1913
I have rarely been tasked with setting down an account of my own inquiries as my colleague and friend Dr Watson has usually obliged in this respect. It is even rarer that I am tasked with setting down the facts in so unusual a case as one which presented itself in my retirement.
Working one morning in May, I had a full pipe which was serving admirably to subdue my bees as I experimented with the relative merits of a Warré hive over a traditional skep as used by the ancients. As the bees were almost at the height of their activity, I was immersed in my observations and almost took no notice of the figure that approached up the path.
When finally I did turn my attention towards him, I observed him to be a man in his late sixties, though still hearty, with near full facial hair and a ruddiness to his complexion that betrayed certain habits. He had the unmistakable carriage of a policeman.
As I had to return certain elements of the Warré to their proper configuration, I had only the briefest opportunity to discern that this man had been a detective at least and found lucrative employment beyond the force on his retirement.
“Good day to you, sir. Mr Holmes, I presume?”
His accent still had traces of his birthplace about it, and I placed him not entirely remote from where we stood: a Dorset man, though not rural, who spent much time in London and some in high society.
“It is, Inspector, and whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
He noted, though was not surprised by my address, and proceeded with grace.
“My name is Frederick Abberline, formerly Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard—”
“And of H Division,” I took up, “having been distinguished in the Cleveland Street affair before taking up for the Pinkerton Agency in London and abroad.”
He faltered for a moment, as my slow recall dragged my mind away from my apiarian observations, but again proceeded with grace.
“Mr Holmes, you have me at once.”
“Inspector,” I began again, as the title seemed to please him somewhat, “I am aware of a great many officers of the police from my time as a consulting detective—a time which is long since at an end.”
“Well, perhaps, Mr Holmes, if I might entreat you, there is one more case to which you might turn your mind. I can pay you well for your trouble, as I have enjoyed good professional engagement since my time with the force.”
“Inspector Abberline, I do not believe we crossed paths during our respective careers, but my practice, when I did such work, was never to alter my fees, save when I omitted with them altogether.”
“Nonetheless, sir, I was a professional and I would extend the same respect due another.”
“Indeed, Inspector. But I am now retired, as are you. My bees are very busy currently, and my observations are at a most critical juncture.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr Holmes. I do not wish to intrude, were it not for necessity driving me. I humbly ask, as one who has spent his life in service of the law, to another who has given of himself for that same end, for your help in one final matter.”
I turned my attention from the hives again toward the figure that stood between me and sun, which was almost at its zenith. There was an earnest look about the Inspector’s face which was at once compelling to me and unfamiliar to him.
“Perhaps, Inspector, I could offer you some refreshment. The day is warm, and luncheon is almost upon us, though I must warn you, I live alone, and my housekeeper is an infrequent visitor.”
Inside the house, with tea upon a tray and a few morsels of bread, cheese, and cold meat, we regarded each other in the relative gloom of my sitting room, where the May sunshine found little ingress.
The Inspector was clearly ill at ease, though had an air of determination that meant he was intent upon his course.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, for hearing me out. I am most grateful.”
“I have agreed to nothing yet, Inspector, beyond ensuring you do not go hungry from my house.”
“Still, sir, I am grateful.”
He drew a deep breath and exhaled in the manner of one about to begin a confession.
“You know something of my career, Mr Holmes, but while I was with the Met, before Cleveland Street, there was another case with which I was associated. One which did not have so satisfactory an outcome.
“I was at Scotland Yard when the Whitechapel Murders began in August of 1888. I spent ten years in H Division, as you rightly recall. I was ordered back there in September to take charge and bring the murderer to justice.
“There were many good men working in H Division at the time, many of whom I trained myself or saw coming through the ranks. I was confident that with good police work and vigilance and some small bit of luck, we would catch the madman and if not hang him, then at least ensure his butchery was brought to an end.
“But that was not to be. The case proved to be a strange one and while there were suspects and arrests, I believe we never laid hands on the actual killer.”
There the Inspector paused and looked again at me with that expression.
“Ah yes,” I said, “the Whitechapel Murders—a grisly affair. I remember being fascinated in a professional sense, but being otherwise occupied at the time and frequently beyond these shores, I did not tax myself with it, believing that such instances are best solved by the likes of Scotland Yard and the hard work of the regular police force.”
