collapsing unceremoniously into a chair. “A bit more about repealing the corn laws and a bit less about clipping off ladies’ ears, and I should not have troubled you.”
Holmes lifted the object by its edges and took it to his desk, where he commenced a meticulous study through his lens.
“Any envelope?”
“Thought you’d say that. Here it is.”
“Postmarked September twenty-seventh, eighteen eighty-eight, receipt same day, mailed from the eastern side of the metropolis. Address straggling and unbalanced—you see, he has no regard for uniformity of line.”
“What’s got me concerned,” continued Mr. Vandervent, “is not the compelling style of the note itself. It’s that the mad bastard—my apologies, Miss Monk, to your delicacies—should ask us to hold it back until he ‘does a bit more work.’ I am in the position, for quite the first time in my life, of not knowing what to do.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Vandervent.”
“Indeed! Yes. It is a very disquieting sensation. But as I understand it, rum notes and dark plots are quite your arena, Mr. Holmes. You’ve traced his whereabouts by now, no doubt.”
“I think I would do well to exchange my actual powers for Mr. Vandervent’s imagined ones,” the detective replied. “In fact, I cannot make out his game at all.”
“His game is clear enough. States it right there—fourth sentence, I believe: ‘down on whores.’”
“No, no, the note itself. You’ve called attention to the key oddity already: why should this man, if he is not the killer, ask that the letter be held back until after he has killed again? The casual prankster would wish the letter to be published immediately, seeking only to frighten the public and see his handiwork in print.”
“Is there anything that could help us to trace the author?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged. “The man is moderately educated. The irregularity of the baseline, as well as the downward-slanting script, indicate he is moody and unpredictable. His t s are determined, his r s intelligent, and the confidence in his capitals is troubling. The envelope reveals nothing aside from origin, and the Moncton’s Superfine watermark is clear but certainly not a clue by which we could trace a man.”
“Moncton’s Superfine watermark. You don’t say. But let us address the real problem, Mr. Holmes,” drawled Mr. Vandervent. “What am I to do with it? I’ve done my civic duty in bringing it here, but I fear the citizenry might be nonplussed at reading it over breakfast.”
“May I keep this document for further study?”
“So you advise me to hold it back for the time being? A very roundabout way you have of putting it too. Very well, Mr. Holmes, I shall leave the thing in your hands, to be retrieved the day after tomorrow, at which time I shall forward it to the Yard. Make good use of it. I have no doubt but that it would prove excellent kindling.” Mr. Vandervent, with a supreme effort, raised himself from his chair and descended the stairs.
Holmes drained his glass thoughtfully. “Miss Monk, would it be at all possible for you to see this Dunlevy fellow a second time?”
“We’ve fixed Saturday evening to meet at the Queen’s Head. Nine o’clock sharp,” Miss Monk replied innocently.
“Brava! Miss Monk, you are of inestimable help. Dr. Watson and I will be on hand in Whitechapel to provide support. Meanwhile, I intend to study this letter until it can house no secrets from me. The author may not be our man, but this ‘Jack the Ripper,’ whoever he is, certainly bears investigating.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Whitechapel Rendezvous
Holmes was absent for much of the next day, revealing when he returned only that we were to meet Miss Monk in the East-end on the following evening. No more would he say regarding either the case or the mysterious letter, and when, against my better judgment, I pressed the subject, he embarked upon a discussion of architecture as a reflection of national ideals,
Holmes lifted the object by its edges and took it to his desk, where he commenced a meticulous study through his lens.
“Any envelope?”
“Thought you’d say that. Here it is.”
“Postmarked September twenty-seventh, eighteen eighty-eight, receipt same day, mailed from the eastern side of the metropolis. Address straggling and unbalanced—you see, he has no regard for uniformity of line.”
“What’s got me concerned,” continued Mr. Vandervent, “is not the compelling style of the note itself. It’s that the mad bastard—my apologies, Miss Monk, to your delicacies—should ask us to hold it back until he ‘does a bit more work.’ I am in the position, for quite the first time in my life, of not knowing what to do.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Vandervent.”
“Indeed! Yes. It is a very disquieting sensation. But as I understand it, rum notes and dark plots are quite your arena, Mr. Holmes. You’ve traced his whereabouts by now, no doubt.”
“I think I would do well to exchange my actual powers for Mr. Vandervent’s imagined ones,” the detective replied. “In fact, I cannot make out his game at all.”
“His game is clear enough. States it right there—fourth sentence, I believe: ‘down on whores.’”
“No, no, the note itself. You’ve called attention to the key oddity already: why should this man, if he is not the killer, ask that the letter be held back until after he has killed again? The casual prankster would wish the letter to be published immediately, seeking only to frighten the public and see his handiwork in print.”
“Is there anything that could help us to trace the author?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged. “The man is moderately educated. The irregularity of the baseline, as well as the downward-slanting script, indicate he is moody and unpredictable. His t s are determined, his r s intelligent, and the confidence in his capitals is troubling. The envelope reveals nothing aside from origin, and the Moncton’s Superfine watermark is clear but certainly not a clue by which we could trace a man.”
“Moncton’s Superfine watermark. You don’t say. But let us address the real problem, Mr. Holmes,” drawled Mr. Vandervent. “What am I to do with it? I’ve done my civic duty in bringing it here, but I fear the citizenry might be nonplussed at reading it over breakfast.”
“May I keep this document for further study?”
“So you advise me to hold it back for the time being? A very roundabout way you have of putting it too. Very well, Mr. Holmes, I shall leave the thing in your hands, to be retrieved the day after tomorrow, at which time I shall forward it to the Yard. Make good use of it. I have no doubt but that it would prove excellent kindling.” Mr. Vandervent, with a supreme effort, raised himself from his chair and descended the stairs.
Holmes drained his glass thoughtfully. “Miss Monk, would it be at all possible for you to see this Dunlevy fellow a second time?”
“We’ve fixed Saturday evening to meet at the Queen’s Head. Nine o’clock sharp,” Miss Monk replied innocently.
“Brava! Miss Monk, you are of inestimable help. Dr. Watson and I will be on hand in Whitechapel to provide support. Meanwhile, I intend to study this letter until it can house no secrets from me. The author may not be our man, but this ‘Jack the Ripper,’ whoever he is, certainly bears investigating.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Whitechapel Rendezvous
Holmes was absent for much of the next day, revealing when he returned only that we were to meet Miss Monk in the East-end on the following evening. No more would he say regarding either the case or the mysterious letter, and when, against my better judgment, I pressed the subject, he embarked upon a discussion of architecture as a reflection of national ideals,
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