The birds were still singing, but the quality of light told me it was midmorning when my eyes fluttered open for the second time. For a moment I was harrowed by the disoriented dread one experiences when too much has occurred to be immediately recalled, but a minute’s further repose brought it all back to the forefront of my mind, and I hastened to Holmes’s bedroom.
The sight which greeted me upon my throwing open his door brought a smile of relief to my face. There sat Sherlock Holmes, his hair all awry, telegrams scattered over his lap, the bed literally covered with newsprint, a cigarette held awkwardly in his left hand as he attempted to sift through his considerable correspondence.
“Ah, Watson,” he saluted me. “Don’t bother to knock. Do come in, my dear fellow.”
“My apologies,” I laughed. “I had heard rumour you were an invalid.”
“Nonsense. I am a pillar of strength. I am, in strict point of fact, quite disgusted with myself,” he added more quietly—with a tweak of one eyebrow that told me more than his words of his profound dissatisfaction, “but no matter. Up until this moment, Mrs. Hudson and Billy brought me everything I required. Now you must sit in that armchair, my boy, and tell me the whole ghastly mess.”
I did so, omitting nothing from our universal dismay at his misfortune, to the state of the second girl’s ears and the dispute between our good Lestrade and his own Commissioner. A solid hour must have passed, Holmes’s eyes closed in concentration and my mind straining for each and every detail, when I arrived at Dr. Moore Agar and my own homecoming.
“It is unforgivable that we have lost Sunday! The police no doubt have swept both crime scenes of any useful evidence in my absence, and this business of the chalked message is altogether tragic. I cannot remember anything at all,” Holmes confessed bitterly, “from the time I alighted the hansom until this morning at around nine o’clock. Of course I deduced the profession of two twenty-seven Baker Street months ago, but the business of the summons Mrs. Hudson related to me is merely a painful blur.”
“I was at a continual loss whether to come after you or remain in the East-end.”
“Your sentiments do you credit, as ever, Doctor, but were you not present, how would you explain to me the seven urgent messages I have received so far this morning?”
“Seven! I am all attention.”
“Let me relate them to you in the order I read them. First, a note from the doughty Inspector Lestrade, with well-wishes, requesting a facsimile of the curious inscription you fought fruitlessly to preserve.”
“Miss Monk has given it to me. I shall send copies immediately.”
“Next, President George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, with compliments, informs me he has written the Queen demanding a reward be offered.”
“Good heavens! London will be a madhouse.”
“My sentiments echo your own. Here we have a very considerate note from Major Henry Smith, who has enclosed the results from the postmortem of the City victim. We shall return to that in a moment. If you would be so kind as to pour me another cup of coffee, my dear fellow, as my usual motility has been greatly hampered by our neighbour two doors down. Much obliged. Fourth, a telegram from brother Mycroft: ‘Will visit at earliest possible convenience—great uproar in Whitehall. Mend quickly; your death would be most inconvenient at this time.’”
“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.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
In the interests of the public and of your own reputation, I strongly suggest you meet me at Simpson’s in order to address some serious questions. I shall await you at ten o’clock this evening, alone.
Mr. Leslie Tavistock
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 ys, the ramshackle upstroke of the ds, and fully nine other points indicating nearly continuous wear.”
“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…”