“Well, Mr Holmes, I too believed at the time that hard work, thorough investigation and good correlation would yield the right man, but as you well know, that was not how it came to be.”
The Inspector paused and looked at me.
“But what do you want of me, Inspector?” I asked. “We are hardly about to catch a train to London and hope that the streets of Whitechapel will yield clues nearly twenty-five years on.”
“No, Mr Holmes, that is not my proposal. What I ask is altogether different. I have enjoyed a good career as a policeman and beyond. I received commendations and awards on many occasions, more than most I’ll wager, but the case that haunts me still is that of the terrible name of Jack the Ripper.
“Many of my colleagues since, both above and below me, have named names and listed suspects who have been taken up by newspaper men and hacks that have created what can only be called fanciful solutions to this old case.
“Each time I hear mention, I return to my notes and recollections and I wrack my brain to see if there might be some grain of truth to them, a possibility that there might be some hope of at least putting a face to that awful name.
“Some years ago at my home in Bournemouth, a newspaper man for the Pall Mall Gazette put to me a whole host of names that some now call suspects, some of whom I never heard tell of. I remained steadfast in my opinion that we were no nearer then than in those dark days of ’88 to naming the killer, but as I began to consider those possibilities, I found myself questioning much of what I’d done before.”
The Inspector stopped speaking. He looked down at his china tea cup and remained motionless for some time.
Eventually, he laid aside the tea and picked up the fine coat, unusually heavy for the time of year, that he laid over the back of his chair. From an inside pocket he took a large leather wallet that was tied with a thong, bursting with assorted leaves of paper and not a few photographs.
The Inspector sat forward in his chair and held the wallet in his hands as though he were about to make an offering. He looked at me directly.
“I have here my notes of the case, Mr Holmes, with many of the documents concerned. Some of them are originals, some are copies—all are accurate. I would hope that together with these and my recollections, I could lay the case before you.
“I would hope that you can tell me, sir, not the name of the man, but whether I—”
“Whether you could have caught him?” I asked.
“Yes. As one professional to another, I ask you now to help me know if we missed something, if I missed something—if I let the maniac go free.”
I looked down at the empty grate of the fire and wished for another pipe.
“Inspector,” I said carefully, “this type of crime, it is not my area of expertise. It is, as I thought at the time, best suited to the regular police and their wide resources in local engagement and detection. At this distance—”
“But Mr Holmes, we failed. I knew those streets and I knew those people. For ten years I caught the worst that Whitechapel had to offer and put them before a judge. I believed that we never came close to this man, and I know… I think that we did all we could.”
“And yet, Inspector, you find yourself moved to ask a stranger to review your work—to point out your flaws.”
“Indeed, sir, to have such observations from someone of your standing would be an honour. In my work since the force, I have come to have a greater understanding and respect for the consulting detective. I only wish that we could have had your service at the time. Your name was mentioned many times at the Yard at the time, but never having directly observed your work, I am sorry to say, I dismissed such talk.”
I allowed myself a smile.
“Inspector, you are not to be criticized for such a decision. I believe in your position, given your responsibilities, I might well have done the same.”
The light in the room was changing already and though it would be bright for many hours yet, I already felt the creep of night.
The Inspector lowered his gaze again and stared now at his worn leather wallet.
I longed to return to my bees and yet I sensed there was something else, some other thing driving this honest man in his endeavour. There seemed an urgency to his request not borne of the unguarded recollections of colleagues or the solicitations of newspaper men.
I picked up my pipe and tapped it out, letting the silence remain otherwise unbroken as I prepared a charge.
When it was lit and a good head of smoke produced, I spoke again.
“I hope that your collection and recollection are comprehensive, Inspector. As a detective, you will know only too well how dangerous it is to reason from insufficient data.”
The Inspector looked up and smiled at last.
“Comprehensive indeed. Encyclopaedic, if I may say.”
“Very well, then.”
“And where shall we start, Mr Holmes?”
“Where one must always start, Inspector: with the evidence!”
“The best evidence in this case is undoubtedly the victims, Mr Holmes. Let us start there.”
“Agreed.”
“The body of Martha Tabram was found in a stairwell in George Yard Buildings at 4:45 a.m. by one Alfred Crowe, a resident, on his return from work. From the evidence of another resident, the body may well have been there since 3:30 a.m. The woman had thirty-nine stab wounds, all but one of which appear to have been inflicted with the same knife.
