Synopsis:

Sherlock Holmes disguises himself as a prostitute to flush out history's most notorious serial killer, Jack the Ripper.

Story:

The Whitechapel Horror:

Being a Previously Unreported Case of Sherlock Holmes

by

Valentina Michelle Smith

Preface to my readers: The original hand-written manuscript of this tale came into my possession by means I am not at liberty to divulge. It purports to be an accounting of a case from the confidential files of Sherlock Holmes. Most unusually, it is not an accounting by Holmes’ faithful companion and assistant, Dr. Watson, but appears to have been written by the great detective himself.

All of my attempts to independently authenticate the manuscript have proven inconclusive. But the circumstances by which I obtained it lead me to believe it is genuine. I therefore present it to you, my readers, for consideration. You are free to reject it, consider it another fantasy from the overworked brain of this humble author, or to regard it as the genuine article.

* * * *

This narrative is a description of one of the most unusual cases of my career. I set it down for future generations, so that it may not be lost to history. The facts I now commit to paper must remain confidential at this time, since it is my opinion that general panic should result were these events to become common knowledge. The public at large is unprepared to learn of the unearthly beings living among us. I entrust the fate of this accounting to trusted associates, and rely upon their discretion as to when and how these events shall be divulged.

Perhaps I should explain. I am Sherlock Holmes. At the time of these events I was the only consulting detective in the Christian world, and was one of the few persons privileged to know of the otherworldly beings who have set their gaze upon this planet. I have gained a modicum of notoriety from the accountings of my cases published by my dear friend and companion, Dr. John Watson. While I find that his recountings focus excessively upon the more sensational aspects of my cases and pay insufficient attention to the minutiae of observation and deductive reasoning, they are for the most part accurate. My own publications have been limited to scientific monographs such as "Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes." Therefore, readers of Watson’s stories may find my own narrative to be markedly different in style and in presentation from the manner they are accustomed to. I must also confess that over forty years have transpired between these events and the day I set them to paper at the strident urging of my beloved Martha. Human memory being such an imperfect instrument, inaccuracies are inevitable, and for any such lapses as may appear herein I beg your kind indulgence.

My involvement in this affair began in the fall of 1888. I was alone in my rooms at 221b Baker Street. Watson was occupied with his marriage and his medical practice, as usual. In truth we shared rooms at Baker Street for only a few months while Watson remained a bachelor, a fact often overlooked by his readers. I was considering current events over a pipefull of Latakia when my housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, informed me of a caller. His card read "Mr. Richard Preston, Esq."

I invited Mr. Preston in and bade him sit. Offers of refreshment were politely declined. I took stock of the man and immediately noticed inconsistencies.

"I perceive, Mr. Preston, that you are a stranger to London."

"Correct, Mr. Holmes."

"I further perceive that you are not a native Englishman, but I am dashed if I can deduce where you do call home."

Preston appeared amused. "And how, may I ask, do you conclude these facts?"

I admit that I relish the opportunity to demonstrate the power of deductive reasoning coupled with keen observation, and this was no exception. But I further confess to a certain level of frustration when I cannot make sense of contradictory data. "I deduce your origins, or, more correctly, your non-native origin, primarily from your manner of speech, sir. Your accent is ostensibly that of an Oxford-educated gentleman of privilege. I detect, however, subtle inflections that betray foreign birth, and therefore must conclude that English is not your first language. The precise pattern, however, is not consistent with any known European or Oriental tongue. I must confess that I cannot precisely place your origin anywhere on the globe.

"There are other disturbing facts I observe, Mr. Preston. You have called upon me on this remarkably foggy evening, yet your clothing and boots display no telltale sign of the elements without. There is neither mud nor dirt upon your boots and no sign of moisture on your trouser legs. Indeed, your clothing shows no sign of wear or use. Your boots are not scuffed, not even on the soles. And then there is the matter of colour.

