Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Murders

by JCMD

Holmes and Watson are asked to assist Inspector Abberline in finding Jack the Ripper. The investigation takes many twists and turns and as Sherlock finds the case to be increasingly difficult to solve, we see him become more emotional than is typically seen in the original Conan Doyle stories.

Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Murders

Chapter 1

It was the morning of September 9, 1888 and Sherlock Holmes was still sleeping on the sofa in his living room at 221B Baker Street when there was a loud and urgent knocking at the door. "Uh, hmm, uh," was all he could get out as he strained to open his eyes and understand what the two voices behind the door were yelling. One was clearly that of Mrs. Hudson who was trying to apologize to Sherlock, "I'm so sorry to disturb you Mr. Holmes, but he insisted on seeing you at once!" The unfamiliar voice was clearly that of a man, if Sherlock was correct in his assumptions, it was the voice of an anxious man, probably a policeman, who has been at his profession for a long time. A bit overweight, but probably due to the fact that he spent so much time trying to solve his cases that he never took proper care of himself. Sherlock was both surprised and pleased that it was not Lestrade. The voice yelled, "Mr. Holmes I am very much in need of your services, it is urgent!" The drowsy Sherlock Holmes instantly perked up as soon as he realized a case might be at hand. "Yes, yes, coming, I'm coming! Just a moment!" He said as he swung the robe that was hanging on the back of his reading chair around his body and tightened the belt around his waist. As he did all this he thought to himself, "Ah, this is interesting. By the sound of his voice a seasoned detective at his wits end, one who has never consulted me in the past. This must be a case of some merit. The chase is on!"

Sherlock Holmes swung open the door of his flat to reveal Mrs. Hudson, a police inspector with a receding hairline but with prominent mutton chops that went from ear to chin, but whose name was unknown to him at the time, and two Bobbies standing at the inspector's side. Mrs. Hudson apologetically told Sherlock, "I know you said you did not want to be disturbed but these gentlemen insisted it was urgent." She gave the inspector a rather cross look, huffed in the direction of the Bobbies, and then excused herself.

Sherlock turned his back to the men and proceeded to pace toward the window looking out over Baker Street and spoke as he pulled back the curtain to see the weather. "Gentlemen, please come in and make yourselves at home, I do." He went on, "What can I do for you on this, somewhat gloomy day it would appear?" Sherlock said in an indifferent tone. The inspector, albeit for entirely different reasons, agreed with Sherlock's assessment of the day. "A gloomy day it is indeed. That is why we have come to ask for your advice, and perhaps even some assistance in helping Scotland Yard apprehend a murderer."

Sherlock's left brow rose, then he quickly spun around in an enthusiastic and almost giddy sort of manner, thus giving away that he was curious and intrigued by the case. The consulting detective always enjoyed solving a murder, that is, so long as there is actually a mystery to it. He found so many cases to be boring or droll. "Yes, well, you have my attention. Please, tell me about your case." He probed the inspector, all while trying to hide his enthusiasm.

"My name is Inspector Frederick Abberline with the Metropolitan Police and it is of my opinion that we have a serial murderer on our hands. He goes by the alias 'Jack the Ripper' and yesterday morning we located his second victim. The victims are women; unfortunates. They were both aged around forty years. They were, well, they were prostitutes, Mr. Holmes. Their bodies were found in Whitechapel, East End. It appears that he cuts their throats and then, well, I…I think you'd better have a look yourself as to what else he does with them." As inspector Abberline said this, one of the Bobbies became visibly sick, his face began to turn pale and sweat beaded off his brow as he moved his hand to cover his mouth lest he reveal to Sherlock what he ate for breakfast. Sherlock's face became distressed as he realized that this was not going to be an enjoyable sight for him either and would rather just hear about it. "Get on with it Inspector Abberline, we are professionals, what does he do with them?" The Inspector took a deep breath and as he exhaled he said, "He removes their womanhood, sir."

At this, Sherlock placed his hand upon the stubble at his chin and began stroking it gently. As he did so he scanned the room and set his eyes on his pipe. He reached for it and the book of matches next to it resting on the top of his desk. After stuffing a wad of tobacco into the pipe he lit it and began to puff while in a state of contemplation.

"What are your thoughts, Mr. Holmes?" Asked Inspector Abberline.

"That I must remember to pick up more of this blend, it is absolutely remarkable how they manage incorporate notes of vanilla with the slightest hint of nutmeg while keeping the flavors in perfect balance so that one does not overpower the other." Said Sherlock.

"About the case!" Fumed Abberline.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course." Said Sherlock. "Well, isn't it obvious? Oh, well of course not, that is why you came to me isn't it?" Sherlock said, appearing amused at Abberline's ignorance.

"You mean you know who did it?" Asked one of the Bobbies.

"Well, no, of course not. It wouldn't be interesting if I did." Said Sherlock, somewhat annoyed. "Your killer must feel some inadequacy with himself, particularly when it comes to his sexuality. He takes his shortcomings out on these women because he cannot obtain them by his own merits. This however is perplexing because, in theory, any man would be able to solicit the services of a prostitute. Therefore gentlemen, you are looking for a man who has an inability to perform the act of coitus, and the killer is frustrated by this personal inadequacy. As for removing their womanhood, it is possible that he sees the taking of their privy parts as a way for him to state that he has taken control of these women despite his own inadequacies. Trust me gentleman, this man is a psychopath. His only care is that of satisfying himself. He will be narcissistic and self-absorbed. He will find ways to justify his actions in ways that are outside any sense of morality or reason that we would understand." Sherlock paused to gauge the reactions of his guests.

"How, how did you do that? How do you know that?" Asked the other Bobby.

"By simple deduction." Said Sherlock. "Now, may I ask, how did you come to know that he calls himself, 'Jack the Ripper'?"

Inspector Abberline reached into his pocket and retrieved a handwritten note, which he motioned to present to Sherlock. Sherlock took the note from the inspector's hands and sat at the table where he neatly placed the document and unfolded it. The letter appeared to be written by the suspect. Sherlock then turned away from the note to refill his pipe. He began scraping out the spent tobacco onto the floor before turning to the pouch of fresh tobacco on the table and refilling the pipe. As he went to do so he suddenly stopped and turned his head in the direction of the inspector and the Bobbies. His facial expression indicated that the situation had become somewhat awkward for him. After a moment of the inspector and the Bobbies staring at Sherlock in anticipation of a response and Sherlock staring back at them, Sherlock finally broke the silence, "Oh, sorry, I was wondering why you were still here. I was supposed to tell you 'thank you, I'll look over the note and return it this afternoon when I come to see you at Scotland Yard.' These social niceties and protocols always seem so bizarre to me."

Inspector Abberline and the two Bobbies made their way to the door. Before exiting the flat Abberline looked at Holmes and said, "As quickly as possible would be appreciated Mr. Holmes, his last murder was about a week ago, he could strike again any day now." At this Sherlock tightened his lip and nodded toward the inspector as if to note his understanding of the gravity of the situation. With this, Inspector Abberline placed his bowler hat on his head, exited the door of the flat and proceeded down the staircase.

