Early in December of 1888, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s premiere consulting detective, worked on his latest composition, a monograph on hats, as I scanned my well-thumbed volume of Clark Russell’s fine sea stories in our Baker Street apartments. The wind roared like billy-oh and snow spattered against the windows, but our blazing fire kept us snug. Holmes’s violin, which I’d smashed earlier in the day after I’d been subjected to twenty continuous renditions of Vivaldi’s Concerto in A minor, lay in the coal scuttle. (I augmented the fire with violin shards every time I demolished one of my friend’s instruments.)
Holmes straightened in his chair and yawned. “I say, Watson, tell me again why you gave your latest wife the mitten.”
“Why, I believe she died, old chap, though I can’t be expected to keep up with every creature I marry.”
“By Jingo, you scamper back here to 221B directly you lose a wife. How many has it been now?”
Just as I was about to remind him that it was he, not I, who was the detective, we heard a flurry of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a merciless pounding at our door.
My friend wished to carry on his work undisturbed. “I’m not at home!” he shouted at the top of his gracious lungs.
Forthwith, the door sailed open. Jack Ripper, he of the inclination to join the Lamb Chop Lodge, his local Freemason chapter, which met at the Ten Bells Pub on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Streets in Spitalfields, was spitting mad.
“They gave me the bird! Those oily blighters said they wouldn’t have me even if Prince Eddy recommended me! They never heard of you, so your endorsement was so much bilge.”
Holmes tented his fingers. “Bad,” he said.
“Dreadful,” said I.
“Beastly,” said Ripper.
The reader may wonder why Holmes had backed Ripper in the latter’s quest to join the aforesaid lodge. After all, my friend had given him six of the best with the fireplace poker at the conclusion of their last meeting. Regret about the damage to the poker had caused Holmes to advocate for Ripper, as this scheme would undoubtedly put paid to the fellow’s visits. Clearly, however, it had not, for here he was again.
Before we could say another word, we heard a large individual stampede up the stairway. Then, to Holmes’s dismay, a female who was not Irene Adler appeared at our door. At the sight of a lady, the genteel Mr. Ripper plucked off his knit cap, occasioning a jackknife to clatter from his head to the floor.
“Ah! My apple-peeler!” he said, swept the utensil up, and trousered it.
The lady was out of breath with excitement.“Coo! I’ve tailed you ’ere to tell you the news! No East End prossies ’ave ’opped the twig in over a month!”
“Good,” said Holmes.
“Topping,” said I.
“Some pumpkins!” said Ripper, in that jolly Victorian argot. “So no dead body has been found in the last thirty days, either in Whitechapel, Spitalfields, or on a garbage dump in Bethnal Green.”
I spit out my tea. “I mean to say, Ripper, old man, I wonder if you appreciate the self-incrimination of that statement.”
Holmes frowned and set down his pen. “I would like to know the purpose of this gentleman’s visit. Then I can get back to my seminal work.”
Ripper linked arms with the woman at the door. “First, let me introduce you to this lovely lady, Pru Parker.”
The lady nudged him, and he said, “That is, Pru Ripper. She is my…um… wife…yes, my wife.”
Mrs. Ripper curtsied. “Jack and I want to invite you both to an ’oliday jollification at our ’oneymoon cottage on Butterscotch Lane, off the Tottenham Court Road.”
Ripper said, “It’s about time you met my mates, Dogcart, Leather Apron, Shoddy, Bobo, and the Vicar.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, is this Leather Apron a craftsman named John Pizer?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Then you don’t read the papers, my man. Or talk with your neighbors. Leather Apron was a suspect in the East End atrocities.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Ripper. “John ’ates prossies and often shouts against them in the streets, maybe beats them once in a while when ’e ’as a chance, but never was a more sweet-tempered man than John Pizer, or Leather Apron, as ’e’s been called since ’e was a nipper. Why, Mrs. Fiddymount says—”
“That’s enough, Miss Park… I mean, Mrs. Ripper, of course,” said Ripper, with a forceful yet loving slap on her bustle. “Friday week! Men only. No prossies. Miss P… ahem… Mrs. R. will spend the evening at the Goose and Whistle, eh, Pru?”
