than to send a feeling of invigoration through my shoulders by the time I had knocked at Dr. Agar’s residence and been shown into the immaculately clean vestibule. Even if I required direction, I could hardly have avoided the peals of merriment emanating from the good doctor’s consulting room. When I pushed open the door, I observed Miss Monk in heady conversation with Dr. Agar while beside her on the sofa sat Stephen Dunlevy, whose eyes, after glancing genially in my direction, snapped back to the object of their affection.
“That’s the cure for hysteria, and you’ll swear to it?” she was demanding, her hand tracing her brow in disbelief.*
“Not at this clinic, I assure you,” Dr. Agar said with a laugh.
“I granny why they’d enjoy it, make no mistake, but it’s a sight cheaper in the Chapel—Oh! Dr. Watson,” she interrupted herself, leaping to her feet and darting over to grasp me by the hand. “Have you ever treated a woman for hysteria?”
“Not as such,” I demurred as she seated herself once more. “Miss Monk, you are looking ten times better. I congratulate you, as well as your groundbreaking physician.”
“She is doing all the work and I am collecting all the credit.” Dr. Agar smiled. “It is quite shameful, but many careers are built so, after all.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” Dunlevy interjected. “Dr. Watson is right, and may I seize the opportunity to say that I have never been so grateful to anyone in my life. Apart from Mr. Holmes, of course,” he added with a grave look in my direction.
“How is Mr. Holmes, Doctor?” Dr. Agar inquired.
I must have hesitated over the question, for Miss Monk stated gamely, “I’ve recalled summat else about the fellow. He’ll think me a right nickey for having ever forgotten so much at this rate, but hasn’t he a trick of treating more or less anything in the room as if it’s a chair?”
“Yes, he has.” I smiled.
“I’m on the point of it, and then it’s—” She made a whistling sound and waved a hand in the air. “But I have the best of help.” She then looked, to my inner delight, not at Dr. Agar but directly and unmistakably at Stephen Dunlevy.
My hat in hand, I declared, “I merely wished to say hello. Holmes will be very relieved to learn how well you are doing, Miss Monk.”
“Has he left your flat yet, Dr. Watson?” Dr. Agar asked softly.
“No,” I returned, “but he will.”
“I know he will,” Dr. Agar assured me. “He has an excellent physician.”
Glaring at our front door with perhaps more dissatisfaction than the object deserved, I turned my key in the lock. However, as it happened, I was not destined for an evening of attempting to elicit speech from a companion submerged in the worst of reflections, who to my great distress had been subsisting on tobacco, tea, and narcotics. Just as I opened the door to our sitting room, I accidentally nudged the leg of Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to have arrived moments before and was facing my haggard friend with an attitude of determined cheer.
“You are looking far better than when last I saw you, Dr. Watson, and I am heartily glad to say it,” he exclaimed, shaking my hand.
Holmes waved us in from his armchair and tossed the prim little detective a matchbox in a graceful arc. “There are cigars on the side table and spirits in the decanter.”
“Thank you.”
“So you were there that night?” I prompted Lestrade, for I had my own questions to ask, Holmes or no Holmes. I’d not had the heart to force my friend into reliving that hour of painful memory, nor to ask how we had managed to escape.
“To be sure,” the inspector answered readily. “By the time the fire brigade arrived, Mr. Holmes had moved you and Miss Monk back to the courtyard. You were out of danger there, at least temporarily. Mr. Holmes here alerted the force to the existence of a body at the side of the house, and you were all taken by police ambulance to London Hospital. The constables on the scene called me in immediately. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw who it was, considering the chase he had led us on the night before.”
“I read that he was injured in the explosion.”
“Quite so.” The inspector coughed. “I was able to spirit the brute to the morgue quickly enough. The coroner was not inclined to disagree with my idea that shards of glass from the exploding window struck Bennett fatally. Of course, we are still investigating the murder.”
Holmes, who had been regarding the bearskin rug, roused himself briefly at my expression of dismay. “Not you, my dear Watson. That could hardly be called a murder by any standards. Lestrade refers to Mary Kelly.”
“Oh, I see,” I said in relief.
“It’s difficult to keep my heart in it, knowing you sent her killer to hell already, Doctor,” Lestrade said placidly, sipping his spirits. “But it’s the duty of the Yard to promote a feeling of safety.”
“I do not envy you that duty,” Holmes said grimly. “It will take some time before anyone can be convinced the Ripper has vanished.”
“On the contrary, there is a rumour among the detective inspectors to that very effect,” Lestrade retorted. “They are saying that Sherlock Holmes does not run into burning buildings without cause.”
My friend appeared abashed. “That is potentially a very dangerous notion.”
“You likely think it best for me to quash that bit of gossip,” Lestrade nodded. “Well, I won’t. I’ve been approached by a good many of the other inspectors. They seem to think if anyone’s likely to know aught of the matter, I’m their man. Well, I haven’t told them anything. But if they’ve suggested that you’ve put an end to this wretched affair, Mr. Holmes, I’ve as good as shaken their hands and winked a friendly eye.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in indignation.
“Listen here, Mr. Holmes, and see it from my side for a moment. From what we know of Bennett, he hated the force and everything it stood for. Mad he may well have been, but this is a man who actually performed the most evil acts he could conjure up, and then used them against us. We won’t ever understand why, but he did his utmost to make us look like fools, gentlemen, to make us all look like fools, and if you ask my opinion, he would have succeeded if not for you, Mr. Holmes. I’m under no illusions about the business. You did an extraordinary thing, and the more at the Yard who work out you had a hand in it, so much the better. All London is in your debt, sir, and I will be damned if I lift one finger to keep it secret.”
“Hear, hear,” said I.
Lestrade stood. “In fact, we inspectors have taken it upon ourselves to give you a token of our appreciation. I rather thought you might have done with the old one. But we hope this one serves.”
My friend opened a small box which Lestrade had produced. Inside lay a beautiful silver cigarette case monogrammed with Holmes’s initials, underneath which ran the words, “With the Respects of Scotland Yard, November 1888.”
Sherlock Holmes sat with his lips parted, but no sound emerged.
“Thank you,” he managed at length.
Lestrade nodded firmly. “It’s our honour, Mr. Holmes. Well, I’ve said my piece. I’m afraid I must be off.”
The inspector strode purposefully to our door but stopped upon reaching it. “I hope if anything out of the ordinary comes up, I may call on you?” he asked.
“I have not felt much inclined to take any cases of late,” my friend replied hesitantly. “However, you know that should you ever require assistance, you are welcome to consult me.”
Lestrade smiled. “You do occasionally stumble on the truth, I’ve always said that much in your favour. Well, as it’s late, I won’t keep you.”
He had stepped outside the door when my friend called out, “Lestrade!”
The inspector’s head reemerged. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”
“That housebreaking business in Hounslow—it is obvious that there was no break-in at all. You must lay your hands on the nephew.”
Lestrade grinned at me broadly.
“I’ll pass the word along. Thanks for the tip. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”
My friend rose from his chair and threw the curtains back from the bow window. The air outside was crisp and clean, and the wind had died. Holmes glanced back at me.
“What do you think of a ramble through London?”