Chapter 2

Dr. John Watson had been out the previous night and returned to the Baker Street flat later that morning. As he entered he saw Sherlock sitting at the table staring at a piece of paper. "Sherlock." He said. No response. Watson peered a little bit closer and it appeared as if Sherlock wasn't even blinking. "Sherlock, is everything alright?" Still, Sherlock gave no answer. "SHERLOCK!" Watson yelled. At this Sherlock nearly jumped out of his seat, shook his head, and widened his eyes. Looking at Watson, Sherlock ejaculated, "What, what, WHAT is it, my dear Dr. Watson?"

John shook his head, exhaled a little sigh of relief and said in a calm and soothing voice, "I wanted to make sure you were all right. You were either so focused on that piece of paper or, well, well I don't know, but it alarmed me."

Sherlock looked at Watson and smiled. "John, have you been reading the papers?" Watson responded, "Well, yes of course I have, why?"

"John, have you read about the murders in Whitechapel and this Jack the Ripper fellow?"

"Yes, why… is that letter one of the Ripper's? Sherlock, why do you have that?"

"John, the police at Scotland Yard are all out of sorts. But then again, when isn't that the case? Anyway, they got a letter from the murderer and asked me to inspect it. We are expected at Scotland Yard this afternoon. I thought that a man of your talents might want to be there as it will require us to examine the corpse of his latest victim as well as any photographs of her injuries that the police might have taken."

At this Sherlock noticed that Watson's right leg, which had been injured during his time fighting for the Crown in Afghanistan, and required that he use a cane to assist with his walking, had momentarily appeared not to bother him. Watson's injury typically only manifested itself when it was all he could do to try and not think on it. Whenever Watson felt a rush of adrenaline, similar to when a soldier rushes in for a charge against the enemy, his injury became remarkably less noticeable to himself and others. Sherlock then knew that this case, maybe more than any they had worked together, would be the most exciting one yet.

"So, what does the letter say?" Watson asked.

"Oddly, that isn't really what concerns me, Watson." Sherlock stated. "The author of the letter, which I have every reason to believe is our murderer, is attempting to throw us off. He wants us to believe he is a type of person he really isn't by giving us faulty information, but then lacking consistency in his attempts to deceive us. See here; notice how he misspells a word here, but earlier in the letter he spells it correctly. Notice how he also uses complex words that any even semi-literate person would have difficulty spelling, he does so perfectly but misspells several simple words. Watson, we are dealing with an educated man that would like us to believe he comes from the same lowly stock as the unfortunates in the Whitechapel district."

"But Sherlock, what respectable, educated gentleman would even visit the East End of the Whitechapel district, let alone go there to murder unfortunates? It doesn't' make sense."

"Ah, my dear Watson, that is exactly why it is so fascinating! Notice also, the paper on which our murderer is writing. This is a high quality paper for a man of supposed lowly means. Surely one who would go out of his way to purchase this type of stationary takes a certain pride in their appearance and reputation. Watson, we should head to Scotland Yard and discuss our findings, then we'll have a look at the corpse!"

Watson thought to himself that he should feel a bit disturbed by Sherlock's enthusiasm, but he could barely contain his own excitement at the rush the case offered.

Chapter 3

Sherlock and Watson arrived at Scotland Yard and were escorted to the morgue by Inspector Abberline. The room was dank and reeked of decaying bodies and what seemed to be mold growing along the top corners of the room, but it was difficult to tell because the room was poorly lit. The inspector pointed them in the direction of a medical slab where a sheet covered the remains of Annie Chapman, the Ripper's second victim. Before removing the sheet the inspector warned Sherlock and Watson, "Prepare yourselves gentlemen, what you are about to see may be the most horrific sight you see in your lifetime." Sherlock undeterred, motioned Abberline to continue. As Abberline removed the sheet a strong stench of death nearly overtook the three of them. Dr. Watson's face appeared as horrified as it did angry. Sherlock took note of this and quickly realized that Watson would be as determined as he to catch this, Jack the Ripper. Sherlock tried to quell the smile forming on his face, as his joy in Watson's fresh and steely determination was now apparent to him.

"Well, fortunately seeing it in person only reinforces my previous conclusions about the type of culprit we are dealing with." At this point Sherlock was having difficulty thinking of the criminal as a human being. From now on, Jack the Ripper was deserving of no distinctions other than murderer, criminal, culprit, and monster, no longer worthy of being referred to as a 'man'.

Inspector Abberline then turned to John, "Well, Dr. Watson, what do you make of this mess?"

Watson, with rage written on his face looked up from the desecrated mass of flesh that less than thirty-six hours ago was a living, breathing woman and said to the inspector, "What else is there to make of it? This is surely the work of the Devil." At this Sherlock gave slight chuckle. "Oh, come now, Watson. Let's deal with the facts. Inspector, at what time did these murders appear to take place? And what can you tell us about the circumstances relating as to how the victims were killed?"

At this, Inspector Abberline almost seemed at a loss, but he went on to offer Sherlock and Watson his hypothesis as to what occurred. "The women seemed to have been killed during the night, perhaps even as late as just before dawn. Incredibly risky behavior if you ask me, as it almost seems as though the Ripper was trying to be caught in the act. Anyway, since these women were known prostitutes, according to our witnesses at least, it is likely that the Ripper lured them with money and a solicitation for their services. However, this doesn't explain how he got the knife out without his victims knowing, and no one heard any screams which would indicate that the victims never saw the weapon until it was too late."

"Well, Inspector, it would seem to me that you lack experience with prostitutes." Sherlock said rather bluntly and surprisingly as it brought about an inquisitive look from Watson.

Sherlock went on, "Typically when men hire a prostitute the woman will hike up her skirt and be taken from behind. If our murderer had solicited the services of these women, he would have been able to catch them unawares if they had their back turned toward him. He could have reached around their throat and cut them. In doing this, he could sever their windpipe rendering them unable to speak, let alone scream for help or in fear for their life. Watson, we should have a closer look at the marks along the victim's throat to determine the direction of the cut."

At this Watson seemingly jumped towards the corpse whereas before he wanted to avoid it as it was increasingly making him angry. "Yes, Sherlock, this may be important evidence. If, and assuming you are right and he attacked them from behind, the mark appears deeper on the left side and gets thinner towards her right side, indicating the murderer is right handed."

"Thank you Dr. Watson, this is why your expertise is so valuable to me, data, data, data; I cannot theorize without it!"

At this, Abberline pointed out several stab wounds on Chapman's body. "Look here Dr. Watson, what can you make of these?" To this Watson said, "Well, these stab wounds seem to be rather vicious. It seems to me as though Jack must have slit her throat, and as she was bleeding and fell, he placed her on her back and then stabbed her repeatedly. Perhaps this was so that she might die faster in case someone should come by? Maybe he wanted to ensure more time to cut her up? I'm not sure Sherlock. What do you make of it?"

"He seems angry. Usually if someone stabs a victim like this, especially after slitting her throat, he is expressing his rage. Notice the effort it took to make these wounds. Some are thinner than others indicating that he may have tired from the labor of stabbing her quickly and repeatedly." Sherlock observed. "Well, there doesn't seem to be anything more we can do here, for now. Let's retire to Baker Street and determine our course of action. Thank you inspector, we will be in touch."

