I located his bottle on the mantel amongst a litter of pipe cleaners and reflected, as I was readying my friend’s pristine little syringe, upon the oddity of the situation. When I turned back to Holmes, I saw with dismay that he was attempting to extricate himself from the bedclothes with no very great degree of success.

“Holmes, what the devil do you think you are doing?”

“Readying myself to go out,” he replied, using the nearest post of the bed to steady himself as he rose.

“Holmes, have you completely taken leave of your senses? You cannot possibly expect—”

“That any evidence will remain to be found?” he lashed out in vexation. “That is one damnable fact, Watson, of which I am all too well aware.”

“Your condition is—”

“Of the utmost irrelevance! In any event, I do myself the honour of assuming I shall be accompanied by a skilled physician.”

“If you imagine that I have any intention of allowing you to leave these rooms, you are delirious as well as badly injured.”

“Watson,” he said in another voice entirely. To my immense surprise, it was not a tone I had ever heard from him before. It was far quieter than his usual measured voice, and far more grieved. “I have maneuvered myself into an intolerable position. Five women are dead. Five. Your intentions are commendable, but take a moment to imagine what it would be like for me to receive news of the sixth.”

I stared at him, weighing considerations both medical and personal. “Give me your arm,” I said at length. The sight of innumerable tiny scars scattered like miniature constellations pained me as it always did, but I made a sincere effort not to show it as I administered the injection.

“Thank you,” said he, starting haltingly for his wardrobe. “I will see you downstairs. I advise you to wear your old army coat if you do not wish to look hopelessly out of place.”

Hesitantly, I donned an old astrakhan and the heavy coat I had needed so seldom in actual service, and dashed down the stairs to procure a four-wheeler. If Holmes was determined to visit the crime scene, best it be done immediately, for the sake of his health more than of any evidence remaining.

Cabs were plentiful, and Holmes himself was seated on the front steps of 221 when I returned. He wore the loose-fitting attire of a disengaged naval officer, complete with seafaring cap, heavy trousers, a rough work shirt, cravat, and a pea jacket through which he had managed to pass his left arm, the other side draped over his sling.

“You wish to remain anonymous?” I remarked as I helped him into the hansom.

“If there are any neighbours willing to communicate useful gossip, they’ll do so far more readily to two half-pay patriots.” He added ruefully, “In any event, the garb of the British gentleman is well-nigh impossible to achieve with one arm.”

On our route to the East-end, as Holmes appeared to doze and I gazed out the window in uneasy contemplation, I saw that London had changed since I had last set foot out of doors; a veritable snowstorm of papers printed in bold block capitals was pasted to every ready surface. I soon discerned the leaflets were all identical appeals from the Yard to the citizenry, urging the public to come forward with any helpful information.

We had turned north on Duke Street and approached one of the entrances to Mitre Square when the cabbie stopped abruptly and began to grumble sotto voce about “thrill seekers” who evinced “all the human decency of vultures.” When he saw the denomination of coin I offered him, he grew more acquiescent, however, and agreed to wait until we had finished in the square.

Sherlock Holmes leaned heavily on his stick as we traversed the long passage, but he scanned the floor and 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.”