The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors by Edward B. Hanna

sizes do them credit, that the very act of seeking out evidence can, if not accomplished artfully and with some care, obliterate that which they seek?”
    “Sir?” said Abberline, taken aback and clearly failing to comprehend.
    “If I did not know better,” continued Holmes, “I would be prepared to swear that the Brigade of Guards has paraded through here this morning.” He shook his head. “Wherever there’s the smallest patch of mud in the street, I see the unmistakable imprint of a policeman’s boot. It is as if your fellows went out of their way to leave their mark so as to prove their existence.” He smiled thinly. “I will say this for them, they’re a well-shod lot. Only one seems run-down at the heels insofar as I can ascertain: a pigeon-toed chap, a bit overweight, who goes by the name of Bagley, I believe.”
    Abberline looked at him open-mouthed.
    Holmes removed his hand from his pocket and held it outstretched, a small, glittering object in his palm. “Popped a button, I think you will find.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” muttered Abberline, taking the object from Holmes, who then turned without another word and walked over toward the body.
    “Now then, Watson, what can you tell me?”
    Watson took a deep breath. “Well, Holmes, it’s at least as horrible as the other. More grotesque, if anything.”
    Holmes walked carefully around the body, barely glancing at it for the moment, devoting his attentions instead to the ground around it, scrutinizing every inch slowly and carefully. Apparently satisfied there was nothing to be found, he turned his attentions to the body itself, that of a plump, well-proportioned woman in her mid-forties, with what had once been dark good looks now ravaged by drink. The woman’s face, bruised and smeared with blood, was turned to one side, the tongue protruding slightly from between the teeth. Her throat had been cruelly sliced: The head was almost completely severed from the body.
    Holmes’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a thin line. Chin in hand, he gazed at the sight intently.
    Watson got down on his haunches and pointed. “Her throat wasn’t merely cut, Holmes; it was slashed, just like the other. And as far as I can tell, it, too, was from right to left. The entry wound is here, you see, and the angle of it suggests that her chin was raised unnaturally high, consistent with being grabbed about the mouth from behind and her head pulled back.”
    “Yes, I see.” He looked around him. “She probably led the way through the passage from the street and he took her unawares as they entered the yard.”
    “It was done with a very sharp instrument,” Watson continued, “a thin, narrow blade. I would say that it was done with great strength, a vigorous stroke. Yet the man knew what he was about; there is no frenzy, no wild, misaimed slashing indicated. The wound at the throat is very precise, and the cuts here and here (he pointed with a finger) are well calculated. But that’s the least of it.” He inhaled deeply. “As you can see, there are frightful mutilations of the abdominal region. She’s been virtually disemboweled.”
    Holmes stroked his chin. His eyes had a hard, unnatural look to them.
    “That’s not the whole of it, Holmes. Not by half.”
    “Well?”
    “It would seem that several organs are missing.”
    Holmes looked at him sharply. “Missing?”
    Watson returned his gaze. “A kidney has been removed, and the uterus as well, and I don’t know what else: We will have to wait for a proper autopsy. Holmes, I tell you, I don’t know what to make of this; I have never seen anything like it.”
    Holmes pursed his lips and stood silently, looking down at the body. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and husky; his eyes burned fiercely. “I will have this creature. I will have him, make no mistake.”
    Watson stood up and massaged the back of his neck. “There’s not much more I can tell you at this point. As I say, the