“The knife was likely a common penknife, though a singular wound to the sternum appears to have been made with a larger weapon, possibly a dagger or bayonet. The victim’s throat showed signs of manual strangulation.”
I listened as the Inspector gave detailed accounts of the victims, and I clouded the room with a heavy pall of tobacco smoke. He listed six in all.
As the Inspector spoke, he sat back in his chair, looking more comfortable than he had since I first set eyes on him.
He relayed the details and leafed through the wallet, sometimes taking up a page or photograph and laying it on the table or the floor before him. He rarely seemed to have to consult the pages as the details appear to have long been committed to memory.
When finally the Inspector paused, he leaned back in the chair and rested for a moment.
I could not complain at the level of detail with which I was furnished, and apart from the odd clarification here or there on some point or detail, let the Inspector go on as he would.
Now I stood rubbing my temples, a cold pipe still in my teeth, ready to begin the process of deduction.
“You named six victims, Inspector, though there are doubts over two, at least, if we are to assume the work of a single hand.”
“Indeed, Mr Holmes, both Tabram and Stride pose problems if we’re to look at the cases all together—hind-sight is a wonderful perspective.”
“That it is, Inspector, but logic and reason are even better.”
“Let us take the key points here: the killer of Nichols, Chapman, Eddowes, and Kelly cut the throat right around and down to the bone, with evidence of attempts to separate vertebrae. All but Kelly showed signs of strangulation before the throat was cut, though this may also have been the case with her, too. Where indications were apparent, the throat was cut from left to right.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“But Tabram, though, showing no sign of cuts to the throat, was strangled also.”
“Correct, and while she had abdominal wounds, they were primarily of a stabbing nature, as opposed to the evisceration and mutilations of Eddowes, Chapman, and Kelly.”
“And Stride did not show manual strangulation evidence but could have been throttled with her own scarf. She did show signs of physical force upon her shoulders, and a reduced, but still fatal, cut to the throat from left to right.”
“That is correct, Mr Holmes.”
“All of these women were known to have practiced as prostitutes, all were murdered at night without a sound and in public, but secluded areas.
“Inspector, I ask you to draw upon your experience in H Division. Have you ever known two murderers to be at work on the same class of victims simultaneously in such a small area?”
“I have never encountered such thing, but then again, Mr Holmes, before that time I had never encountered a man who went about murdering strangers.”
“Ah, we must be careful, Inspector, not to infer what we cannot prove. Your own account suggests that while these unfortunates frequented the same streets and possibly the same public houses, there is no evidence from which to conclude that they knew each other or not. Therefore, with a similar lack of evidence for the killer, it is impossible to say whether he knew them or not. For my part I have not seen many killers who murder strangers, but it has been a rising phenomenon in our crowded cities in recent times with many such cases emerging. I would hazard that our Jack is an early instance of this terrible development. In those cases of which I have read, it seems to be a downward path that the maniac follows, but one that often starts with lesser crimes. Though it is impossible to say with certainty, I would contend, on balance of probabilities, that Tabram was the first killing by this man’s hand, but that he also killed Stride and was disturbed in the act. The killer may well have hidden in the yard with Stride, blending into the crowd of onlookers that assembled. This Jack has control of his nerve, as all of his crimes are high risk and yet nowhere in the evidence does there appear an account of a panicked individual fleeing or the hurried disposal of evidence.”
“True, Mr Holmes. The impression is one of a maniac of most singular nature who seems to be able to steel himself for these terrible crimes and then rein himself in to make his escape through the streets.”
“Let us make the reasonable supposition that the killer’s first murder was Tabram, that he killed Stride and was disturbed before he proceeded to Eddowes and ultimately Kelly.”
“Indeed, Mr Holmes, I would agree. There were later killings, but none have the true ring of the Ripper about them. Though the murder of Alice McKenzie in ’89 and Francis Coles in ’91 have similarities, they are distant and detached.”
“Proceed then with the witnesses, Inspector.”
With the same level of detail, the Inspector recounted the major witnesses and referred to the excellent work of then Chief Inspector Swanson as he summarized the information for his superiors. The inspector focused on two key witnesses who had each observed individuals with two of the victims hours before their grim encounters. One of which led, unfortunately, to a dark turn for certain sections of the community.
