Sherlock Holmes was above all things a Londoner. Wherever he ventured, my friend carried the essence of the world's greatest city with him: its capacity for illumination from the tiniest of details; the happy coexistence of order with chaos; above all, the impossibility of anyone asserting ownership.
It was a long-established breakfast routine at Baker Street, for Holmes to read aloud from the most egregious of our morning's correspondence.
'Mr Holmes, I am not a Britisher, so you must take my forthrightness of tone as part of the honour found in dealing with a freeborn man of our United States of America; one long resident in, and thus supremely well-acquainted with, your dark city of the fading Old World.'
'Holmes! What in heaven's name is this annoyance driving at?'
'Such presumptuousness has long characterised some of our trans-Atlantic cousins,' he drawled.
There followed, in the prolix words of one Mason Dwight Cockenheimer, an exhausting account of how this elbowing tourist had attempted to unmask the terror of Whitechapel, known to all by his nom-de-guerre 'Jack the Ripper'.
'That now makes twenty names, for our files Watson!'
I glanced at the letter Holmes floated over to me, narrowly avoiding my pile of devilled kidneys on scrambled eggs. To my astonishment, I saw the name Mycroft scrawled in scarlet ink.
'Great Scott Holmes, the impudence of this colonial explains your batey tone!'
'Watson, I intend to teach the buffoon a lesson he and his countrymen will forget no more than they can our torching of the White House, in 1814!'
'Is Cockenheimer aware of your brother's extensive girth? His enormous figure could scarcely have passed unremarked in Spitalfield's alleys, even if he were capable of entering such spaces!'
Mycroft is a lard-arse of truly international calibre. My dearest brother cannot have seen his own knob for at least a decade!'
Holmes was a man of verbal exactitude. I'd heardrumour that his brother frequented the more private of London's public conveniences, at peculiar hours.
'Watson you read my thoughts exactly! Mycroft is the leastlikely of candidates for a Grand Guignol starring role, both from his physique and those Piccadilly predilections. Nevertheless, our imperious American demands a meeting this evening, at stop-tap in Whitechapel's Ten Bells public house.’
I readily assented and suggested Holmes took along his heaviest knuckle-duster.
'I think a sword-stick will be more of use, given the mire into which we're descending.'
River mists, consuming all who ventured into the East End, I was thankful they obscured the residents, less wholesome lifeforms than the rats, darting for cover as we approached the Ten Bells.
From within came sounds of drunken debauchery.
'Have no fear Watson, I frequent a place in Limehouse compared with which this is the Cafe Royal.'
Immediately inside sat John Merrick, busily sketching a scene worthy of Lautrec or Emile Zola. I recoiled in fascinated horror from that visage.
'Gooddddeeeeverrrrrning Mesterrrrr Hollllllmmmmesss,' he spluttered.
'Ah Merrick, I was hoping to find you here – any news?'
All I could discern were the words 'Dr Tumblety' and a withered hand gesturing into the far corner.
Seated there was another extraordinary figure, of the type found in a circus, the sort of place where 'The Elephant Man' had been cruelly shown to gawping drunkards.
'Tumblety, so good you to come.' Holmes extended his slender hand, to which the seated figure clung as if rescued from a shipwreck.
How to describe Dr Francis Tumblety? A florid face attested to years close intimacy with the port or gin bottle. A nicotine-stained moustache, resembling some twisted snake basted in English mustard, extending on either side. Precariously perched on his head was a Prussian pickelhaube.
'I come on the advice of an esteemed fellow countryman of mine, who has honoured you with some correspondence!' announced Tumblety, as if addressing some parliamentary hustings.
'You share Cockenheimer's inability to speak concisely,' snapped Holmes.
'Alas Mr Holmes, I can feel my throat sanding over and urgent lubrication is required.'
Tumblety shoved his gin bottle towards me.
'I shall need the ten-shilling Old Wapping mix, Dr Watson.'
I fought a way through to the bar, using all my brutish Afghan experiences when forcing aside the myriad dockers, ladyboys and street vendors. A toothy crone slammed down a bottle of the oily liquid requested by Tumblety.
'A third bottle for the good Francis? she cackled. 'Lord help those poor girls tonight if he takes one of his turns!'
Bemused, I returned to find Holmes and Tumblety deep in conversation. An exhibit bottle – replete with bobbing organ – sat on the table.
'A kidney, shall we say?' asked Holmes.
'I am impressed; you noticed the section of renal artery?'
Was Tumblety engaged in the disgraceful yet profitable procurement of organs, for the medical establishment? I knew from my days at Barts how demand far exceeded supply, ensuring a thriving black-market in body parts.
'Might one ask what your source is?' queried Holmes.
'Mr Holmes, like a good journalist; I never reveal those!'
'And what role does Mason Dwight Cockenheimer play in this?'
'Cockenheimer became aware of my activities and agreed to find me buyers for my exhibits...’
Holmes leapt up and unsheathed his sword from its stick.
'Let me clarify matters, Francis – or should I call you Jack?'
Horror froze his purple features.
'Cockenheimer is none other than my brother Mycroft!’
The mists slowly cleared from my mind. I had mistakenly assumed Mycroft’s name appeared on our morning’s correspondence as a suspect.
'Indeed Watson, the letter was from my brother to me. It was child's play for him to persuade this quack to attend tonight, delivering himself into our hands for swift British justice!'
With that, Holmes raised his sword and hacked the man to pieces, announcing to the surrounding drinkers.
'Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Jack the Ripper", now himself ripped and rendered suitable for feeding to any cats or dogs you may have who need nourishment!'
Within seconds, the scattered parts of the dismembered serial killer had been scooped up and rushed away, for grateful consumption by the hungry pets of Whitechapel.
Holmes himself was hoisted aloft by the mob. I caught a glimpse of Lestrade's furious face as he rushed in, summoned from Scotland Yard by a telegram from Leman Street.
'Good evening Lestrade; you have missed the main course!’
We made our excuses and left, after refusing the offer of a 'knee-trembler' from some toothless hag for 'services rendered to the local sex industry'.
This then is the untold story of how Saucy Jack's reign of terror came to a fitting end. Needless to say, the many who still obsess over this are unaware it was solved by England's greatest detective.