Chapter 4

A week had gone by and the Metropolitan Police were no nearer to finding Jack the Ripper than when Sherlock and Watson left the morgue. In the meantime however, Sherlock had become increasingly interested in the case although he found it to be incredibly taxing and virtually unsolvable, even for him.

Since leaving the morgue Sherlock attempted to better understand the Whitechapel district by dressing himself in one of his elaborate, yet convincing costumes and placing himself in the thick of East End night life. He determined to go and visit one of the local hot spots, The Ten Bells tavern, where the two victims, Mary Anne Nichols and Annie Chapman were known to frequent.

Sherlock was dressed in a dingy off-white waistcoat covered in what appeared to be coal dust and a brick colored scarf. He used spent coal and wood burnings from his fireplace to give the effect of having not cleaned his outfit for some time. Aside from the fact that he was not a regular customer at The Ten Bells, no one seemed to pay him much attention; an indication to the consulting detective that his attire was working and he was blending in nicely.

He approached the bar in a nonchalant fashion, idly looking around taking in the atmosphere, as well as the listing of available beers. The bartender, a haggard looking woman of about middle aged, or perhaps she was a bit younger but times had been hard on her perhaps ageing her beyond her years. She looked at Sherlock while raising her chin and brow to him and asked, "What'll it be, lad?"

"I think I'll try your best pint of bitter, madam." Sherlock responded.

"We only got the one, but you'll enjoy it all the same." She assured her new customer.

As the bartender poured the pint from the tap Sherlock turned his back away from the bar and scanned the room. Exactly what he was looking for he wasn't sure, but was confident that there must be some important clue within this establishment.

"Here's ya pint, sir." The bartender notified Sherlock. He turned around, smiled, and passed a bill to her to cover the cost. He took a sip and nearly gagged at how awful the brew was. He wanted to scrape his tongue clear of it with his handkerchief, but didn't want to draw too much attention to himself. He continued taking small sips of the beer, as much as he could stand to drink at a time, in the hopes that it would either remove the awfulness of the previous sip, or get better over time. Either way, he found himself disappointed.

After a few minutes Sherlock noticed a woman that had been standing by the doorway the entire time he had been at the bar. She had long curly blond hair, a fair face, and rather nice clothing for one that would be in Whitechapel. From her appearance and bodily gestures, Sherlock took her to be a prostitute. He took a final swig of the beer and left the still half full glass on the bar and walked toward the woman.

He went to speak to her but she beat him to the quick and got in the first line, "Lovely evening for a walk, wouldn't you agree?"

"Why, yes. I should say so. Shall we?"

"It would be my pleasure." She responded.

The two left the bar together and upon entering the dark street there was a sudden quietness and a slight chill in the air, the result of it having rained earlier in the day.

"You don't spend much time here in Whitechapel, do you?" She asked him.

"Why no, I suppose I don't. I thought I'd take in the sights and familiarize myself with the locals." Sherlock responded.

"So, what is it exactly that brought you to The Ten Bells tonight?" She asked.

"I am seeking information. Know anything about this Ripper fellow the press has gone into a frenzy over?"

She gave a short but hearty laugh. "Well, if I knew who he was I'd sure as rain tip off the authorities. Maybe there would even be some reward money in it for me."

"By chance, did you know either of the victims?" Sherlock inquired.

"Ah, sure I did. Many of the girls know each other. Sometimes we pair up and split the cost of a room if we've got the money. Otherwise we often become acquainted with each other in the workhouses or the indigent shelters."

"Forgive me, my lady, but you don't appear to be indigent based on your attire. Why do you come to Whitechapel?"

"Maybe I'm just really good at what I do. It's worth the money, I promise. Perhaps you'd like to have a go at it?" She said as she gave Sherlock a flirtatious wink.

"Some other time perhaps." Sherlock said with a determination to change the subject back to the case. "So you knew Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman?"

"Well, I can't say that I knew them well. I knew of them."

"Can you think of any reason why the Ripper would target them?" Sherlock inquired.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Isn't like this is the first time an unfortunate has met a sad end in Whitechapel, probably not the last either. But there is something uniquely disturbing about this case." The woman said.

"Is there anyone whom you might suspect to commit these crimes?" Sherlock asked, anxious to move things along.

"Well, there is this immigrant that people have been talking about, some Pole I think. I don't know what to make of him. He just seems a bit off if you know what I mean."

"Off, how do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, he just acts strange, that's all."

"Do you know his name?" Sherlock probed.

"Kos- something or other. Kosminski? I can't be sure. It may be nothing, but he sometimes comes around here, to the Ten Bells anyway. You might go back and wait for him." The woman said.

"Thank you, my lady. You have been most helpful. But, what may I ask, is your name?"

"Ha, I'll be seeing you again Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock was perplexed. He thought to himself, "How does she know my name?" But before he could ask, the mysterious woman had vanished, sneaking into one of the dark alleys of Whitechapel.

Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson spent the next week attempting to learn more about the elusive, Kosminski. They were dismayed that as of yet, they had not been able to find him. Watson had interviewed a baker in Whitechapel who claimed to be familiar with Kosminski. Holmes and Watson were relieved that they were able to find someone that could verify the existence of the possible suspect. The baker said he could recognize Kosminski because of the erratic behaviors he demonstrated. He told Watson, "He often seemed paranoid, as though someone was always after him. Crazy bloke if you ask me. I always feared he might have some violent tendency about him. Now go figure, after two prostitutes get killed in little over a week, he goes and disappears, and all seems to be quiet ever since."

Over the next few days Watson spoke to several more people who knew of the existence of Kosminski. They spoke mainly of his erratic behavior and his mysterious disappearance following the murders. The last person Watson spoke with in the Whitechapel district was a known prostitute in the area, one Mary Kelly. Kelly told him, "Well, I suppose I know who this Kosminski is, but I can't be too sure as there are lots of crazy drunken blokes around Whitechapel. Still, I'm sure the girls will stay away from him should he, or anyone matching his description try to solicit our services."

With the information Watson had collected, he returned to Baker Street to inform Sherlock Holmes. When he arrived at 221B, Sherlock was staring at the wall where several female anatomy charts had been hung. "So what have you learned my dear Watson?" Sherlock asked. Watson informed him of the information he had gathered while interviewing residents of Whitechapel. Sherlock remained silent for what seemed like several minutes. He paced around the room, seemingly pondering possible connections between this Kosminski fellow and the murders.

"Watson I must admit that it does seem to be incredibly suspicious. Just last year a German psychiatrist, Emil Kraepelin classified a mental disorder called schizophrenia and it seems, from what you have indicated, that this Kosminski fellow might be a prime candidate for such a diagnosis. But does this make him a murderer is the real question?"

At this, Watson wasn't quite sure what to make of the matter. "But surely Sherlock, the man was seen, known by many, and just happens to disappear after two murders are committed in just over the span of a week? Not to mention that there hasn't been another murder in the Whitechapel district since Kosminski's disappearance."

