“Over here, my dear Watson!”

My flatmate emerged from the shroud of fog with a mask that seemed to shield his face from harm. My eyes were beginning to burn and I was choking more than I would have fancied.

“Take this Watson! We haven’t time for suffocation!” Holmes exclaimed.

Holmes handed me a mask of my own and disappeared into the fog. I donned the curious cap and found my breathing steadied to a rate of comfort. Having regained my bearings, I ventured into the apartment.

I found Sherlock Holmes warming his hands by our billowing fireplace, from which it seemed the source of the smog was spewing.

“I’d have thought you'd gone mad if I didn’t know you better,” said I.

“Ah, Watson, I’ve assembled an amalgamation of interest!”

“What could be interesting enough as to burn our flat down,” I remarked, “I don’t expect Mrs. Hudson will take a liking to this smokestack.”

“I fear not. Fortunately, it’s no matter.” The detective turned and faced me, but I could barely glimpse his eyes. “How do you like the masks?”

“Well, they certainly make this calamity bearable.”

“Ah! Bearable it is! These shrouds, called ‘gas masks’ by the inventor, a Scot I believe, serve to reject smoke of any kind from entering the lungs or contacting the skin. I dare say they will be used in the evolution of modern combat, perhaps in a global war.”

“Holmes! That’s quite a dreadful prediction. I’d say my time in Afghanistan prevents me from being too keen on any future conflict of the sort. What leads you to that prediction?”

“I’d tell you, but we’ve matters of our own to address. For now, I’ll call it a hunch.”

“I’ve a hunch you’re mad!” I exclaimed. Usually I could keep my bearings around my flatmate, but I found that this evening brought difficulty in the maintenance of my composure.

“Dash it, Watson,” says Holmes, “What I’ve found here may lead to the greatest discovery in British history.”

I could sense how eager my peculiar friend seemed to be, despite the unexplained catastrophe unfolding around us.

“And what might this great discovery be?”

“The Whitechapel murderer. Some are calling him Jack the Ripper. You’re aware he carried out his most recent mutilation in the past week?”

“Indeed, I have. Vile thing.”

“Right. With Mary Jane Kelly’s murder has come the most undeniable piece of evidence ever found.”

“And what might this piece of evidence be, Holmes.”

“I’ll let Constable Broughton explain.”

The alarm of police carriages arriving at the foot of the apartment resounded as if Holmes had summoned them. Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“It’s time to remove your mask, Watson. Follow my lead.” Holmes removed his gas mask and sprawled on the floor. I was flustered, to say the least, but I failed to see an option more favorable than what was advocated by my partner.

I lay on the floor without my mask, beginning to cough once more. I glanced at Holmes and he seemed unaffected, bored perhaps.

The door to 221B swung open.

“Sherlock Holmes! Dr. John Watson! Hullo!” Silhouettes of several men crowded into the flat.

“Here! I’m alright! A fair bit faint!” cried Holmes.

“I’m here as well!” I exclaimed between the shrill gasps of asphyxiation.

Constable Broughton and two lesser policemen approached. Constable Broughton took the detective’s hand and guided him out of the flat and another officer did the same with me.

Once outside, we found a collective of pedestrians and officers of the law observing the clouds puffing from our window. With no answers and many questions, I awaited the explanation I had been promised by my flatmate’s supposed savior. Constable Broughton stood in a circle with several other officers, speaking under their breath. Holmes and I sat on the curb, panting in attempts to expel the gas from our lungs.

“Listen closely to the Constable,” whispered Holmes, “as you can imagine, there is underlying reasoning for my apparent lunacy.”

“I wish you’d tell me sooner when you decide to pull a stunt like this.”

“Here he comes now.”

Constable Broughton, a broad shouldered fellow with the gait of a sailor, approached. He cracked his neck and glanced up at the apartment before returning his gaze to Holmes and myself.

“Constable! How are you today?” Holmes cheerily retorted.

“Well, Holmes, I might inquire the same of you. Why is it that your flat seems to be in the process of smoldering to oblivion?”

“I’ve been rather clumsy today, Constable. I was feeding wood into the fireplace whilst I was carrying out an examination of chemicals related to a case I’ve been handling. I fear the chemical seeped into my fingerprint, with which I then handled the wood, leading apartment 221B to assume its current state.”

“Is this true, Dr. Watson?”

“I won’t be of much help, Constable. I arrived after a long day of operation, saw the condition of the flat, and rushed inside to assist Holmes.”

The Constable grunted.

“I don’t know why you choose to meddle with this vigilante, Dr. Watson. Your practice is esteemed and I admire your work. I can’t say the same about your friend.”

“But, Constable Broughton!” interjected Holmes, “I’d have thought you’d admire another individual so impassioned with service to the law.”

“You uncover one murder and, all of the sudden, you feel yourself to be the pride of our nation. Scotland Yard has solved many times over the mystery you have. I’d hope you don’t think too highly of yourself.”

“Certainly not, Constable,” replied Holmes with a crass smile.