"This room is lit by oil lamps, which impart a certain quality to the colour of the objects they illumine. A pronounced shift to the yellows of the spectrum is imparted at the expense of the reds, causing red objects to appear to be almost black. And yet I can clearly discern the red lining of your coat as though it were lit by the noontime sun.

"I add to this, Mr. Preston, your appearance. Granted you take great pains with your grooming, but even the most fastidious of men would overlook some small matter, an out-of-place hair or a wrinkled cravat, say. And the elements of wind and rain I noted previously would certainly affect one’s appearance. But I detect none of these in you, Mr. Preston. Your appearance is perfect. It is in fact, sir, too perfect. I must only conclude that you are somehow affecting a form of masquerade, although I cannot fathom the manner in which it is accomplished."

Preston smiled. "Mr. Holmes, I assume I may trust in your discretion."

"You may rely upon it, sir," I replied.

"Thank you. The reports I received on your amazing mental faculties do not do you justice. Yours is a mind superior to most.

"It is important," he continued, "that what I am about to reveal to you must be held in the strictest of confidence." Preston arose and began to pace. "In order to properly explain my purpose this evening I must first apprise you of certain details. You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that your world is a sphere circling the celestial orb you call the sun, are you not?"

"You refer to the Copernican theory of the heliocentric universe. Until recently, Mr. Preston, I was quite unaware of the notion. My friend Dr. Watson mentioned the concept to me and piqued my curiosity. The Encyclopaedia Britannica describes the theory most thoroughly."

"Excellent. Are you aware, sir, that the sun is in fact a star, similar to the other stars visible in the night sky?"

"I am, sir. This concept was also put forth in the excellent treatise offered by Britannica. I confess that the concept of such staggering distances is quite difficult to grasp, but I have found Britannica to be a most reliable source of general information."

"I see. What you are not aware of, Mr. Holmes, is that certain of these stars also are possessed of attendant planets, and that a number of these planets are inhabited. The processes from which life eventually springs have been duplicated many times throughout the universe."

I interrupted at this point. "My dear Mr. Preston, I do hope this is not a deception similar to the great Moon Hoax perpetrated in America by one of their less reputable newspapers."

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I speak the truth, for I am in fact from a planet orbiting a distant star in the heavens. This planet is so distant that the light from our sun would require hundreds of years to reach your world."

Preston paused for a moment. "Perhaps," he said, "a small demonstration might be in order." At that, Preston’s outward appearance seemed to shimmer before fading completely. In his place now stood a being of most unusual form. He was barely five feet tall and clad in a garment fabricated from a metallic-hued cloth. Visible were his hands and head, although these were most curious in appearance. His hands were quite unlike any I had ever seen before, consisting of three segmented and opposed bifurcated digits positioned equally about a central pad. I assume his feet were similarly constructed, although they were not visible, covered as they were in curious black footwear that resembled flattened doorknobs. As for his head, it was reasonably similar to human form save for larger eyes possessed of catlike irises, a flattened facial structure almost devoid of a nose, and subtly pointed ears located slightly higher upon his head than normal. Most curious was the hue of Preston’s complexion, appearing similar to the olive shade ubiquitous to the Mediterranean only slightly more green. He was quite remarkable.

"I apologize if I have startled you, Mr. Holmes. I have deactivated the device I utilize to affect my masquerade. It is similar to the magic lanterns your people employ for amusement, only somewhat more sophisticated in its application. I regret that your language has not developed adequate vocabulary to convey the technique employed. You may think of it as a form of cloak."

"Your demonstration has served its purpose, Mr. Preston," I answered. "I cannot reject such telling evidence."

"Then you believe I am from another world?"

"I could not do otherwise. It has long been a principle of mine that once one eliminates the impossible, that which remains must be the truth, however improbable it may seem. I suspect, however, that you have a great deal more to relate to me."

"That is correct, Mr. Holmes. Would you prefer that I reactivate my cloak?"

"Only if it would make you more comfortable."

Preston’s outward manifestation once again shimmered as it resumed its former appearance. "I do feel more comfortable behind the cloak. I am certain no one shall intrude upon us, but I prefer to err on the side of caution."