“So, despite the apparent confederate observed by Israel Schwartz in the company of Elizabeth Stride, it is your opinion, Inspector, that the address of ‘Lipski’ was directed at Schwartz himself and not at this perceived accomplice?”
“That is my view, sir. I worked those streets since the Lipski murder trial and heard it used as a derogatory term on many occasions. I fear the second man may well have been an innocent, too, driven away for fear of being embroiled in an altercation, as Schwartz himself did. For though he thought he was being pursued, Schwartz spoke little English and when he looked back was alone.”
“Excellent, Inspector. Then let’s proceed.”
The Inspector went on to describe testimony of Joseph Lawende, who saw a man conversing with a woman who fitted the description of Catherine Eddowes, mere minutes before the body of that unfortunate was found in Mitre Square.
“He said that the man was about five feet seven inches in height, about thirty years of age and of fair complexion with a fair moustache. He looked shabby and had a salt and pepper coloured coat and flat peaked cap with a red kerchief about his neck.
“Schwartz said that the pair were—”
“Lawende, Inspector,” I interjected.
“Yes, Lawende,” he continued, “said that the pair were talking quietly and that he would not be sure he could recognize the man again. Though when he was pressed, Schwartz said—”
“Lawende, surely?”
“Yes, of course. Lawende,” said the Inspector, “gave further details but, again said that he wasn’t sure he would know the fellow again.”
“Inspector, we have been upon this for some time now,” I observed, as the sun had now quite deserted the room. “Perhaps some more refreshment might help in our work.”
The Inspector looked at me with a most puzzled expression.
“I assure you, Mr Holmes, I am quite ready to continue, that is, if you are ready to do the same.”
I regarded the man’s indignant look before turning back to the cold grate, leaning an elbow on the mantle.
“Proceed then, Inspector, with all haste.”
We examined for some time more the witnesses from police reports, the coroner’s court, and even those attempts that were made to identify suspects long after the fact. The Inspector detailed the most secret attempt to have a witness identify an inmate of Colney Hatch asylum, but time and memory were not favourable to the efforts.
“Inspector, your recall is excellent, but I fear that there is little to be had from these accounts. From the evidence of the victims and what we know of these types of crimes, we can safely say that the man will be of the same, or slightly elevated, class as his victims. He is at least twenty-five, though probably more than thirty, he has a job that is, at best, semi-skilled, and lives and works in the area from which the victims are drawn. He is of the same race and does not look in the slightest out of place in the environs where he chooses his victims. If I recall the streets of that locale well enough, he would frequent the lodging houses of the likes of Flower and Dean Street, or Dorset Street. He is unlikely to have a wife, though that is not impossible. More likely is that he lives with some family, a mother, perhaps, or siblings. He will be a somewhat anti-social character but will have, probably through his work, the ability to pass himself in his society. He appears to be able to have the women accompany him willingly and when his ghoulish work is complete, he makes his escape through the same streets where he hunted, largely unobserved. From all of this we can deduce that he is at home in these streets, has a deep knowledge of the locale, its workings and its dangers. He takes extreme risks in the time he has available and yet when time is short, or circumstances threaten, he can rein himself in to avoid detection and give later vent to his urges. I disagree with the opinion of the medical examiners of a building pattern of mutilations, for if you look at each crime, as best we can, where time allowed, the mutilations were extensive. Where time was not a factor at all, as in the case of Kelly, Jack gave fullest vent to his fury and yet the mutilations still have a consistency about them that mark them out as by the same hand.
“This man, this Jack the Ripper,” I said, “dehumanizes his victims by attacking their sexuality as well as their identity and key traits. He mutilates, eyes, ears, cheeks, and even lips, though hands and fingers appear only ever to have defensive wounds. I would reason that this man never experienced sexual intimacy, as the focus of his attention on the organs of sexuality betray a mind that never understood them in their sexual context, but rather only in their anatomical sense.”
“He had on several occasions taken away organs—wombs and kidneys,” said the Inspector in a hollow tone. “But how are we ever to recognize these things in a suspect?”
“Well, Inspector, let us look at the best of your suspects now and see with whom we can reconcile, if any, these ghastly traits.”
“A later colleague, Mr Holmes, who was not even part of the force at the time, has suggested a young doctor who was suspected of solitary vices. This chap called Druitt was favoured because he was fished out of the Thames not long after the killing of Mary Kelly.”
