The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors by Edward B. Hanna Read Free Book Online

sordid little case of blackmail, a simple matter after all. It just took a while to sort out. A pretty house, though, with quite a lovely park. Unfortunately, the food was abominable. The lord of the manor is a vegetarian, would you believe: one of those rabid antivivisectionist fellows. Professes to despise all blood sports, and even chases behind the local hunt in his trap, ringing a cowbell and bellowing quotations of that Oscar Whatshisname chap. 16 Won’t allow meat or fish at his table. Not even an egg for breakfast! God, what I would not do for a good thick cut of roast beef. Is it too late to dine at Rules, do you think? Oh, I see that you have been at table already. Pity, that. Well, perhaps tomorrow, if you have no other engagement. Yes, Rules tomorrow: something to which we may look forward!”
    But it was not to be. It was shortly after seven A.M. when the two of them were awakened. There stood Mrs. Hudson on the landing, in robe and slippers and old-fashioned mobcap, the unmistakable uniform of a telegraph boy behind her in the shadows. “Most urgent it is, the lad says. Is it bad news, do you think? Oh, heavens, it must be at this hour!”
    “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hudson, dear lady,” Holmes said, patting her on the arm. “Back to your bed now, and mind the stairs. No, no, don’t trouble about breakfast. A shilling for the lad, Watson, if you would be so kind. Make it two, seeing the earliness of the hour.”
    Holmes turned up the lamp on the side table and tore open the flimsy envelope. A mere glance at the telegram was all that was needed.
    “Quick, Watson, into your clothes! The devil’s afoot!”

Five

    S ATURDAY , S EPTEMBER 8, 1888
    “You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”
    — The Boscombe Valley Mystery
    I t was a wild dash through the nearly empty streets of a gray-streaked London, the clatter of the horse’s hooves loud against the cobbles, Holmes banging on the ceiling of the hansom cab with his walking stick, urging the driver on to even greater feats of recklessness. Fortunately there was little traffic at that hour to impede their progress.
    “Faster, man! Faster!” Holmes shouted. “In heaven’s name, faster!”
    Watson, who had been handed the telegram as soon as he was bundled half dressed into the hansom by Holmes, was trying unsuccessfully to make out its message by the feeble light of the coach lamp, but the jouncing and buffeting of the speeding conveyance made it impossible.
    “Great Scot, Holmes!” he shouted to make himself heard over the clamor. “Will you not tell me what has happened?”
    “Surely you’ve guessed!” Holmes shouted back. “There’s been another murder in the East End!”
    “Good Lord!”
    “That’s from Abberline,” snapped Holmes, gesturing to the crumpled message in Watson’s hand. Once again he called up to the driver, “Faster, man! Can’t you go faster!”
    Watson, for one, devoutly wished that he could not, for the coach was swaying alarmingly as it was; he could keep his seat only with the greatest of difficulty: His hat was knocked askew at almost every turning, and he found himself gripping the side strap so tightly that his hand hurt from the pressure.
    “When did it occur?” he shouted to Holmes as he resettled himself in his seat after a particularly wild swing around Oxford Circus. “Does the telegram say?”
    “Barely an hour ago, from what I gather. Fortunately the post office was at its most efficient. I’m thankful for that!” 17
    “Does Abberline give any details?”
    “No,” came the shouted reply. “The telegram says merely, ‘Come in haste. Another Whitechapel outrage.’ And then the address, Twenty-nine Hanbury Street.”
    “Hanbury Street? Not all that far from the site of the last murder, is it?”
    “No, not all that far. A short stroll away; a half mile, perhaps.”
    They then lapsed into silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts as the hansom sped through the