"A wise precaution, sir. Please continue. I am curious as to what a people of such superior abilities would find desirable in humankind, as well as the purpose of your visit this evening."

"Mr. Holmes, my race is not the only one capable of traversing the enormous distances between stars. We have encountered twenty diverse star-faring civilizations in our explorations. We share one common trait in that we are most curious. It is this curiosity that impels us to study our neighboring planets. Much like your people, we seek to increase our understanding of this universe we find ourselves in.

"Yours is a most interesting race, Mr. Holmes. In many ways your development parallels our own, and you amass knowledge at a rate that astonishes our observers. We predict that in a few short centuries your people shall encounter ours and take its place among the community of star-faring civilizations.

"Again, I fear that I convey an imprecise image of our work. The concepts are somewhat alien to your understanding. Our diverse races have formed a kind of confederacy that exchanges information and maintains ethical standards of inquiry whenever a sentient species such as yours is studied. It is one of our guiding principles that we do not interfere in the natural development of the worlds we study. In centuries past some of us have unwittingly influenced such natural development, and always with disastrous consequences."

"And all of the peoples you have mentioned participate in this confederacy?"

"Sadly, not all races cooperate with us. One race in particular refuses to adhere to our principles. Its members place no value on the interests of other species whom they consider to be their inferiors. They hold that they have a right to use and study inferior races in any manner they see fit. Much like a hunter, they look upon all other species as prey.

"Part of the work of our confederacy, Mr. Holmes, is to protect developing worlds from the incursions of the Breej, which is our name for this unprincipled race. We have waged a successful campaign in containing the Breej and preventing invasion. Regretfully, our efforts have not been completely successful. We suspect that one of their hunters is working on your world at this time."

I drew on my pipe, allowing the smoke to linger on my tongue before exhaling. Preston had recounted a tale which, should I repeat it, would land me in an asylum for the insane. But I could not reject the evidence of my own eyes. Still, the purpose of his visit was not yet apparent.

"Mr. Preston, this is quite a fanciful tale. Most men should reject it out of hand. Had you not made your most effective demonstration I would have done likewise. But I am still puzzled as to the reason for your call this evening."

"You are doubtless aware, Mr. Holmes, of the murders of women that have occurred in the Whitechapel district of London."

"Indeed, Mr. Preston, the newspapers have expounded quite dramatically over the events. They make much of a certain fellow who calls himself ‘Jack’ and claims responsibility for the crimes. It is a trivial matter to deduce that he is a fraud. In addition, I have heard reports from my acquaintances at Scotland Yard and am privy to certain aspects of the case not known to the public."

"Would these aspects concern the removal of internal organs from the victims’ bodies, Mr. Holmes?"

I was astonished. "It seems we have the same acquaintances, my dear Preston."

"No, Mr. Holmes, we do not. I am not acquainted with any member of your police force. I ask only to confirm my suspicions."

"Pray, elaborate. What are these suspicions, Mr. Preston?"

"They are no longer suspicions. I can now state with certainty that a Breej hunter has committed the murders. Mr. Holmes, I beg your assistance in capturing this criminal."

"I am flattered that you regard my skills so highly, and I do not say this out of any sense of false modesty, sir, but I cannot see why a people possessed of such resources as you have demonstrated would require my services."

"Mr. Holmes, as I have mentioned before, yours is a most formidable intellect. Naturally it would come to our attention. It should not surprise you to know that our operatives have observed your activities more frequently and more thoroughly than we afford other less notable persons.

"We have observed, Mr. Holmes, that you often employ methods to alter your appearance, and that your ability to assume a disguise is quite remarkable."

"I often employ disguises in order to obtain information needed in my work. As you have stated, I have some notoriety, particularly in the criminal world."

"Of course, sir. And we have noted that you are adept at disguising yourself as a female of your species."

"Naturally, a feminine disguise can be an invaluable tool for observing the criminal element. I daresay, however, my skills in the art of disguise pale next to the capabilities of your cloak."

