A Study in Terror by Ellery Queen

Holmes and his brother Mycroft had identified as Michael Osbourne. He was crouched in one corner of the abattoir, oblivious of all else but the butcher’s work. The operation seemed to fascinate him. His eyes drank in the bloody carcase of the animal in a manner that I can only describe as obscene.
    His preliminary work done, the butcher’s boy stepped back and favoured me with a smile.
    â€œLookin’ for a bit o’ pork, guv’ner?”
    â€œNo, thank you! I was strolling by—”
    â€œAn’ you heard the squealin’. Yer has to be a stranger, guv’ner, else you would not o’ bothered. The neighbourhood’s used to their ruddy noise.” He turned cheerfully to Michael Osbourne. “Ain’t that right, dummy?”
    The imbecile smiled and nodded.
    â€œThe dummy’s the on’y one that keeps me comp’ny. I’d be fair lonesome ’thout him.”
    â€œYour work is certainly not carried on under the most cleanly conditions,” said I, distastefully.
    â€œClean-ly, says ’e,” chuckled the boy. “Guv’ner, folk ’ereabouts ’ve got a fat lot more to turn their stomachs than a little dirt on their pork—bloody right they ’ave!” He winked. “The gels, ’specially. They’re too busy o’ nights keepin’ their own ’ides in one piece.”
    â€œYou refer to the Ripper?”
    â€œThat I do, guv, that I do. ’E’s keepin’ the tarts nervy o’ late.”
    â€œDid you know the girl who was murdered last night?”
    â€œI did. Passed ’er two-and-six t’other night for a quick whack, I did. Poor little tart didn’t ’ave ’er rent, and I’m that gen’rous, I ’ates to see a gel trampin’ the ruddy streets in the fog fer want o’ a bed.”
    Some instinct made me pursue the tasteless conversation. “Have you any idea as to the identity of the Ripper?”
    â€œLord love yer, guv. ’E might just be yer own lordship, now, mightn’t ’e? Yer got to admit, ’e’s prob’ly a toff, don’t yer?”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œWell, now, let’s look at it this way. I’m at ’ome with blood in my perfession, cozy with it, yer might say, and so I ’ave to think that way, right?”
    â€œWhat are you driving at?”
    â€œGuv, the way that Ripper carves ’em up, ’e’s just got to get smeary. But nobody’s never seen a smeared-up bloke runnin’ from one o’ those murders, now, ’ave they?”
    â€œI believe not,” said I, rather startled.
    â€œAn’ why not, guv’ner? ’Cause a toff wearin’ a opry cloak over ’is duds could cover up the bloody res-ee-doo, so ter speak! Wouldn’t yer say? Well, I ’ave ter get back to this carcase.”
    I fled the stench and gore of the place. But I took an image with me, that of Michael Osbourne squatting in his corner, laving the slaughter with watering eyes. No matter what Holmes had said, the misshapen wreck of humanity remained my principal suspect.
    I circumnavigated the square and made my entrance into the morgue through the Montague Street gate, the adjacent premises fixed in mind. The morgue was untenanted, save for the dead. Traversing its narrow length, I paused near the raised table that was reserved for unwilling guests. A white-sheeted form lay there. I contemplated it for a few moments; then, moved by pity, I drew the sheet back from the face.
    Her sufferings past, Polly’s marble features reflected acceptance of whatever she had found beyond the pale. I do not rate myself a sentimental man, but I do believe that there is a dignity in death, however it comes. Nor am I deeply religious. Still, I breathed a small prayer for the salvation of this unhappy child’s spirit. Then I went away.
    I found Holmes in the dining-hall of the hostel, in company