Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes

Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes by Bernard J. Schaffer

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Authors: Bernard J. Schaffer
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“Isn’t it bad luck to count the house before the curtain rises?”
    She turned to see the seeing the sinister grin of Oscar Wilde. “Mr. Wilde, you devil. You swore you weren’t coming this evening.”
    “The Devil himself could not keep from attending tonight,” Wilde said. Irene pressed her hand against her face, pretending to blush. “You see, the French circus troupe is performing tonight. They are renowned for many things, you know.”
    “Such as?”
    He sniffed the sunflower pinned to his lapel and looked sideways at a lithe lad with green greasepaint smeared across his bare torso. “Their physical prowess, and such. They are said to be contortionists of the highest order. Perhaps one of them might be willing to give me a demonstration later? It might be the sort of thing to cheer me up. I found a gray hair this morning, and fear that I have lost my youth.”
    “Well then,” Irene said, looking at the male performer, “we shall have to see what we can do about finding you another one.”
    Wilde pulled Irene close and whispered in her ear, “If you tell anyone I am a sentimentalist, I will put a curse upon you that makes your perfect breasts droop to your knees, my darling. But I would not have missed your final performance for anything in the world.”
    Irene pushed Wilde back, “Who told you it was my final performance?”
    “You did, with all your talk of adventuring and getting on with seeing the world,” Wilde shrugged. “And how I fear for that world you are about to be unleashed upon.”
    “What world is that, Mr. Wilde?”
    “The world of Man. All those poor, unsuspecting members of the species who will fall powerless to your gaze. Do try and send some of your forlorn conquests my way when you are through with them.”
    “How fortunate that you are immune to my charms,” she said, putting her arm in his.
    “Who knows? For you, even I might be persuaded to give it a whirl.”
    “You are a scoundrel, and I love you for it, Mr. Wilde. Will you be accompanying me to dinner after the show? I could introduce you to some of these performers. From what I’ve gathered, there are several who may be inclined to demonstrate some of that prowess to you.”
    Wilde smiled and pinched her cheek, “You naughty, naughty little vixen. May I bring my friend? He’s the one who arranged my seat for the evening. I warn you, he is a bit of an eccentric. I fear that he will take to you like a small puppy, and that you, in your predatory nature, will swallow him up in one bite.”
    “Who is he?” Irene said.
    “No fewer than the King of Bohemia, my dove. He’s also a Grand Duke something-something. I do not really know. I just call him Wilhelm. I am cruel to him and he buys me things.”
    “I suppose I could stand some amusement,” Irene said. “I will see you after the performance.”
    Wilde bowed deeply to Irene and kissed her hand, “Best of luck this evening, my little songbird. Jenny Lind herself could not hold a candle to you.” As Wilde left, circus performers from the opening act began to filter into the wings. The lights dimmed, and there was a sudden explosion of light and sound as the curtain opened and the performers somersaulted onto the stage, assembling themselves into a V-shaped formation. Irene went to her dressing room and began to unbutton her wrapper, assessing the assortment of makeup carefully arranged in front of the mirror. A knock at the door threatened to steal the quiet moment of reverie from her even as she reflected on Oscar Wilde’s observation that tonight was her final performance. She hadn’t said a word to anyone.
    “Miss Adler?” came a soft voice through the door.
    Irene took a deep breath and opened it, forcing a smile. Annie Chapman, a mother of one of the child performers in the circus stood, meekly holding a luxurious dress that stood in stark contrast to the rags the woman was wearing. “Oh, hello, Annie,” Irene said. “Are you finished with the stitching

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