"Yes, Watson, I do not dismiss the evidence, but we must proceed with skepticism. This case is far more curious and difficult than I had ever imagined." Sherlock's words gave Watson a chill. He could feel goose prickles forming at his skin. He thought to himself, "My word, this case has got even the great Sherlock Holmes baffled." It was an unnerving and unsettling feeling, and it began to make Watson sick to his stomach. There must have been some reason why Sherlock could not, at least not as of yet, agree with the theory that this Kosminski fellow was a likely suspect. But it was also quite clear that Sherlock was not sure he shouldn't be.

Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes sent a telegram to Inspector Frederick Abberline, asking him to come at his earliest convenience to Baker Street so that they could share their developments in the case. The summer had come to conclusion and as autumn began, Sherlock and Watson were no closer at solving this great mystery than were the police at Scotland Yard. When Mrs. Hudson let in Inspector Abberline, he saw Sherlock sitting in a chair playing at his violin. The tune was somber, completely unfitting to the sun shining through the open window. A light crisp breeze blew into the flat as well. The fresh cool air should have been a tonic to invigorate the consulting detective, but he seemed almost resigned to defeat, as he feared Jack the Ripper had bested him.

"What news Mr. Holmes?" Abberline insisted as he removed his hat and waistcoat and took a seat on the sofa. Whereas Sherlock seemed morose, Abberline appeared to be in a perturbed mood.

"What do you know of a man named, Kosminski, Inspector?"

"We received your earlier telegram Mr. Holmes and it appears, as you fear, a possible dead end to our investigation. His name is Aaron Kosminski and he is an immigrant, a Polish Jew. He does seem to be a bit 'off' as was suggested, but being that he hasn't been charged with a crime and there is no actual evidence linking him to the crimes, our hands are tied. There isn't much we can do." Abberline stated.

"But do you think he committed those murders, Inspector?" Sherlock asked inquisitively.

"I cannot say. While I think he rightfully belongs as a suspect, there isn't any evidence linking him to the crime other than he disappeared for a while after the two murders. Did you hear that he was back in Whitechapel as of a few nights ago?"

"No, I hadn't." Sherlock confessed. "How have the people of Whitechapel reacted?"

"They keep away from him. I'd say at this point if there were another murder and if he is the culprit, by God we'll have him. We'd catch him red handed I think. The police are watching his residence and monitoring his every move, just in case." Abberline informed Sherlock.

"Keep up the good work Inspector. At worst, we will either catch him in the act, the murders will stop, or if there is another murder, we will be able to cross Kosminski off our list of suspects."

"Mr. Holmes, might I ask, what is your theory at this point in our investigation?"

Sherlock was almost reluctant to say as this case had baffled him more than any other to date. "Inspector, I have my doubts about Kosminski. Based on the letters we have received from the Ripper, I suspect this is a man of at least moderate financial means. Kosminski might be a paranoid schizophrenic, and he lacks a strong education, at least he has not been educated in any English school. If he is the killer we seek, the question of his knowledge of complex English words must be front and center, despite the fact that there are misspelled words in the letters. The murderer intentionally misspells simple words and correctly spells complex ones. The murderer uses a high quality paper, of which I would suspect that a Polish immigrant residing in a poor district would not spend his limited financial resources on such items. In a word Inspector I would say I am skeptical as to concluding that Kosminski is our killer."

With this, Abberline seemed convinced that the Metropolitan Police were targeting the wrong suspect. However, he was still convinced that it would be best to keep watch on the man that had at least shown to be their best suspect to date.

Chapter 7

"Double Murder! The Ripper Strikes Again!" Ran the news headlines. Two women, also known to be prostitutes, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were found dead on the morning of Sunday, September 30. Written on the side of the building at the site of Catherine Eddowes' murder on Goulston Street was a message in chalk stating, "The Jewes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing."

Upon arriving at the scene Inspector Abberline was informed that the chalk writing had been erased from the wall. The Inspector had to trust that the written copy by the Policeman on scene during his beat, in the dark, and in the presence of the dead and mutilated body where the killer might still be lurking in the shadows of the early morning hours, was accurate.

"What do we know about the victims?" He asked a policeman that had been on the scene.

"Well, sir" one of the officers said, "It appears that both victims were killed as a result of their throats being cut. The first body was found at about one o'clock this morning just off of Berner Street. This one found less than an hour after the other. But being that her body is all cut up, we thought you had best take a look at her." Then the officer pulled out his notebook and began thumbing through the pages. "Oh, but sir, we did take a man into custody, a Joseph Lawende. Witnesses in the area saw him shortly before the murder was reported."

Abberline approached the body and carefully examined it. There were several onlookers peering from upper floor windows in the surrounding buildings. "Was it the Ripper?" Someone yelled at him from an opened second floor window. He looked up, took notice of the young man making the inquiry, and without saying a word to him, lowered his head to take a closer look at the deceased. Upon examination he noticed that her kidney and uterus appeared to have been removed. "This work is quite disturbing," he thought to himself.

As he continued to examine the body a passerby shouted, "It was the Jews, I tell you! The Jews are to blame! They are the murderers. Arrest Kosminski! He did it, that filthy Jew!" Several people from the windows and balconies above began to yell in agreement, "Yeah! Arrest the guilty Jew!" Inspector Abberline had had quite enough of this. He was finding it difficult to concentrate with all the rabble rousing going on around him. However, the anti-semitic jeers from the onlookers suggested that the chalk writing, which he did not have the opportunity to examine himself, must have been at the least partially legitimate evidence and must have been copied accurately to a credible extent as it implied the Jews were to blame.

After inspecting the body and the crime scene, Inspector Abberline went to the morgue to see the remains of the earlier victim, Elizabeth Stride. Inspector Lestrade had been at the scene and shared his findings with Inspector Abberline. "Well, it looks as though the Ripper didn't finish his work with this one." Lestrade continued, "It all fits, the throat cutting, the removal of part of the abdomen. However, this job seems rushed. There were witnesses that said they saw the deceased with a man earlier in the evening. A man fitting the description has been taken into custody, a…" Lestrade looked down at his notes.

"Joseph Lawende." Inspector Abberline finished Lestrade's thought.

"Yeah, that's him." Lestrade confirmed.

"I was informed of the arrest at the other scene. It seems that some of the witnesses there confirmed the identity of Lawende as well, however, some seemed to give an entirely different description. Some noted a well dressed man, perhaps of some means." Stated Abberline.

"Word is that you've asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes to give you some assistance with this case, Inspector. Is that so?" Asked Lestrade.

"Why yes, it is. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have provided some fascinating theories as to the type of man, or monster rather, this Jack the Ripper fellow seems to be."

"But even the 'great' Sherlock Holmes would appear to be stumped on this one, isn't he?"

"Yes, so it would seem." Abberline had to admit.

"Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Wonder what, exactly?"

"Well, it would seem to me, perhaps we should be looking at Mr. Holmes, or perhaps Dr. Watson even, as potential suspects. I mean, who better to commit this sort of crime than the men that understand the mind of a criminal better than anyone; especially since one has the medical knowledge to cut up a body the way this Ripper fellow has done?" Queried Lestrade.

"Do you honestly believe that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could have, would have, committed such dastardly crimes?" Abberline seemed on the verge of rage at the suggestion.

