(Time: October 1888.
Place: 221B Baker Street. Renowned detective Sherlock Holmes is seated in his armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper.)
Holmes (mumbling to himself): Great. Now they’ve got murder hornets in Washington State.
Watson (looks up from the settee): Not another murder in Whitechapel, Holmes!
Holmes: Eh? What? Has Saucy Jack been at it again?
Watson: You tell me, Holmes. You’re the one talking about murder.
(Holmes lights his pipe with an ember from the fire.)
Holmes: The whole city is talking about murder, my good fellow, since the events of September 30. Scotland Yard is at sixes and sevens. I’d look into the case myself if I weren’t currently preoccupied in writing a monograph on clams.
(They hear a knock at the door.)
Holmes: Do come in, Mrs. Hudson!
(The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, enters.)
Mrs. Hudson: A gentleman here to see you, Mr. Holmes.
Holmes: Show him up, Mrs. Hudson. We could do with a visitor on this bleak afternoon.
(Footsteps ensue. A tall man with a back felt hat enters the flat.)
Holmes: Take a seat, Mr…?
Man: Ripper, Mr. Holmes. John T. Ripper. My friends call me Jack.
Watson: What the actual f***?
Holmes: Surely you’re in jest.
Ripper: I’m not codding you, dear old Boss. My name is John Thomas Ripper. Address: Smoke and Mirrors Doss House, Flower & Dean Street.
Watson: John Thomas? That name is a bit naff, surely?
Ripper: Gentlemen, is it your policy to insult guests?
Watson: I might ask if it’s your policy, old chap, to quote from a letter purportedly sent by the fiend who’s dispatched at least four Whitechapel prossies.
Ripper: It’s true I’m down on whores, but isn’t everybody? That’s not why I’ve come here today. I implore you, Mr. Holmes, to aid me in my quest to join the Lamb Chop Lodge, my local Freemason chapter, which meets at the Ten Bells Pub on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Streets in Spitalfields. I’ve written to Prince Albert, the Grand Master, as well as the Earl of Carnarvon, and even Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of Police, but better known as London’s leading Freemason. None of them has responded.
Watson: Certainly he could assist you, old boy, but— and I’m just spitballing here— perhaps you aren’t qualified to be a Mason?
Holmes: Just so, Ripper. One needs a thorough education, I suppose.
Ripper: Why, I nearly graduated from Buck's Row Board School.
Holmes: And you have no criminal record?
Ripper: Not that you know of, Mr. Holmes.
Holmes: That was a dodgy answer, don’t you agree, Watson?
Watson: Rather! I say, Holmes, this fellow must believe he is too clever by half if he thinks you don’t know all about him just by looking at his clothing and so on.
Holmes: To be sure, my friend.
(Holmes takes in a deep draught from his meerschaum and looks out the window.)
Watson: Your shirt cuffs, for example.
(Holmes remains silent.)
Watson (warming to his theme): Your shoes!
Ripper: What of them?
Watson: Blessed if I know. I’m not the detective. Holmes, tell Ripper here some personal nugget you’ve gleaned from his shoes.
Holmes (finally comes up with something and waves his pipe): Bugger the shoes, Watson! Take a look at his hat!
Ripper: What about my hat?
Holmes: Tallow stains from a guttering candle, no doubt, because you’re too poor to have gas laid on in your house!
Watson: No, no! Matthew Packer, the greengrocer who sold grapes to the killer and his victim, Elizabeth Stride, described the Ripper as wearing a black felt hat!
Ripper: Stuff and nonsense. The killer is not the only man to wear a black felt hat. Look at the hat on the end table by Dr. Watson. Perhaps he is Saucy Jack.
Watson (sputtering): Blast! Back to Square 1, Holmes. Wait a tick, are those traces of blood I see on Mr. Ripper’s sleeve?
Holmes: No doubt he cut himself shaving this morning. We need more proof.
Ripper (standing): All this nattering about gets me no closer to a Lamb Chop Lodge membership. You two have made rather a dog’s breakfast of this meeting.
Watson (looking at Ripper up and down): I say, Holmes, Ripper here is tall, wouldn’t you agree?
Holmes: And?
Watson: Why, the greengrocer said the killer was tall! And well-spoken. Would you not concur that our visitor speaks the Queen’s fairly well for a chap from the East End?
Holmes: Nonsense. That’s a load of tat, Watson.
Ripper: Quite so, Mr. Holmes. Any ordinary bloke in London might be tall, well-spoken, in possession of a black felt hat, and slathered in dried blood.
Holmes: Well, you have cheered me up no end by dropping by. Watson here means well, but he is rather dull. Have a seat at the dining table, and I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson to bring up our tea. I believe she’s baked her signature kidney pie.
Ripper: Jolly good!
(Watson glares at the detective as Holmes claps Ripper on the back.)
Holmes: Have you read about the murder hornets in Washington State? Ghastly business.
Ripper: I’d be delighted to hear about it!