The Inspector detailed this case and several others: one Thomas Cutbush; a tall American called Tumblety; a feeble-minded man called Kosminski; Hutchinson, who was a consort of the victim Mary Kelly; and a convicted poisoner, Severin Klosowski, also known as George Chapman.
“In all you have detailed, Inspector, I agree. We can rule out the young doctor, Cutbush, and the tall American—what little we can say of the killer does not tally with any of these. Kosminski simply does not fit the kind of dementia that the killer displays, as one thing is certain—it is his rigorous self-control that allows him to commit his crimes and that was not at all true of Kosminski.”
“All of which brings us to Chapman,” he said gravely.
The Inspector now betrayed a certain partiality, which caused me no little concern.
“Chapman was a piece of work, Mr Holmes, a nasty piece of work. The way that he could look on as he caused his wives to waste away in agony was cold, Mr. Holmes. I believe such a man is capable of anything.”
“Indeed, Inspector, I do not doubt that Chapman was capable, but these killings bear a signature, as did Chapman’s own. I doubt that they are the same author. Look at the facts, Inspector. Chapman arrived in London barely a year before the first murder. His known places of work are not at the heart of the streets that the killer so obviously knew and of which he made such skillful use. Though the witness statements sometimes give us a dark mien, many say fair, and none remark on a noticeably foreign accent. And as for the use of poison as a weapon, Inspector, well, that is an area of expertise of mine. One of the most remarkable women I have ever known was hanged for poisoning three children. It is an intimate weapon, one that is often used where the killer knows the victim and can watch as the effects become obvious and take their course. But a knife, Inspector, in these cases, I believe, is an extension of the killer and so its use can be seen as an altogether different type of intimacy. No, Inspector, though it is not unheard of for a killer to change his methods as he learns and develops, the particular mania of this man only takes full expression in cutting and ripping. It is the act which gives him satisfaction, not the victim or the hunt—hence his pursuit of another victim after being interrupted with Stride. Chapman killed to rid himself of an inconvenience when he got bored of his wives and they became obstacles. Jack killed to provide the canvas on which he wrought his terrible signature.”
“But, Mr Holmes, Chapman had the anatomical skill, he was present in the London locale at the time, he was a known and multiple killer, and his attack upon his wife in America with a knife before he ever used poison—”
“Inspector, everything you say is fact!” I interjected. “But I must impose the rule of logic. Chapman is unlikely to have had sufficient local knowledge in ’88, he is unlikely to have sufficient English, either. He would hardly have established so distinct a signature only to revert to the wild passions of domestic abuse a year after murdering Mary Kelly. And finally, he is unlikely to have so vented his fury and satisfied his lust that he was able to forego his knife for the poison bottle seven years later. All these unlikelihoods, Inspector, combine to tell me that Chapman was at the time a nascent killer and one of altogether different mettle. He has not the stripes of your Jack the Ripper.”
The Inspector drew back, somewhat less than crestfallen, but disabused, I hoped, of what was clearly a long-held notion. “I’m sorry, sir. But I must argue to the contrary. Chapman is a stronger suspect than your Kosminski, who appears a mere harmless idiot!”
“I assure you, Inspector, I do not hold with Kosminski as a suspect at all.”
“As well you shouldn’t, for he is nothing of the sort!”
The Inspector leaned forward in his chair, the ruddiness in his cheeks giving way to a rising scarlet.
“All this time you’ve argued for Kosminski over Chapman, ignoring the evidence I’ve placed before you. You write your reports and tell Sir Charles that we do sterling work and yet you discount the very fruits of those labours!”
The Inspector was in full flow now and his eyes looked at me with a fury that seemed misplaced. I listened as he berated someone else for their directing of the case; by the sound of it, with some justification.
As with a somnambulist discovered in the act, I realized that the Inspector was not here in this room on the Sussex Downs, but back in a London office, probably before his Chief Inspector, arguing the case for his long-held favourite, against the odds, it seemed.
After fully expressing his frustration and throwing several more aspects of his theory into the bargain, he eventually relaxed, satisfied. “Respectfully, sir, I believe you are wrong and the facts of the case, when we collar this Jack, will bear me out!”
The Inspector took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He folded it carefully in a manner that marked a practiced gesture, probably his method to calm himself when he lost his temper, and then looked at me as I stood facing him. His eyes immediately registered a change. He looked me up and down and then grasped the arms of his chair tightly as he cast about the room and took in his surroundings. He drew several quick breaths and tensed, reeling from the realization.
