The Last Sherlock Holmes Story by Michael Dibdin Page B

the awed subservience to which he had been reduced by the brilliance of Holmes’s arguments that Thursday in Baker Street. Thus far he had said nothing, no doubt fearing that his hated rival might yet be proved right at the last. But now Holmes’s time was up, and Lestrade turned the tables with vindictive relish.
    ‘What do you say now, Mr Sherlock Holmes? What has become of your blessed sequence with everything worked out to the last detail, as if it was the tides we were waiting for and not a homicidal maniac? Admit it, you have failed!’
    Holmes’s reply was barely audible.
    ‘On the contrary, Inspector, I have succeeded all too well.’
    ‘Oh ho, I see! That’s the way we play, is it? Heads you win and tails we lose! I only wish my job was that easy. But it’s not you will have to take the blame for this fiasco. You who are always so careful to keep your name out of the press! Very wise, I’m sure! A fine time of it I’m in for, trying to explain why every spare man on the force has been pounding the beat in Whitechapel these four nights. Mind you, there was only one thing wrong with your timetable, Mr Holmes. No one told the murderer about it! Ha ha! That’s where you went wrong! You told us when the next murder was due, but you forgot to tell him! You should have told him too, Mr Holmes, and then he might have obliged us after all!’
    To my surprise, Holmes did not rise to these barbs. He listened in silence, his head bowed. It was an odd attitude for one who normally impressed all and sundry with his masterful manner. But clearly the setback he had received had shaken him severely. Lestrade was not deterred by the lack of any response. Long and bitter were the tirades he unleashed. He recalled Holmes’s overweening confidence, his arrogant refusal to consider the proposals ofothers, his contempt for the traditional techniques of investigation long proved effective – in practice, mind you, not in some smoky sitting-room! – by the appointed guardians of law and order of whom he had the honour and, yes, the pleasure to be one. When he finally recognised that my friend was not going to be drawn, Lestrade revealed his ace. He took a file from his desk and withdrew a sheet of paper which he handed to us in turn. It was the original of a letter which had been published some weeks earlier in the press. It ran as follows:
     
    From hell    
    Mr Lusk
       Sor
    I send you half the kidne I took from one woman presarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.
    Signed                                           Catch me when
    you can
    Mishter Lusk
    I must add that this transcription cannot possibly do justice to the impression produced by the original. The letter was written in a crabbed and violent hand, and was exceedingly difficult to make out. It was the most utterly malevolent-looking piece of writing I have ever set eyes on. Holmes glanced at it perfunctorily, and then handed it back to Lestrade without comment. The official held it up before our eyes.
    ‘You remember the other two letters we received, the ones signed “Jack the Ripper”?’ said he. ‘They were genuine enough, for the writer knew more than he should about those murders. However, this letter here is genuine too!’
    ‘How can you tell?’ I demanded, since Holmes remained silent.
    ‘Good question, Dr Watson! I’m glad you asked. How can we tell? Enclosed with this letter was part of a human kidney, just like it says. Mr Lusk, who heads the vigilantes, sent it to the City Police, and they sent it on to the London Hospital. There it was looked at by the pathologist, who declares there is no doubt that it came from the murdered woman Eddowes. The letter must therefore be from her murderer. But as you can see for yourselves, the writing is totally different from all the other specimens, including