(to be continued)
Holmes straightened in his chair and yawned. “I say, Watson, tell me again why you gave your latest wife the mitten.”
“Why, I believe she died, old chap, though I can’t be expected to keep up with every creature I marry.”
“By Jingo, you scamper back here to 221B directly you lose a wife. How many has it been now?”
Just as I was about to remind him that it was he, not I, who was the detective, we heard a flurry of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a merciless pounding at our door.
My friend wished to carry on his work undisturbed. “I’m not at home!” he shouted at the top of his gracious lungs.
Forthwith, the door sailed open. Jack Ripper, he of the inclination to join the Lamb Chop Lodge, his local Freemason chapter, which met at the Ten Bells Pub on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Streets in Spitalfields, was spitting mad.
“They gave me the bird! Those oily blighters said they wouldn’t have me even if Prince Eddy recommended me! They never heard of you, so your endorsement was so much bilge.”
Holmes tented his fingers. “Bad,” he said.
“Dreadful,” said I.
“Beastly,” said Ripper.
The reader may wonder why Holmes had backed Ripper in the latter’s quest to join the aforesaid lodge. After all, my friend had given him six of the best with the fireplace poker at the conclusion of their last meeting. Regret about the damage to the poker had caused Holmes to advocate for Ripper, as this scheme would undoubtedly put paid to the fellow’s visits. Clearly, however, it had not, for here he was again.
Before we could say another word, we heard a large individual stampede up the stairway. Then, to Holmes’s dismay, a female who was not Irene Adler appeared at our door. At the sight of a lady, the genteel Mr. Ripper plucked off his knit cap, occasioning a jackknife to clatter from his head to the floor.
“Ah! My apple-peeler!” he said, swept the utensil up, and trousered it.
The lady was out of breath with excitement.“Coo! I’ve tailed you ’ere to tell you the news! No East End prossies ’ave ’opped the twig in over a month!”
“Good,” said Holmes.
“Topping,” said I.
“Some pumpkins!” said Ripper, in that jolly Victorian argot. “So no dead body has been found in the last thirty days, either in Whitechapel, Spitalfields, or on a garbage dump in Bethnal Green.”
I spit out my tea. “I mean to say, Ripper, old man, I wonder if you appreciate the self-incrimination of that statement.”
Holmes frowned and set down his pen. “I would like to know the purpose of this gentleman’s visit. Then I can get back to my seminal work.”
Ripper linked arms with the woman at the door. “First, let me introduce you to this lovely lady, Pru Parker.”
The lady nudged him, and he said, “That is, Pru Ripper. She is my…um… wife…yes, my wife.”
Mrs. Ripper curtsied. “Jack and I want to invite you both to an ’oliday jollification at our ’oneymoon cottage on Butterscotch Lane, off the Tottenham Court Road.”
Ripper said, “It’s about time you met my mates, Dogcart, Leather Apron, Shoddy, Bobo, and the Vicar.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, is this Leather Apron a craftsman named John Pizer?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Then you don’t read the papers, my man. Or talk with your neighbors. Leather Apron was a suspect in the East End atrocities.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Ripper. “John ’ates prossies and often shouts against them in the streets, maybe beats them once in a while when ’e ’as a chance, but never was a more sweet-tempered man than John Pizer, or Leather Apron, as ’e’s been called since ’e was a nipper. Why, Mrs. Fiddymount says—”
“That’s enough, Miss Park… I mean, Mrs. Ripper, of course,” said Ripper, with a forceful yet loving slap on her bustle. “Friday week! Men only. No prossies. Miss P… ahem… Mrs. R. will spend the evening at the Goose and Whistle, eh, Pru?”
(to be continued)