"In many ways your skill surpasses our mechanical devices, sir. It is this skill, combined with your unparalleled powers of observation and deduction, which impel us to seek your help. On behalf of my federation, I ask you to assist us in capturing this Breej hunter."

"My dear Preston," I replied," again I must confess my logic fails me. As you have yourself revealed you have been observing my movements for some time, a fact of which I was unaware. And yet you cannot detect the presence of this hunter despite your demonstrated ability. Why do you believe that I shall be successful where you have failed?"

"The Breej are capable of masking their presence from the instruments we employ to observe humanity. While it might be possible to detect the unique energies emitted by the Breej cloak, we must assume the Breej are equally capable of detecting ours. No, I am afraid that our only hope is in your impressive powers of observation and disguise, Mr. Holmes."

I paused, drawing on my pipe and expelling clouds of blue smoke. It occurred to me that my visitor might find the smoke in some way unpleasant or noxious, but he gave no indication of discomfort. "I am intrigued, Mr. Preston. I assume you have formulated some sort of a strategy. Pray, continue."

"As you have no doubt concluded, Mr. Holmes, we would require you to disguise yourself as a potential victim and venture into the Whitechapel district in order to attract the Breej hunter. He will, of course, employ his cloak in order to appear as an ordinary human. You have already experienced the cloak’s limitations. Where an ordinary observer would not notice such irregularities, your own keen powers of observation shall afford you an advantage."

"I agree the task of detecting the Breej should prove elementary, but there is another matter. Our quarry has demonstrated speed and cunning. Once detected, how shall we deal with him?"

"We shall provide you with a device. When activated it shall alert our operatives as to your location. We shall then take immediate action to neutralize the Breej hunter."

"I see. Very well, Mr. Preston, I shall consider the matter and give you an answer tomorrow. Would it be inconvenient to ask you to return tomorrow evening at this time?"

"I look forward to returning, sir," Preston replied. "I shall return tomorrow evening."

"It would be prudent, Mr. Preston, to bring the device you mentioned earlier. If the game is truly afoot, I shall want to begin promptly."

"May I take that you agree to help us, Mr. Holmes?" asked Preston as we arose.

"I confess that I am intrigued, Mr. Preston, and am favorably inclined toward helping you. I must now contemplate the matter and decide whether my skills are up to this task. And now, I bid you a good evening."

I showed Preston to the door. As he hailed a cab I closed the door on him and swung about to find Mrs. Hudson. "Will there be anything else this evening, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Only this," I said. I took her in my arms. Our lips met in a long, passionate kiss.

"Thank God," she said, "I was wondering when he would leave!"

"Let us talk about Mr. Preston later, Martha," I said. "I have something more important on my mind."

Martha smiled. Together we climbed the stairway to her bedchamber.

You see, Mrs. Hudson, my housekeeper, is also my lover Martha.

I first made Martha’s acquaintance many years ago, before my fateful meeting with John Watson. I had just started my consulting practice, and Martha sought my professional services to clear the name of her late husband, a naval officer who had been implicated in a scandal. I shall not reveal the details as they involve certain highly placed officials in the government, and the revelation would serve no purpose. It was sufficient that Lieutenant Hudson was posthumously acquitted of the false charges laid on him, and the honour of his name was restored.

In my prosecution of this case, however, I committed a breach of professional ethics and became attracted to Hudson’s widow. When the proceeds of her modest pension proved insufficient to support her, I arranged for her situation as my housekeeper. In truth I wanted to have her close to me, and soon we became intimate.

I wanted to be honourable about our relationship and so proposed marriage to her. Martha wisely advised against this course. Even at this seminal stage of my career, I had attained a measure of notoriety among the criminal element. Such villains would not hesitate to avail themselves of any vulnerability, and a wife would certainly represent an inviting target. She was, of course, correct. To the world at large we remained master and servant.

I have kept this secret in my heart of hearts, sharing it with no other living soul. Not even my trusted friend Watson was aware of our relationship. Eventually, of course, I retired to the country where Martha and I finally wed. We currently reside as husband and wife.