"Now, look, I'm not saying they or even one of them did it. But why are we ruling them out. I know Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I've consulted with them on numerous cases. Usually Sherlock Holmes is very good at identifying the culprit just by listening to the details of the case. However, in this instance he seems to be clueless. Is that just a coincidence?" Lestrade offered.

"Well what would you like me to do, keep a watch on him? Place police by his house and wait for another murder just to see if we can cross him off the list of suspects?" Abberline questioned.

Lestrade said nothing but the look on his face suggested to Abberline that maybe they should just to be sure.

"Perhaps we should go and question Mr. Lawende now." Abberline suggested.

"Yes, let's do that. Let's see if we can get anything out of him." Lestrade said in agreement.

Chapter 8

Inspectors Lestrade and Abberline entered the cell where Joseph Lawende was being held. They introduced themselves and informed him that he was being held on suspicion of involvement in the murder of four women.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us regarding your whereabouts and activities of last evening, Mr. Lawende?" Asked Abberline.

"I didn't kill anyone, if that's what you're asking me." Lawende responded.

"Oh come on, we hear that all the time. How about you just tell us where you were, and what you did last night." Abberline responded.

Lawende took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. He rubbed at his eyes; he was clearly very tired, but also in deep distress given his current predicament. He looked both inspectors in the eye and went about telling his story.

"I was out last night. I had a few drinks and then went on my way. At the tavern I was talking to someone. It was idle chitchat, just something to pass the time while we drank. He said he was an artist looking for new material to work with."

"What was his name?" Lestrade asked. "Did he give you his name?"

"Uhm, uh, Sickert, yea, I'm pretty sure he said his name was Sickert. I asked him if the Ripper case intrigued him and if that was the new material he was looking for." Lawende said.

"And what did he say in response to your question?" Abberline inquired.

"He just smiled and said that Whitechapel had so much material to offer an artist." Lawende responded.

"Can you describe what this Sickert fellow looked like?" Asked Lestrade.

"He had a strong look about him, like a man that could handle heavy work. His hair was cut very short. His eyes, he had very distinctive eyes, as though they could look into your soul and he knew your every thought."

"What about his clothing? Could you describe what he was wearing?" Asked Abberline. At this point the inspector got very close to Lawende's face and could smell the faint trace of alcohol still on his breath.

"Actually, he looked like a rather well put together gentleman. He dressed well. He wore a nice black waistcoat. He had on clean shoes and a clean shirt that looked as though it had just been pressed." Lawende claimed.

"And what time were you at the tavern with him?" Asked Lestrade.

"Oh, I think it must have been sometime late in the evening, maybe 10 o'clock. I think I remember hearing the bells toll for ten in the evening right before I entered the tavern."

"Which tavern exactly? And about how long did you stay there?" Asked Abberline.

"The Frying Pan. I'm not sure how long I was there. Given all the noise I couldn't hear the bells toll on the outside from the inside and I was pretty well drunk by the time I left."

"So, Sickert left before you did, I take it?" Inquired Lestrade.

"Yes. I, I believe so."

"Well, what is it? Did he leave first or did you leave first?" Fumed Abberline.

"I can't be quite sure. I just know that we stopped talking at one point. He was trying to sell me some art he had done. A small miniature he carried in his pocket. It was a nice little piece, but I don't exactly have spare shillings to spend on such things. Anyway, when we stopped talking he moved on, to where, I couldn't tell you. I'm not sure if he was still in the tavern. He may have gone off to chat with someone else, or maybe he left. Either way, I got drunk, covered my bill, and fell asleep in the alley near Berner Street. I woke up and began to move along, and before I know it, I'm being handled by the police accused of murder!"

At this Lestrade signaled to Abberline to come and speak with him outside of the holding area. They went back to Abberline's office and began to discuss the viability of Lawende as a serious suspect.

"I don't think this is our man." Abberline confessed.

"Perhaps, but I can't say that I believe him to be innocent, either." Lestrade retorted. He continued, "I mean, who is to say he didn't get drunk, go moseying about the area and kill the two women? Both murders happened within close proximity of each other and he was there, at the crime scene."

"Maybe you're right, but I'm not convinced. Say we do get him to confess, but he isn't the right man. If the Ripper strikes again we will never hear the end of it; Scotland Yard arrests an innocent man while the killer strikes again! It wouldn't bode well for us." Offered Abberline. "Perhaps we should ask Mr. Holmes what he thinks."

At this Inspector Lestrade rolled his eyes and shook his head. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew Sherlock Holmes' expertise in this situation would be of immense value; that is, assuming Mr. Holmes himself was not the Ripper. A possibility Lestrade would not dismiss just yet.

Chapter 9

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were sitting at the dining table eating when they heard knocking at their door. Both Sherlock and Watson looked at each other indicating that it should be the other one that opens the door. Watson lifted up his walking cane and gave Sherlock a bit of a smirk as though Sherlock should take notice of how clever the excuse was. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed before wiping a napkin over his mouth and getting up to open the door.

When he opened it he sighed again, but this time in a bit of disgust upon seeing Inspector Lestrade with Inspector Abberline. "And here I thought we were taking a much needed holiday from one another." Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"Yes, well it would seem that the gods are not so kind." Lestrade quipped back.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to see you both again. I wanted to go over our progress in the Ripper case with you and see if you might have any further insight with which you might guide us." Stated Inspector Abberline.

"Yes, yes, of course, Inspector. Anything we can do to be of service." Said Sherlock.

"Certainly you are aware of the double homicide that occurred the other night of which we have attributed to the Ripper." Abberline went on.

"Yes, horrifying stuff, Inspector. But I hear from my sources that a suspect has been taken into custody." Said Sherlock.

"Yes." Lestrade stated and went on, "But we are having doubts that this man, Lawende, is in fact the Ripper."

"Well, Lestrade. I suppose you believe it to be me then." Said Sherlock in a blunt tone.

"Why, I…" Lestrade was tongue-tied.

"Have no fear, Lestrade." Sherlock went on. "I only say that because I figured you might find me to be a likely suspect, for reasons I am sure you have already mapped out in your mind. But moving on to more pertinent information and theories regarding this case, what of that Polish immigrant, Kosminski? Where was he during all of this?"

"No reports of him in the area at the time." Said Abberline. "We have had a policeman watch him round the clock. Either Kosminski is innocent or he is really good at eluding our policeman."

"So, what then of the new suspect?" Asked Sherlock.

Lestrade proceeded to tell Sherlock the details from the police interrogation with Lawende. Sherlock and Watson listened carefully to try and absorb every detail in order to develop a better theory, should the evidence against Lawende begin to mount and prove credible. When Lestrade had finished Sherlock took out a pipe, filled it with fresh tobacco and began to smoke. He was clearly in thought, as he kept moving his head upward and tilted it periodically as he paced around the room puffing away at his pipe. Watson remained seated but stared at Sherlock inquisitively. After a few moments Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face the others in the room.

"I have to say, it does seem suspicious. I would not let Lawende go on account of his poor defense stating, 'I was drunk and did not know where I was.' After all, he just happened to end up at the scene of the crime and several witnesses identified a man who fit his description as the last one seen with the victim? Curious."

