It was the tenth of November in that memorable year, 1888. I sat with the world’s top consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, in our Baker Street apartments as he drafted a monograph on prawns while I perused my well-thumbed volume of Clark Russell’s fine sea stories. Outside, the equinoctial gales inexplicably continued to wail, despite the time of year and the fog, rain spat against the windows, and a thick London particular invaded the snug chamber, so dense that I could not distinguish my hand from in front of my face, which made reading all the more difficult. Either my wife was again on one of those interminable trips to her mother’s, or I was, as usual, between wives.
Holmes broke the silence. “Watson, you reptile, you’ve pinched my tobacco.”
Just as I was about to point out to this best of friends that his d*med Persian slipper with the tobacco inside had fallen from the mantel to within an inch of his d*mned shoe, a young boy’s voice issued from the street.
“Horror at Miller’s Court! Ripper strikes again!”
Just then we heard the sound of galloping feet on the stairs. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, rapped on our door, but a frenzied man shoved it open and knocked her down, laying her out with her skirts over her face, exposing a pair of jolly bloomers.
After profuse apologies, the massive intruder tenderly helped her to her feet. Then he turned an angry face to the renowned detective.
“Holmes! Remember me? John Thomas Ripper? Address, Smoke and Mirrors Doss House, Flower & Dean Street?”
My friend, digging in the coal scuttle for a cigar, found matches instead and accidentally lit his finger. He immediately plunged the flaming digit into a nearby glass of sherry.
“Your face looks familiar, old chap. Are you not the fiend who’s dispatched at least four Whitechapel prossies?”
“Five, as of last night! Do you not read the papers?”
“I have been preoccupied by prawns, old son. So you are indeed the East End terror? I’ve caught him, Watson! I am in fact the world’s leading detective!”
“Consulting detective,” I corrected him, as I took a sip of sherry from the wrong glass and then spit it out. “Furthermore, he has confessed only to reading the paper.”
Mr. Ripper concurred. “I implore you, again, 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. As I’ve told you, I’ve written to Prince Albert Edward, 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!” Holmes roared. “My cherrywood pipe!”
“I didn’t take it!” I snapped.
“The deuce you say!”
“You may go to blazes. I can’t keep track of your pipes. If only you’d let Mrs. Hudson tidy up once in a while.”
Mr. Ripper looked hopeful. “Tell me, is this Mrs. Hudson a toothless, homeless, middle-aged prostitute?”
The good lady screamed and sprinted out of the room.
Our guest explained. “I know a fifty-five-year-old dentist who says he has a room to let but really wants a wife— one who is, well, experienced.”
Holmes appeared not to listen. He searched among his rubble, then fixed a gimlet eye on me. “Watson! My cocaine! You’ve filched it!”
I snorted. “Ten quid says you’ve emptied it all up your median cubital vein.”
Mr. Ripper sighed. “By my blessed shoes and socks, I just want to check on the status of my membership.”
Holmes sneered. “A vicious fiend as a member of the Lamb Chop Lodge?”
Our visitor was strikingly aggrieved. “Hurtful,” he said.
My friend seized a weapon from the sizzling embers of our cozy fire. “I believe I shall thrash you with this poker!”
As the best of detectives chased the poor sod out into the fog-laden street, I sat back comfortably in Holmes’s armchair with the remainder of the sherry. It was going to be a glorious morning.
Holmes broke the silence. “Watson, you reptile, you’ve pinched my tobacco.”
Just as I was about to point out to this best of friends that his d*med Persian slipper with the tobacco inside had fallen from the mantel to within an inch of his d*mned shoe, a young boy’s voice issued from the street.
“Horror at Miller’s Court! Ripper strikes again!”
Just then we heard the sound of galloping feet on the stairs. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, rapped on our door, but a frenzied man shoved it open and knocked her down, laying her out with her skirts over her face, exposing a pair of jolly bloomers.
After profuse apologies, the massive intruder tenderly helped her to her feet. Then he turned an angry face to the renowned detective.
“Holmes! Remember me? John Thomas Ripper? Address, Smoke and Mirrors Doss House, Flower & Dean Street?”
My friend, digging in the coal scuttle for a cigar, found matches instead and accidentally lit his finger. He immediately plunged the flaming digit into a nearby glass of sherry.
“Your face looks familiar, old chap. Are you not the fiend who’s dispatched at least four Whitechapel prossies?”
“Five, as of last night! Do you not read the papers?”
“I have been preoccupied by prawns, old son. So you are indeed the East End terror? I’ve caught him, Watson! I am in fact the world’s leading detective!”
“Consulting detective,” I corrected him, as I took a sip of sherry from the wrong glass and then spit it out. “Furthermore, he has confessed only to reading the paper.”
Mr. Ripper concurred. “I implore you, again, 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. As I’ve told you, I’ve written to Prince Albert Edward, 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!” Holmes roared. “My cherrywood pipe!”
“I didn’t take it!” I snapped.
“The deuce you say!”
“You may go to blazes. I can’t keep track of your pipes. If only you’d let Mrs. Hudson tidy up once in a while.”
Mr. Ripper looked hopeful. “Tell me, is this Mrs. Hudson a toothless, homeless, middle-aged prostitute?”
The good lady screamed and sprinted out of the room.
Our guest explained. “I know a fifty-five-year-old dentist who says he has a room to let but really wants a wife— one who is, well, experienced.”
Holmes appeared not to listen. He searched among his rubble, then fixed a gimlet eye on me. “Watson! My cocaine! You’ve filched it!”
I snorted. “Ten quid says you’ve emptied it all up your median cubital vein.”
Mr. Ripper sighed. “By my blessed shoes and socks, I just want to check on the status of my membership.”
Holmes sneered. “A vicious fiend as a member of the Lamb Chop Lodge?”
Our visitor was strikingly aggrieved. “Hurtful,” he said.
My friend seized a weapon from the sizzling embers of our cozy fire. “I believe I shall thrash you with this poker!”
As the best of detectives chased the poor sod out into the fog-laden street, I sat back comfortably in Holmes’s armchair with the remainder of the sherry. It was going to be a glorious morning.