“I’d also hope that nearly burning down your own flat proves to the public how fortunate you are to claim to be a detective,” said Constable Broughton, “but I fear the people of Britain have been slumming to lower rungs of modesty and respectability with each passing year.”

Constable Broughton shifted on his heel and marched back to his fellow law officers. They were soon enveloped in their own gossip, evidently relating to the clumsy disposition of my partner. Holmes, relinquished from his role of a fool, leaned into my ear.

“Isn’t it clear as day, Watson? The Whitechapel murders have been solved.”

“My dear Holmes,” I replied, “I can’t say that anything addressed in that conversation related to the Whitechapel murders in the slightest.”

“Think, Watson. What might have led me to the inclination of the involvement of Constable Broughton in the Whitechapel murders?”

“Well,” I wondered, “he seemed wary of your investigative efforts. His ego certainly seems to have been damaged by our discovery of Drebber’s murderer. I fail to see how any of this information could lead to a resolution explaining the demise of all those prostitutes.”

“I’ll tell you,” said he, “but we must leave this place.”

Holmes stood up and approached the group of officers. I followed close behind.

“Constable. Officers,” said Holmes, “with the alarming events that have transpired this evening, Dr. Watson and I are in need of fresh air. With the elimination of the source of smoke, I believe your services will no longer be needed here. Thank you for your assistance in light of my unfortunate accident.”

The police force menaced at my colleague. Constable Broughton stuck his chin up, as if asserting dominance in the manner of a wild animal.

“You won’t be as lucky the next time you blunder as you have tonight, Holmes,” said Constable Broughton. Holmes nodded at the Constable, then myself, and we were off.

The moon had begun to hoist itself into the fountain of stars above. The lamplight cast our shadows upon the ground below. Holmes seemed deep in thought, exposing me to an entirely new sense of curiosity.

“So,” said I, “do you care to tell me why the events of this evening transpired and what Constable Broughton had to do with it?”

“Seeing as your lack of effort to piece together my line of thought has failed, I’m afraid I have no other choice than to offer an explanation for what has happened and what is to come.”

Holmes glanced at me, casting an expression of pity.

“You will improve in your understanding of investigation with time, Watson.”

To this, I smiled. “Thank you, my dear Holmes. Now, please, detail your knowledge with care!”

“Right,” nodded Holmes, “Our residence at Baker Street was consumed in a non-toxic compound of which I intended to summon the police force. You are aware of my expertise in the field of chemistry, of course. The smoke will dissipate on its own in time, which will leave the police officers to bungle about in an effort to put out an inextinguishable fire. Seeing as Baker Street is of a more reasonable area of London, I had no doubt Constable Broughton would arrive on the scene. This, as you have gathered, was imperative to my deduction of his absolute involvement in the Whitechapel murders.”

“How was this deduction reached?”

“Quite simple, really. First off, there is the rhetoric that Constable Broughton chooses to use. You have noted that he is not fond of our work in the Drebber’s case. He also is keen to the nature of respectability, so commonly expected of our citizenry in this day and age. With a man that operates on ego alone, it seems that his chosen method of attack would be on the ego of a detective whose reputation has exceeded his own. This string of murders in Whitechapel, all of which include prostitutes eliminated similarly, have yet to be solved by anyone.”

“Ah, so you are suggesting that Constable Broughton carried out the murders in order to create a case that the great Sherlock Holmes is incapable of solving, seeing as it has been conducted from within the police force.”

“Now you are thinking, Watson,” said Holmes, “but not quite. The reasoning behind the murders are twofold. One you have outlined, which involved attacking my ego, and the other relating to respectability. We agree that prostitution is not considered the most modest of lifestyles. It can be concluded, then, that individuals belonging to this profession were chosen as victims in order for moral quandaries to be entirely avoided, all while infuriating myself with the prospect of an impossible mystery. Not to mention, Whitechapel is where members of the working class reside, for whom I am sure Constable Broughton carries little sympathy.”

“And, being the head of the police force, Constable Broughton could cover his tracks after every murder, making the case unsolvable.”

“Why yes, Dr. Watson,” exclaimed Holmes, “you’ve got that bit correct. But the tracks covered by Constable Broughton were not his own.”

“You mean to say that Constable Broughton is not ‘Jack the Ripper’?”

“That is precisely what I mean to say, Watson. There is no denying Constable Broughton’s involvement in the murders, but he is a pawn in the hands of another.”

“And who might this be?”

“Abbot Hiebert of Westminster. He is the murderer.”

“The Abbot?” I cried, “I dare say that’s the most sacrilegious accusation that’s ever been made! You suggest an abbot defiled and dismembered all of these women?”

“As I said, Watson, this was meant to be an unsolvable case. No one would ever accuse the Constable, let alone the Abbot. Yet, if anyone were most concerned with the maintenance of respectability and modesty, would it not be an abbot? We all know the Church does not approve of the profession of prostitution. While there are the Houses for Fallen Women advocated by the Catholic clergy, the Anglican institution chooses to limit their involvement with the destitute women of England. There is not only incentive for the Abbot to carry out these murders, but the support of a loyal police force.”

“But how do you know that it was Abbot Hiebert?”