"Yes, but Sherlock," Watson began to try and deconstruct Sherlock's hypothesis. "This man Sickert would surely fit the description several other witnesses identified."

"Perhaps, Watson. It disturbs me how difficult this case has proven to be. What is worse is that our murderer seems to be picking up steam rather than slowing down. Now, I am inclined to agree that Lawende would not have been able to carry out these murders if he were severely inebriated. This kind of dastardly work would require a steady hand and a lot of strength. Someone as drunk as he claims to have been would not have been able to do this. His testimony hinges on a matter of degree of inebriation." Just then Sherlock thought of something, "Inspectors! Do you by chance have the photographs of the crime scenes, especially any showing the details of how the victims were cut?"

Inspector Abberline responded, "Well, no sir. We have several pictures of the crime scenes and we have images of the victims, but no photos were taken that showed the removed uterus or even detail of the knife wounds to the throat."

"Ah, that is tragic." Sherlock said in a depressed tone. "What has been done with the bodies?" He asked.

"Well, they were cremated this morning." Stated Lestrade.

"Even more tragic." Sherlock noted. He continued, "Well gentlemen, it is difficult for me to come to conclusions when you destroy the evidence before providing me the opportunity to examine it personally." Sherlock hoped to look for the severity of the stab marks to determine if a highly intoxicated man would be able to achieve Ripper like stab wounds.

"You have access to our field notes, as well as the coroner's reports." Lestrade stated.

"Yes, but Dr. Watson and I should have been afforded the opportunity to examine the bodies for ourselves. I assure you we would have found things others fail to see." Sherlock stated with a marked degree of frustration.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. We will remember for next time." Lestrade said. Unfortunately, he had spoken before he had sufficient time to think his thoughts through. The group seemed to realize just then that because of the sad oversight in which the evidence was destroyed, another woman was sure to become the Ripper's next victim and they would be unable to stop him. Now they were playing a game of wait and see.

"Well, we will be in touch, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." Said Inspector Abberline as he and Lestrade made their way to the door, leaving the flat. When they were gone Sherlock and Watson shared a dismayed look before retiring to separate rooms, unable to deal even with each other in wake of this unfortunate realization.

Chapter 10

Sherlock Holmes was up early the next morning with a sense of purpose and vigor that was absent the night before. John Watson woke to find him up at a desk writing notes and thinking out loud to himself.

"Good morning, Sherlock. You're up early this morning. Any news regarding the case?"

"Ah, Watson!" Sherlock said energetically as he rose from his seat at the desk and grabbed Watson by the shoulders. "I have been going over the suspect list and have been able to narrow it down."

Watson was amazed, albeit a bit skeptical at the same time. "That is wonderful, Sherlock. But you will I trust excuse my initial skepticism as I ask you to explain your theory or theories and I attempt to find the flaw in them as to test their validity."

"Why of course my dear fellow. Let's get to it. First, at this point I think we must rule out Aaron Kosminski. The police have been watching him constantly and he was not in the proximity of the previous two murders. Therefore I have removed him from my list. Secondly, if Lawende was indeed as drunk as he claims to have been when he was taken in by police it would suggest that Lawende is also not the man we are looking for."

"So whom are we looking for then, Sherlock?" Asked Watson.

"I wish I knew more about this fellow, Sickert." Sherlock said in a firm tone.

"But he seems so inconsequential to this whole thing. An artist who heard about the murders and rushed to Whitechapel to find inspiration for his work." Watson brushed off the theory. "Besides, as you seem to admit, we don't know much about him. There is no evidence directly linking him to any of the crime scenes."

"Yes, but this killer has been incredibly good at being coy while at the same time creating such elaborate, dare I say fantastically loud crime scenes. It takes quite a skill to do that." Sherlock claimed. "Sickert may just fit that description. He is after all, an artist. He let's his work speak for him."

"That is an interesting theory Sherlock, however, I'm not quite convinced as this seems based purely on speculative grounds. We don't even know this man Sickert's first name."

"Well, he is an artist. If he is even remotely known within the art world, that won't be difficult at all to find." Sherlock stated as a matter of fact.

Just then Sherlock opened to a specific page in the newspaper. "Ah, look at this Watson, a new art exhibit is opening in three days at The National Gallery featuring several local artists, a private event apparently. Do you fancy this might be a good place to seek out Sickert?"

As Watson looked over at Sherlock to acknowledge this clever little coincidence, Sherlock simply smiled.

Chapter 11

Three evenings later Sherlock and Watson's hansom pulled into Trafalgar Square where they arrived to see an impressive crowd gathering at The National Gallery on the evening of the exhibit. As they exited the hansom they felt a cool night breeze that brought with it a sense of reinvigoration to their energy. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what he would say should he meet Sickert. He wasn't exactly a critic of art and was having difficulty displaying a sense of confidence that both he and Watson could give others the impression that they belonged at such an event. Nonetheless, Lestrade and Abberline had been able to secure them access to the event by making the case that they were sending the two to investigate the possibility that a Rembrandt painting was a fake. Sherlock and Watson were not made aware of this and were only informed that they were going as art critics. The detail about the investigation into the possibility of a fake Rembrandt was Abberline's idea, but Lestrade failed to explain it to them.

Much to their surprise, Sherlock and Watson were greeted at the entrance by a tall slender man of about twenty-five years of age appearing to have already begun to go bald. He was dressed in a fine tuxedo and seemed very pleased to meet them. "Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I am a curator here at The National Gallery, the name is William Townsend." He stated as he extended his hand to shake each of theirs. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Inspector Lestrade informed me earlier that you might make an appearance this evening. I do so hope that you will agree that all is in order."

Sherlock seemed a bit confused. "In order, you say?"

"Why, yes." The curator stated. "You are here to inspect the Rembrandt, are you not?"

"Oh, yes, of course, the Rembrandt!" Watson said in a jovial manner. He then turned to Sherlock and whispered "Clearly Lestrade forgot to explain the details of how he gained access to this event for us. However, I suspect this will give us more access to the museum than we had previously imagined."

Sherlock whispered back, "I don't need extended access, I just need to find Sickert."

Watson sought to reassure Sherlock, "All well and good. If he is here, we will find him. Until then, just play along and we will work it into the conversation. Or who knows, maybe we'll just find him on our own."

The curator took them past the lobby where art spectators were gathering and admiring, or in some cases, envying the eveningwear of the other art enthusiasts and artists. Several of them were enjoying drinks and conversation, not paying the slightest attention to Sherlock or Watson as the curator led them into the main exhibit hall. They walked into a large room filled with several works by various artists. Watson commented, "Ha, there must have been some pretty stiff competition to gain the prime spaces along the wall." A reference to how artists wanted their works to be presented at eye level and in the center of one of the walls so as to direct the viewer's eye to their work.

"Why, yes, there usually is with these types of events." Said the curator.

Both Watson and Sherlock immediately recognized the foolishness of Watson's comment and their look to each other indicated that both wished it could be taken back as they feared the loss of their cover.

Sherlock attempted to regain their standing and steer the dialogue in the direction of his true intentions. "There is an artist whose work I have recently become somewhat familiar with and was curious to know if he might be showcasing any of his art at this evening's event, his name is Sickert."

