“What’s the matter, Watson?” I heard Holmes’s precise, forceful tenor as if from across a great chasm.

“It isn’t possible…”

“What isn’t possible, Watson? What has he done?”

“Her womb, Holmes.” I am afraid I could not quite keep my voice from catching at the words. “Someone has taken it. It’s gone.”

All was silence save for the rumble of carts upon the road outside and the twitter of a sparrow perched high in the tree in Sean Hawkins’s adjacent yard. Then Holmes, passing a pale, distracted hand over his high forehead, advanced to see for himself. After a moment’s scrutiny, he straightened, as stoic as ever, but his deep-set eyes betraying—perhaps only to me—his revulsion at my discovery. Handing me both his hat and his stick, Holmes began his systematic examination of the scene.

Lestrade emitted a slight choking sound and sank down upon a rotting crate, his slender profile stricken. “Gone?” he repeated. “It can’t be gone, for heaven’s sake. He’s completely gutted her, Dr. Watson. Surely you overlooked it?”

I shook my head. “The entire uterus, as well as a good portion of the bladder, have been taken.”

“Taken! Taken where? It is preposterous. Surely it is here somewhere? Under that bit of scrap lumber, perhaps?”

“I believe not,” called Holmes from across the yard. “I see no trace of it.”

Lestrade’s shoulders collapsed still further at this dire revelation.

It was not long before my friend had finished his intent perusal, but to Lestrade and to me it seemed an age had passed since we had first set foot into that terrible pen, open to the sky but closed off from every vestige of the human decency we had been raised to cherish. Finally, Holmes approached us.

“The body is that of an as yet unidentified unfortunate of approximately fifty years of age. She entered the yard voluntarily in the company of her killer, who approached her from behind and took a moment to grapple with her before slitting her throat. After he had delivered the fatal wound, he looked over the fence between the yards to ascertain that there was no one nearby. Before he began mutilating the remains, he removed the contents of the deceased’s pockets: one piece of muslin and two combs. Then he proceeded to dissect his victim with a very sharp, narrow knife. When he had finished, he somehow managed to escape the way he had come without leaving the slightest drip or mark from his…trophy.”

“It is horrible,” Lestrade murmured. “It is positively inhuman.”

“Lestrade, my dear fellow, don’t look so cowed. We have progressed significantly since the Nichols case.”

“The Nichols case? Then you think it the same man?”

“We would be deeply foolish to suppose it were otherwise,” Holmes replied impatiently.

The inspector groaned in despair. “The Yard has not the slightest lead even in those murders, let alone—” He stopped abruptly. “By George! But we do! That terrible bootmaker with the leather apron! Mr. Holmes, you yourself gave me his address.”

“Lestrade, it would be very ill-advised to—”

“Here’s the surgeon! Good morning to you, Dr. Phillips. I’m afraid I must be off upon official business.”

“Stop a moment and I shall save you a deal of trouble,” Holmes cried heatedly.

“Inspector Chandler is outside, should you need anything. Right, then. I must take immediate action. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson—good day to you.” The inspector, looking for all the world as if he had stared evil in the face directly, scurried away to pursue his new lead.

“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “It’s quite hopeless. We must see if we can make any progress with the neighbours. Good morning, Dr. Phillips. We have left all as it was, I am afraid.”

We exited to the sound of a muffled oath uttered by the surgeon and hurried back down the passage. “Holmes,” I hissed, “please tell me you can see some light in all this. Who would be capable of such an act? A vicious gang? A new incarnation of Burke and Hare?* I begin to think that the act of murder has grown secondary to the defilement of the corpse.”

Holmes stopped to light a cigarette as we emerged from the other side. “Let us see whether the residents of twenty-nine and twenty-seven have anything relevant to convey.”

It proved a punishing task to interview all the frightened inhabitants of Hanbury Street without dwelling upon the particulars of the crime, which were so enormously sensational, and so scintillating to the pressmen, that the details had already spread like a plague. Holmes and I were forced to field almost as many questions as we posed. My friend’s granite gaze brightened subtly only twice: first, when he learned there was a cat’s-meat seller upon the ground floor of number twenty-nine; and second, when a young man named Cadoche related that he had heard a cry of “No!” and a thud against the dividing fence at approximately five thirty, which corresponded to my estimated time of death. Our last business was to relate, briefly but gratefully, news of Hawkins’s actions and whereabouts to his anxious, quivering mother.

Finally, in early afternoon, we set foot once more on the pavement, my friend making off in a direction both unambiguous and inexplicable. Holmes displayed all the energy of his uniquely unflagging will, but I felt shattered and weak, and scarcely able to stomach much more uncertainty than I had endured already.

“Holmes, if I may, where are we going?”

“I have seen enough penniless women hacked apart in a month’s time. We require assistance.”

“From whom?”

“A renovator of music halls by the name of George Lusk.”

“Is he an acquaintance of yours?”

“He is a businessman who resides in Mile End. I was once of some use to him. He is about to return the favour.”

Mile End, so named for its position precisely one mile east of the ancient City’s boundary, had grown up considerably in the latter half of the nineteenth century. New roads, buildings, and courts gave birth to one another continually in London, but Sherlock Holmes was master of every street and byway. There was one occasion in particular, the incident involving Fenchurch the weaver and his now-infamous needle, when Holmes’s knowledge of a secret alleyway undoubtedly saved both our lives. I was not surprised, therefore, when Holmes led me down a series of labyrinthine corridors eastward out of Whitechapel only to emerge on a tree-lined thoroughfare in front of a respectable white-columned house.

My companion strode up the stone steps and knocked at the polished door, cocking an eye back at me and beckoning me to join him. “You must help me keep the conversation on topic,” he whispered. “Mr. Lusk is an articulate gentleman, whose opinions are wont to flow as freely as the Thames.” With that, a young servant girl admitted us, ushering us into a well-appointed, palm-dotted sitting room, occupied only by a regal orange cat. We sat down to await our host.

He was not long in coming. Mr. George Lusk threw wide the doors and exclaimed, “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Sherlock Holmes. By Jove, but it’s good to see you! I don’t mind telling you, sir, had you not been on hand to discover what those lumbermen were really about, I should be a poor man today. And you must be Dr. Watson. It gratifies me tremendously that someone has undertaken to record Mr. Holmes’s exploits for the world at large. A pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Lusk was a man of open, expressive features, and perceptive brown eyes, though the bags beneath them taken in conjunction with his coat’s somber cut and sable colour led me to believe he had recently lost someone dear to him. He wore a plentiful moustache, which descended nearly to the jawline, and held himself with the confidence of an established entrepreneur. His hair was slicked back upon his head, revealing a sensitive brow, and I was impressed immediately by his alert manner and his general air of ready assurance.