The public is under a terrible misapprehension that Holmes was unsuccessful in solving the Jack the Ripper Murders. I suppose that if there exists such a mechanism as Fate, years down the line someone may open this box at Cox and Co. and discover the truth about those blood-washed nights when the killer stalked the horrified city.
The last murder in the steaming little shack with the body laid out on the filthy sheets, when my friend got there ten minutes late and failed to stop the killing, is a memory I will take to the other side of the grave. The stench was too strong and we fled that room of terror choking and retching. I did not sleep for days after, and only years later can I make it through the night without falling prey to night terrors.
Sherlock Holmes never forgave himself his fobile. I insisted that if he knew the identity of the killer, he must do us all a service and turn him in. He said that would not be possible. The authorities, he said, would refuse to dole out any justice to the wrongdoer and Holmes felt he could not confront the killer on his own turf, though he knew where he dwelled.
"But who is it?" I cried. "Pray tell!"
"My dear brother."