The curator stopped in his tracks. This gave Sherlock and Watson a momentary panic, as they did not know if this had given them away. Sickert could have been a failed artist, a nobody, and they were too ignorant to know it.

"Ah, Mr. Walter Sickert! Why yes, he is here this evening. Yes, I'd love to introduce you to him after we look over the Rembrandt." The curator said much to Sherlock and Watson's equal parts joy and relief.

The curator led them into another room, this one containing the Rembrandt that had, as a cover, had its authenticity called into question. "Ah, there it is!" Watson said with an eagerness to look it over and finish this charade.

"Yes, this is the Rembrandt. I really do hope that it is authentic. How long will it take you to examine it? Will you need to take it away from the museum to test?"

Sherlock and Watson were both stunned at the curator asking if they would need to remove the painting from the museum for inspection. They both looked to each other, and then looked to the curator and at the same instant,

"Yes!" Said Sherlock

"No." Said Watson.

Again simultaneously,

"I mean No!" Said Sherlock

"I mean Yes!" Said Watson.

"Why don't I just let the two of you look it over and let me know what you intend to do when you are finished. I have other duties to attend to if you do not require further assistance." The curator said before leaving them to their work. With a nod from Sherlock the curator left the room.

"Sherlock, this is a priceless work of art. We can't just take it."

"Oh, come now Watson, can you honestly tell me you wouldn't like to have an original Rembrandt self portrait hanging in the flat? Just for a week. No one will miss it."

"Honestly, Sherlock. Are you really that interested in the painting?" Watson inquired.

"Why wouldn't I be? Why shouldn't I be?" Sherlock said with a bit of pompousness in his voice.

They pretended to look over the Rembrandt self-portrait The National Gallery had acquired in the 1820s. There was no reason for them to claim it was not authentic, but they had to give the appearance that they were conducting actual detective work, at least until they felt confident that the curator was out of the way and they could get to the real detective work of the evening.

"So, do we tell him it is in fact the genuine article?" Sherlock asked Watson as they both admired the painting.

Watson went to voice an answer but was cut off by the curator reentering the room. "So, what do you gentlemen think?"

"Well, I think we should have a closer examination of the piece, perhaps in a laboratory where we can examine the work with more modern instruments other than our naked eyes. Could you have someone take it off the wall for us?" Sherlock asked.

"Why, yes. I do believe that would be possible." Said the curator.

"In the meantime, we would very much like to have the opportunity to take in the works of this evening's exhibit, if that would be satisfactory." Sherlock stated.

"Yes, yes, surely, gentlemen. Right this way. You can be introduced to Mr. Sickert as well." The curator motioned his arm and extended his hand, leading Sherlock and Watson back to the exhibit, where they hoped to meet the artist and Ripper suspect, Walter Sickert.

Chapter 12

The exhibit hall was now filled with spectators giving the space a completely different atmosphere, as though it were a completely different room from that which they had been just a short while ago. At each of the paintings were crowds varying in size from one to as many as a dozen spectators, each viewer trying to analyze every brushstroke of the more promising works, or trying to find some merit in the less promising ones. Sherlock and Watson both wondered if Sickert's work was deserving of one of the larger crowds, or, if as they might have suspected, his work proved to be less favorable; which, assuming he was the Ripper, might explain the expressions of rage interpreted in the Ripper's ghastly work. Just then a thought occurred to Sherlock, "Does Sickert, if he is the Ripper, view his murders as works of art?" Sherlock's mind began to drift as his thoughts turned to images of cut up bodies, blood soaked cobblestones with human entrails fallen to the ground. The dead stare of the Ripper's victims, the large cuts against their throats. Just then he had a vision of a knife, glistening in the moonlight just before slashing open a throat. Blood pouring, the victim struggling to breathe, reaching to try and stop the flow of blood as the life spilled uncontrollably out of her, unable to scream.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, it pleases me to introduce you to Mr. Walter Sickert." The curator said to them as the artist happened to be walking by. Sickert smiled at Sherlock and Watson and introduced himself. "Hello, I'm Walter Sickert. It is nice to meet you." He said in a pleasing tone. Sickert's disposition felt warm and friendly despite his muscular and intimidating build. His eyes appeared both soft and frightening, as though he might be the type of man that could go from angel to demon in an instant.

"Mr. Sickert I was hoping I might have a word with you." Sherlock stated plainly.

"In regards to what, sir?" Sickert responded.

"Uh, we were curious as to where you draw your inspiration from." Watson rushed to say, as he feared Sherlock may say something just then that would draw suspicion to their intent.

"I draw my inspiration from all sorts of places. As you may have noticed, some of my works have a rather soothing or calming effect, such as my landscape pieces. However, I also enjoy examining the darker side of life." Sickert responded.

"So Whitechapel has been a good source of inspiration for you of late, I assume?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure what you mean." Replied Sickert, seemingly confused.

"You were spotted in Whitechapel near the sight of a Ripper murder several weeks ago."

"Ha! What are you gentlemen implying, that I am Jack the Ripper?" Sickert seemed to laugh while speaking and genuinely seemed amused at the possibility of such an accusation.

"What if we were?" Sherlock stated with an air of confidence in his accusation.

"Well, gentleman. This has been an interesting meeting; quite an entertaining one I must say. Please enjoy the art and have a pleasant evening."

With that Sickert walked away and within taking a few steps he was talking with another art enthusiast, a woman with blond hair and a purple dress. She seemed to know Sickert by the way he smiled and upon seeing her he stretched out his arms to embrace her shoulders. He began speaking to the woman as though the brief interaction with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had never happened.

"Watson, at least now we know who he is." Sherlock stated in an attempt to note some victory for their efforts this evening.

Chapter 13

Sherlock woke and went into the living room of his and Watson's flat at 221B Baker Street. He noticed Watson standing, staring at the Rembrandt self portrait that hung from the wall above the sofa.

"Oh, I'll return it to the museum in a few days and tell them it is the genuine article." Sherlock said in a brusque tone. "Besides, I think we came across as legitimate art crime inspectors doing it this way." Sherlock said now trying to relax Watson's uneasiness about taking the valuable painting.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Sherlock opened it to reveal Inspectors Abberline and Lestrade. "May we come in?" Asked Abberline.

"Why, yes of course my good inspectors." Sherlock responded.

As they entered the living space Lestrade took notice of the Rembrandt painting hanging above the sofa. Enraged, he fumed "Mr. Holmes, would you care to explain to me why on God's Earth you have the self portrait of Rembrandt hanging in your flat?"

"As a matter of fact inspector," Sherlock said pointedly, "I would not care to."

"Fear not my good inspector," Watson began, "we intend to return it at the end of the week. We decided it might be best to take it from the museum in order to 'inspect' it for authenticity. That way the curator, and perhaps the artist Sickert, would not become aware of our true intentions for attending the art exhibit."

"May I inquire, inspectors, as to why you have paid us this little visit this morning?" Sherlock asked in an attempt to get things moving.

"We received this." Inspector Abberline handed a letter to Sherlock.

"It would appear that it is from Jack the Ripper." Sherlock noted. "It is addressed 'From Hell'. How amusing." Sherlock chuckled and looked up at Abberline. "But what makes you think that this letter is legitimate? Or is that what you have come here to inquire?"

