
“I hardly see how.”
“Your bank?”
“The Capital and Counties is renowned for its trustworthiness.”
“Well, then, you may have dashed off a note to your solicitor or penned a response to a client. It is impossible to know where the sample was obtained.”
“I will not say that you are wrong,” my friend replied abstractedly, “but surely the balance of probability is enormously against an agent of evil happening upon my handwriting by chance. It is far more probable that he stole a missive from some party who could be assumed to possess a sample of my script. At once the field is narrowed considerably. There is yourself to consider, my brother, several inspectors of the Yard, and those agencies to which you have already so shrewdly alluded, such as my bank or solicitor.”
“But stop a moment, Holmes—forgive me, but it was for good reason that I was particularly eager to meet with you this evening.”
My friend indicated his interest with a tilt of his head, and I proceeded to tell him all that we three had accomplished in his absence. I am still delighted to recall that, when I had concluded my narrative, Sherlock Holmes himself appeared astonished in no small measure.
“And your tracks are entirely covered?”
“It will be thought a childish pleasantry enacted upon a particularly rank example of British journalism.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed impishly. “What pleasantry?”
“An inspired whim of Miss Monk’s devising. Rest assured it was entirely anonymous and that he will come to no lasting harm by it. The only thing of any interest was the note. It came in this envelope.”
To my great shock, my friend’s wan face paled still further.
“Holmes, whatever is the matter?”
He rushed to the wall, where notes were tacked in jagged rows, and pulled down perfect facsimiles of the last two letters we had received purportedly from Jack the Ripper.
“I knew he had motive, but it seemed too fantastic to contemplate. Surely I was within the bounds of reason to think it a paid mercenary or a political opportunist…”
“My dear fellow, what is it?”
“Look at it!” he cried, holding up a letter next to the envelope. “They are disguised, yes, but there cannot be a doubt in the world that these are penned by the same hand!”
“Do you mean to tell me that the man who has been tracing your movements, the blackguard who has set this journalist against you, is none other than Jack the Ripper himself?”
“Identical unmarked stationery to the kidney package,” my friend murmured. “Dated only two days after I quit Baker Street. Postal district E one—Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and Mile End.”
“Holmes, what can this possibly mean?”
My friend’s eyes met mine with a hunted expression I had never seen there before. “It means that the Whitechapel killer is determined to see me blamed for his crimes. It also means that my movements, in any event those before I left Baker Street, were as open to him as the pages of a book. It is not a pretty thing to contemplate, Watson, but I very much fear the author of these murders has taken it upon himself to ruin me.”
I stared at him aghast. “I am heartily sorry not to have furnished you with better news.”
“My dear fellow, I am eternally grateful.”
“Then what can we do?”
“We can do nothing yet. I must think,” said he, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing his knees into his wiry frame.
I nodded. “In that case, I shan’t dream of interrupting you.”
Holmes eyed me suspiciously. “You are not staying.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “I am assisting you in your work.”
My friend leapt to his feet. “That is entirely out of the question,” he cried. “Whatever nightmare it was before, this has developed into an extraordinarily dangerous undertaking.”
“Precisely so,” I agreed, helping myself to a woolen blanket.
“I categorically forbid it! You could fall prey to the gravest possible consequences if I am discovered.”
“Then we must do our best to remain incognito.” It was near impossible to ignore Holmes at his most imperious, but I had never been so set on a course of action in my life.
“Watson, you are the very least apt dissimulator it has been my privilege to know: in fact, I have hardly met anyone in my life whose mind is on more open display.”
I felt my colour rise at these remarks, but then I thought of Holmes undergoing the same threats I had faced in that dark corridor, but every day and without an ally.
“Holmes, give me your word as a gentleman I could not possibly be of use to you here in Whitechapel.”
“That is not the point!”
“Given your reputation for superior mental faculties, I should have thought you’d have grasped that it was.”
After a glare of considerable acrimony, Holmes smiled in resignation.
“Well, well, if I cannot dissuade you, I suppose I must thank you.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
He returned to the pallet, spread himself across it, and crossed his feet upon the water barrel. “I daresay you’ll find the surroundings a difficult adjustment.”
“I served in the second Afghan war, Holmes. I imagine I shall be comfortable enough.”
At this my friend sat bolt upright again with an exclamation of glee. “You have hit upon the very thing! And doubtless without any knowledge you have done so. The Afghan war…well done indeed.”
“I am gratified to be of service.”
“Good night, Watson,” he called out, turning down the oil lamp and stuffing his pipe with shag. “I must beg you not to avail yourself of my razor come morning. Unshaven will do far better, I think. And Watson?” he added. I could hear from his tone he had largely recovered his good humour.
“Yes?”
“I shouldn’t venture into the near right-hand corner. I am afraid it leaves something to be desired in the structural sense. Sleep well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Bonfire Night
I awoke the next morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing over me in his pea jacket and rough red scarf, tossing a heap of worn clothing in the corner. He was distressingly energized, and I knew from the deep arcs under his eyes that his night had been a sleepless one.
“What is the time?”
“Close upon eight.”