When he looked at me again, the colour had drained from his face, leaving a ghastly pallor. He swallowed hard and tried to steady himself. His manner betrayed that this was not the first such turn he experienced.
“I am sorry, Mr Holmes. I have quite lost the thread of what I was saying. You had said of Chapman that—”
“Please, Inspector, let us dispense with Chapman and Whitechapel for a moment.”
The Inspector shrank visibly.
“How long have you suffered these…turns?”
He paused for a moment, but made no attempt to evade the question.
“A little over a year now, but they were infrequent at first.”
“I am not a medical man, Inspector, but I believe the recent work of Dr Alois Alzheimer has done most to describe your condition.”
“Indeed, it was that doctor’s name that my own physician cited.”
“A terrible condition, Inspector.”
At last it was clear what brought this man to me. While a professional doubt developed with friends and colleagues playing detective long after the fact, clouding reality with their idle musings, this terrible affliction meant that peace of mind may well have eluded him, too.
“I can recall the very last detail of my cases, Mr Holmes. I can see the faces of suspects, I can hear the voices of my men report, and recall the smell of the charge rooms, but when I take a turn I cannot find the kitchen in my own house. I have become lost sometimes, when I recall a case, repeating conversations that I’ve had on the matter.”
“I believe that you were just now tackling Chief Inspector Swanson and his favouring of the suspect Kosminski.”
The Inspector shrank again.
“I have relived that one many times, I fear.”
“I am so very sorry, Inspector. I understand your horror at this most awful prospect.”
The silence that followed was almost unbearable. We contemplated what we both knew to be inevitable. I must admit, in an entirely selfish way, I was glad to have seen this manifestation that I might know the signs, for I knew the condition leads inexorably in a slow descent to dementia. I bit harder on my cold pipe than was altogether necessary, and for the first time in many years wished for my favoured solution to relieve this horror unleashed in my mind.
Eventually I was compelled to speak and do some small thing to alleviate the weight of the situation upon the Inspector.
“Sir, it is my most considered opinion, given the facts that you have placed before me, that you did not directly encounter the murderer known as Jack the Ripper in your investigations. Furthermore, I do not believe that the methods at your disposal at the time would have yielded the man, given what we can establish of him. Nothing you have presented from your work or the musings of your colleagues since would convince me they have come any closer than you did to the killer’s identity. I cannot say whether I would have caught the man, for your methods are not mine. But this I can say: I believe that you did, at the time, all you could with the resources and the methods at your disposal. I am afraid, Inspector, no more than that can be said with certainty.”
The silence descended again and we each contemplated our work. Inwardly, now that I was more fully acquainted with the case, I was gladdened to have been so engaged at the time as to be kept away from Whitechapel. What was all the more surprising was that I had not heard from my brother Mycroft on the matter, as the rumblings back and forth between Commissioner Warren and his superiors, as far as the prime minister, must have been most unsettling.
After a long period of private contemplation, I again felt compelled to break the silence.
“You are welcome, Inspector, to rest for whatever is left of the night, though I see already a grey line on the horizon. There is a room on the left at the top of the stairs that I believe you would find adequate.”
“You are most kind, Mr Holmes, but if I might simply rest here a moment, I shall be on my way,” said the Inspector wearily. “I am most grateful for your help in this matter, Mr Holmes, and I feel a great deal unburdened. My…condition has made me doubt much of my faculties in this matter lately and I am best pleased to have been able to lay out a clear account for you, whatever your conclusions.”
“You are welcome, Inspector. I am only sorry that I could not have provided more comfort in those conclusions.”
“They were as much as I could have hoped for.”
And with that I bid the Inspector good-night.
I went to the scullery where I kept tobacco for refilling my slipper. I lit another charge and put on my mantle to take a turn upon the Downs.
The morning air cleared my head and the pipe calmed my mind, perturbed as it was by the prospect of such an affliction laying low a keen professional mind.
On my return, I found the chair in my sitting room empty, with only the stale smell of smoke and empty cups left to bear witness to the night’s revelations.
———<>———
Paul Hearns is a journalist and writer, living and working in Dublin, Ireland. Married, with three children, he writes speculative fiction in the benevolent shadow of Le Fanu, James, Lovecraft, and of course, Doyle.