“Simple, Watson,” said Holmes with a sly smile, “while we sat on the curb, Constable Broughton paced before us. In doing so, he exposed the style of his sock, which included golden stripes in a vertical pattern. Through my investigation of the Constable, which I have been carrying on for quite a while, I have come to discover he belongs to a secret society known as the Golden Warriors. These men are Anglican purists who take their beliefs beyond the boundaries of the Church. They meet at this exact time at this exact hour on this exact day each week. They wear a uniform of vertical golden stripes to their meetings. It seems Constable Broughton had enough time to change his entire outfit, apart from his socks.”

“My, Holmes!” said I, “You make it quite obvious upon explanation! It was all laid before me, yet I failed to notice a thing!”

“As I said, my dear Watson, your investigative skills will develop with time.”

“And,” I responded, “is Abbot Hiebert a member of the Golden Warriors?”

“Not only a member, Watson, the founder! As of late, he has been operating a campaign to condemn prostitutes in the name of the Lord. And where do you think this program has been operating?”

“Whitechapel!”

“Right you are, Watson! We have time before the smoke extinguishes and Constable Broughton is there to do away with all the evidence. Follow my lead!”

With that, Sherlock Holmes rushed down the street at a pace quicker than a man in tweed should be able. I had always admired him, but that night I knew there was something more than meets the eye. Whatever may come of my life from that point forward, I knew I would always find my way back to Holmes. As I rushed after him under the gleam of the moon, I felt the rush of wonder that my flatmate substituted with cocaine when he did not have a case to solve.

We had been talking for a good long while and had made our way into the East End of London. This was not an area that either of us would regularly prefer to inhabit, but the pressing matter of the case led us down the damp alleyways and gloomy cobblestone without an inkling of the fear that typically would have coursed through our veins. Holmes and I approached a street corner occupied by a prostitute, illuminated by a single lamp.

“Looking for a bit of fun, darling?” the scantily clad woman inquired.

While I was a bachelor at the time, I did not find myself fond of the lower practices of the lustful. I preferred to wait until a good woman of moral value introduced herself into my life. It would only be a few short months until Mary Morstan would do just that.

“Woman!” said Holmes, “Why do you find yourself alone out here with the current dangers presented to those belonging to your profession? How foolish!”

Holmes had not yet developed his affinity towards female intuition. In only a few short years, Irene Adler would change that.

“I was here with me mate,” said the uneducated female, “but a fella took ‘er inside.” She pointed to a dilapidated cottage across the street.

“Who took her inside?” asked Holmes, “What did the man look like?”

“Well, I’m not really ‘posed to say. But, some men of God aren’t quite wot they seem to be.”

“Quick, Watson!” Holmes bolted across the road. I followed close behind, almost tripping over myself.

Holmes left the cottage door swung wide open and I followed him inside. It was dirty and bleak, with rats as large as kittens scampering about. I had already lost Holmes in the darkness, when I heard a shrill scream from a back room.

“In the name of the Golden Warriors!” a voice shouted.

“Unhand her!” I heard Holmes say.

I burst into the room, which was lit by a dull lantern. A prostitute lay in a small bed, covering her eyes with the sheets. Holmes had Abbot Hiebert’s arms pinned against the wall, with which the monk had a large cleaving knife raised. The Abbot tried to swing the knife down and cut Holmes, but I rushed to my friend’s side and removed the knife from the attacker’s hands. The screams of the prostitute echoed in the small chamber. Trapped against the wall with no weapon, Abbot Hiebert flailed about.

“You’ve nowhere to run, fiend!” said Holmes, “What’ve you to say for yourself?”

Abbot Hiebert stopped squirming. He stared my partner dead in the eyes.

“What are you going to do about it, swine?” said the Abbot, “I’m a man of God. No one will believe I was involved and if you accuse me of these murders, you’ll be an outcast. You know damn well that I can’t be arrested either.”

The Abbot wore golden vertical stripes, the uniform of the Golden Warriors. He began to laugh menacingly, realizing that Holmes had no solution.

For once in his career, Holmes did not know what to do. He was no killer and even with all the logic supporting the option, he could not bring himself to do it.

Just then, the prostitute from the lamppost, who had certainly been listening, rushed in the room and grabbed the cleaver from my hands. Before anything could be done, she shoved Holmes to the side and began to slice Abbot Hiebert. As he was cleaved to death, he tried crying for God, but his words likely only reached Satan.

Holmes glanced at me, petrified by the course of action that had transpired. We rushed out of the house to the sounds of Jack the Ripper’s execution.

Holmes spoke as we wandered down an alleyway.

“Dr. Watson, some cases are best kept secret.”

I nodded.

“My dear Holmes, do you think God was on the side of those fallen women?”

“Of that, I can’t be sure. Sometimes the order of things isn't what it seems.”

I glanced at the stars.

“If we hadn’t been there, those women would have surely died and the Whitechapel murderer would still be at large. I can’t quite comprehend how you come to view the world the way that you do.”

“It’s elementary, my dear Watson,” my friend said with a smile.

THE END