Place: 221B Baker Street. Renowned detective Sherlock Holmes is seated in his armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper.)
Holmes (mumbling to himself): Great. Now they’ve got murder hornets in Washington State.
Watson (looks up from the settee): Not another murder in Whitechapel, Holmes!
Holmes: Eh? What? Has Saucy Jack been at it again?
Watson: You tell me, Holmes. You’re the one talking about murder.
(Holmes lights his pipe with an ember from the fire.)
Holmes: The whole city is talking about murder, my good fellow, since the events of September 30. Scotland Yard is at sixes and sevens. I’d look into the case myself if I weren’t currently preoccupied in writing a monograph on clams.
(They hear a knock at the door.)
Holmes: Do come in, Mrs. Hudson!
(The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, enters.)
Mrs. Hudson: A gentleman here to see you, Mr. Holmes.
Holmes: Show him up, Mrs. Hudson. We could do with a visitor on this bleak afternoon.
(Footsteps ensue. A tall man with a back felt hat enters the flat.)
Holmes: Take a seat, Mr…?
Man: Ripper, Mr. Holmes. John T. Ripper. My friends call me Jack.
Watson: What the actual f***?
Holmes: Surely you’re in jest.
Ripper: I’m not codding you, dear old Boss. My name is John Thomas Ripper. Address: Smoke and Mirrors Doss House, Flower & Dean Street.
Watson: John Thomas? That name is a bit naff, surely?
Ripper: Gentlemen, is it your policy to insult guests?
Watson: I might ask if it’s your policy, old chap, to quote from a letter purportedly sent by the fiend who’s dispatched at least four Whitechapel prossies.
Ripper: It’s true I’m down on whores, but isn’t everybody? That’s not why I’ve come here today. I implore you, Mr. Holmes, to aid me in my quest to join the Lamb Chop Lodge, my local Freemason chapter, which meets at the Ten Bells Pub on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Streets in Spitalfields. I’ve written to Prince Albert, the Grand Master, as well as the Earl of Carnarvon, and even Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of Police, but better known as London’s leading Freemason. None of them has responded.
Watson: Certainly he could assist you, old boy, but— and I’m just spitballing here— perhaps you aren’t qualified to be a Mason?
Holmes: Just so, Ripper. One needs a thorough education, I suppose.
Ripper: Why, I nearly graduated from Buck's Row Board School.
Holmes: And you have no criminal record?
Ripper: Not that you know of, Mr. Holmes.
Holmes: That was a dodgy answer, don’t you agree, Watson?
Watson: Rather! I say, Holmes, this fellow must believe he is too clever by half if he thinks you don’t know all about him just by looking at his clothing and so on.
Holmes: To be sure, my friend.
(Holmes takes in a deep draught from his meerschaum and looks out the window.)
Watson: Your shirt cuffs, for example.
(Holmes remains silent.)
Watson (warming to his theme): Your shoes!
Ripper: What of them?
Watson: Blessed if I know. I’m not the detective. Holmes, tell Ripper here some personal nugget you’ve gleaned from his shoes.
Holmes (finally comes up with something and waves his pipe): Bugger the shoes, Watson! Take a look at his hat!
Ripper: What about my hat?
Holmes: Tallow stains from a guttering candle, no doubt, because you’re too poor to have gas laid on in your house!
Watson: No, no! Matthew Packer, the greengrocer who sold grapes to the killer and his victim, Elizabeth Stride, described the Ripper as wearing a black felt hat!
Ripper: Stuff and nonsense. The killer is not the only man to wear a black felt hat. Look at the hat on the end table by Dr. Watson. Perhaps he is Saucy Jack.
Watson (sputtering): Blast! Back to Square 1, Holmes. Wait a tick, are those traces of blood I see on Mr. Ripper’s sleeve?
Holmes: No doubt he cut himself shaving this morning. We need more proof.
Ripper (standing): All this nattering about gets me no closer to a Lamb Chop Lodge membership. You two have made rather a dog’s breakfast of this meeting.
Watson (looking at Ripper up and down): I say, Holmes, Ripper here is tall, wouldn’t you agree?
Holmes: And?
Watson: Why, the greengrocer said the killer was tall! And well-spoken. Would you not concur that our visitor speaks the Queen’s fairly well for a chap from the East End?
Holmes: Nonsense. That’s a load of tat, Watson.
Ripper: Quite so, Mr. Holmes. Any ordinary bloke in London might be tall, well-spoken, in possession of a black felt hat, and slathered in dried blood.
Holmes: Well, you have cheered me up no end by dropping by. Watson here means well, but he is rather dull. Have a seat at the dining table, and I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson to bring up our tea. I believe she’s baked her signature kidney pie.
Ripper: Jolly good!
(Watson glares at the detective as Holmes claps Ripper on the back.)
Holmes: Have you read about the murder hornets in Washington State? Ghastly business.
Ripper: I’d be delighted to hear about it!