The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Read Free Page B

his fingers for the waiter.
    As they threaded their way toward the entrance minutes later, Watson had to step to one side to avoid colliding with a man rushing headlong into the restaurant: a short, round individual with a large mustache, who after a hurried glance around the room made directly for the table occupied by the couple in question, profuse with apologies once having arrived. He was carrying a bulky briefcase and was dressed in a sagging dark business suit, not of the best cut or material. His voice, which could be clearly heard over the hubbub of the restaurant, had a decidedly middle-class accent — lower middle class. Watson shot Holmes a sidelong glance to see if he had noticed. He need not have bothered: Holmes’s face was a mask of perfect innocence. There was just the glimmer of a smile, the mere hint of a smile on his thin lips, nothing more.
    “We have a visitor, Holmes,” said Watson as their hansom clattered to a halt in front of their lodgings. There was a light in their sitting room window, the shadow of a human form in evidence.
    “I am not totally surprised,” said Holmes laconically.
    “You were expecting someone at this late hour?”
    “No, not really. Nor am I surprised someone is here. H-Division, in all likelihood.” Without a further word of explanation he bounded from the cab, his eyes bright with anticipation, leaving Watson to settle the fare and follow.

Two

    S ATURDAY , S EPTEMBER 1, 1888
    “It has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them.”
    — Sherlock Holmes, The Reigate Squires
    M rs. Hudson was waiting for them just inside the front vestibule by the staircase landing when they entered, but Holmes rushed past her with barely a nod, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
    “Yes, yes, I know, Mrs. Hudson,” he called as he ran. “Thank you, thank you kindly. No time for how-d’ya-dos.”
    Watson followed at a more leisurely pace. “A good evening to you, Mrs. Hudson. Apparently we have callers. How good of you to see to their comfort. Thank you so very much indeed.”
    The long-suffering Mrs. Hudson, so used to their irregular ways and the odd callers Holmes received at even odder hours, shrugged in resignation and returned to her kitchen for her nightly glass of hot milk (laced with a circumspect spoonful of whiskey) before finally retiring,she fervently hoped, for the night.
    Watson, upon reaching the top of the landing, found Holmes in the front room, their common parlor, with two men, one having just arisen from the settee where he had been seated, not terribly comfortably, with teacup in hand. The other, the heavier of the two and the better dressed, had been anxiously pacing in front of the window but was now by the door, shaking hands with Holmes. It was obvious what they were, if not who they were, for while their faces were new to Watson, intuitively he was able to identify them at once: the way in which they carried themselves, their aura of authority, if not to say officiousness, was to the practiced eye identity enough — as obvious signs of their profession as actual signs around their necks would be.
    “Ah,” said Watson before Holmes had a chance to make the introductions. “H-Division, I presume.”
    Holmes shot him an amused glance. “No, dear fellow: CID, as it happens.” He made a gesture of presentation. “My friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, gentlemen. Watson, this is Detective Inspector Abberline and Sergeant Thicke.” 5
    It was the higher-ranking Abberline (for his aura of authority was just that much more in evidence) who came forward to shake hands with Watson, while the other man, Thicke, was occupied juggling his teacup, desperately looking for a place to set it down.
    Abberline was a soft-spoken, portly man with a high brow and heavy whiskers who looked and sounded more like a bank manager or solicitor than a policeman. He favored Watson