"He sent us this with the letter." Stated Lestrade as he handed a small box to Sherlock.

The look on Sherlock's face became very troubled as he considered what might be in the small parcel. He opened it. As he did, his face became stern with a somber and sober appearance. Watson took a step closer to Sherlock as to be able to get a look for himself and upon doing so placed his hand over his mouth saying, "Good God, man!" In the box were the remains of a human kidney. When Watson was able to compose himself he took up the letter and had difficulty hiding his rage when he noted that at the bottom the Ripper had written, 'Catch me if you can.' The Ripper was now taunting the Inspectors as well as the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Chapter 14

It was the morning of November 8 and both Scotland Yard and 221B Baker Street were no closer at finding the Ripper. There simply was not enough evidence to hold Joseph Lawende, and Aaron Kosminski had been taken into custody and placed in an asylum, and the case against Walter Sickert was speculative at best. It had been two weeks since the 'From Hell' letter was received at Scotland Yard and despite half of a human kidney being included with the letter, there was no way to determine its authenticity as it was not sent on the same paper Sherlock had earlier determined as belonging to the Ripper.

"It infuriates me Watson, that I cannot conclude this case. I fear I may have met my match. I just hope we catch him before he kills again." Sherlock said to Watson in a tone that suggested defeat was at hand.

"Well getting down about it isn't going to do us any good. Sherlock, you can't expect to solve every case. Your methods, while unexplainable, are the most effective anyone has ever seen. We may yet catch the bastard." Watson said reassuringly.

"I just fear that our time is running out before he strikes again." Sherlock said with a tone of sadness in his voice. It pained him that the lives of other women were at risk because he lacked, what he saw, as the intellectual abilities to outsmart the Ripper. "It is as if it will be my fault that they die." Sherlock said, now going into a fit of despair.

"Sherlock, that is nonsense." Watson countered, frustration obvious in his voice. The Ripper is the only one responsible here. Your actions might just throw him off. You might catch him yet. You cannot assume the blame for his actions!"

"Oh, perhaps you're right John. It's just, ah, I can't stand the thought of being beaten. Especially being beaten by him. I'm so close I can feel it. But it is just out of grasp." Sherlock stated passionately.

Later the two went out for lunch and tried to get their minds off the case for a few hours. During their meal they agreed it might be best to take a few days rest from the case. It had been weeks since the Ripper last struck. Perhaps it would be weeks before he struck again. Maybe he was done. Either way the two had concluded that they would be utterly useless to the Metropolitan Police if they continued to allow the case to wreck havoc on their minds. That evening they took in a show at the theater, Hamlet, as played by Sir Henry Irving. They hoped that this would be the start to a much-needed holiday from their affairs.

Chapter 15

A line from the Shakespearean play keep repeating in Sherlock's mind, 'Murder most foul.'

It was the morning of November 9, and Abberline had been called to 13 Miller's Court, to a single room apartment, where the body of Mary Kelly had been found, disemboweled and mutilated beyond any clear recognition. Not only had her throat been cut to the spine, her organs had been removed, and her heart was missing. Her face had more or less been cut off. Her body lay on the bed; blood was everywhere, including the walls and the floor around her. It was the single most gruesome of the Ripper crime scenes. It was clear to Abberline that he had taken his time with this one. Why he killed her at her residence and not in the street as with the others remained unclear, but in a way, it seemed irrelevant. Abberline was no longer concerned with motive. He just wanted the killing to end.

Lestrade appeared at the scene a short time later. When he entered the room he saw Abberline standing over the body taking notes. Abberline felt Lestrade's presence in the room and turned to acknowledge him. As he did so, it gave Lestrade a view of the body. His face turned white as a ghost and immediately he had to run out of the room so that he would not disturb the crime scene with the vomit he was able to hold only long enough to get across the threshold of the door and back onto the street. "Oh God!" He exclaimed in equal parts disgust and horror.

When Lestrade regained his composure he reentered the room. Abberline had continued taking notes, and offered Lestrade a handkerchief to tie around his nose and mouth to try and reduce the stench of blood and death that overpowered the room. "Inspector, are you well enough to help me in recording an official police report on the matter at hand?" Abberline asked of Lestrade.

"Yes, yes inspector, quite ready." Lestrade responded, albeit without certainty of his true ability.

They examined the scene and recorded as detailed and accurate as possible a report from which they could work into their Ripper investigation. When they had finished their task Lestrade asked, "Should we have Holmes and Watson take a look? Perhaps their insight might give us some further clues into the matter. Perhaps if we have overlooked something, or could use a different perspective, or simply a man of Holmes' talents."

Abberline shook his head. "No inspector, this is the end. The Ripper has been taunting us. He wants us to continue to pursue him. This is a game to him and if we continue to play, he will continue to kill. If we cannot catch him, we can at least decide to stop playing the game. Cease to give him the attention he craves. You saw it yourself in his letter, 'catch me if you can.' Well, perhaps we can't. But what we can do is stop giving him attention. Let's file the report, tell the public that we are following all credible leads and that it is still an open case. But in all honesty, let's leave this alone. Cut our losses."

"Inspector!" Lestrade fumed. "How can you, look at this butchery right in front of you! You can't just walk away from this! It is wrong, it is immoral, and unethical!"

"Yes, but if he stops. If it saves more lives to let him be, then I will take the loss. I will bear responsibility for not catching him. But let's not allow this, this disgusting deed to happen to anyone else if we can prevent it; even if that means letting him go free."

Sherlock and Watson did not hear anything of the case until they read the evening papers. From their reading chairs they looked at each other in astonished befuddlement that they had learned of the brutal murder of Mary Kelly through the papers and not from Abberline and Lestrade. "Why would they not seek your insight?" Watson asked of Sherlock.

"I don't know. Maybe they feel confident that they no longer need my help in catching him. Perhaps the murderer is in custody as we speak."

After months with no arrests in the Ripper case it became clear to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson that Scotland Yard had given up trying to apprehend Jack the Ripper. As the years rolled by and still with no arrests, Londoners had moved on. No new Ripper like murders had occurred since the death of Mary Kelly. Maybe the Ripper was dead. Maybe he had moved to another country. Maybe he got bored with killing. Sherlock Holmes believed that to be an unlikely scenario. Either way, the Ripper had not been captured. As time continued to pass the Ripper had gone from being London's most feared criminal to London's favorite criminal legend. So-called Ripper experts began giving tours of the places where he had brutally murdered unfortunate women in the Whitechapel district.

In 1912 Sherlock Holmes was in-between cases and happened to visit the Manchester City Art Gallery where he came across a painting by Walter Sickert. The title of the painting was Jack the Ripper's Bedroom. The painting included a figure that appeared to be a tall man, the Ripper's head was lowered, and barely visible as the figure has his back turned. He wears a long black coat with what appears to be a red cloth hanging from the waist. The Ripper is looking out of a window, perhaps in search of a new victim. Sherlock looked at the painting for several minutes and then muttered out loud, although quietly and albeit with a voice filled with rage, "I almost had you, you sick son of a bitch."