I shall not describe the events which transpired in Martha’s chambers that evening. I am, after all, a gentleman, and in any event our activities had nothing to do with the case. We did, however, discuss the particulars of the case later that evening.

Martha lay on my chest, her long hair falling down upon the nape of her neck. I kissed the crown of her head affectionately. "Thank you, beloved Martha," I said. "You were, well, words fail me."

"And thank you, dear Sherlock," she answered. She turned and kissed me again. "You were magnificent."

I blushed. Only my beloved Martha could evince such a reaction from me. My normally cool detachment and passive demeanour fly out the window when we are together. Oh, how I cherish each caress, how her touch thrills me! I could easily spend eternity in her arms, indulging in all of our mutual sensual pleasures. Still…

Martha could sense whenever I was distracted. "Sherlock, dear," she asked, "what is troubling you?"

I smiled. "Troubling me? What could possibly be troubling me, beloved? How could anything possibly cause me trouble when I am with you?"

She smiled her very knowing smile. My Martha was always perceptive. In many ways her powers of observation were like my own. "You cannot fool me, dear Sherlock. I can always tell when a case intrudes upon your thoughts. Would you care to share it with me?"

On the subject of Sherlock Holmes, my Martha was far more knowledgeable than I was myself. There was no deceiving her. "You are correct, darling. The matter of my most recent caller still weighs upon my mind."

"You mean Mr. Preston? Perhaps you should talk about it, beloved. Share your concerns with me."

I realize that I promised discretion to my client, and I do not make such promises lightly. But there was no person I could trust more than my beloved Martha. In all the years she has never betrayed my trust. And so I related the situation that Preston outlined to me, including the matter of his non-terrestrial heritage.

Martha listened intently, not at all astounded by my description of Preston’s true appearance or his extraordinary capabilities. "So there you have it, darling. I am presented with a most intriguing case."

"You shall accept it, of course," she replied.

"I am inclined to, and feel an obligation to do so. But I must confess I am possessed of certain reservations."

"What sort of reservations, Sherlock dear?"

I hesitated, formulating my next statement. "The kind of reservations not easily stated. Not as Sherlock, in any event."

Martha appeared confused at first. Then a wave of clarity swept her visage. I knew at once she understood. "Perhaps Samantha could better express your reservations," she suggested.

"Perhaps," I agreed.

"Then let us waste no more time, dear Sherlock. You must transform. As you have often said, the game is afoot." And with that she threw off the bed sheets and arose. She took my hand and led me to her armoire.

It was here that she would affect my transformation into my feminine alter ego.

I now find it necessary to once again digress from the course of this narrative in order to reveal more of my inner psyche, and how I came to be a dual persona, male and female.

It should not surprise you to know that, at the time of my childhood, it was customary to clothe children of both sexes in dresses until they were reliably toilet trained. This facilitated the task of changing napkins. My mother, although being a kind woman, despaired of having a daughter. She did not love my brother Mycroft or myself any less for our male sex, but she was deeply disappointed that Providence had not seen fit to bless her with female children. And so she indulged in a small fantasy that Mycroft and I were her daughters.

As children we were eager to please mother, and so willingly wore the frills and ribbons of young girls. Father was not completely approving, but tolerated this condition until such time as we were sent to school. Mother went so far as to give us female names to go with our imaginary girlhood. Mycroft was Melissa, and I was Samantha.

Melissa and I were as close as sisters could be, I suppose. We saw nothing unusual in our situation. Indeed, we had nothing to compare it with as we lived in the country. Melissa and I had no playmates other than ourselves, but we did not consider this a deficiency. In fact, our childhood was quite close, very rich, and completely delightful. I loved my sister Melissa and she returned it. Melissa was a cheerful and ebullient girl, full of life and exceedingly gregarious.

Eventually, Mycroft was sent to public school, shorn of his curls and dressed in boy’s short breeches. I had hoped he would return on holidays and I would have my sister Melissa once again. But Melissa never returned. Mycroft became withdrawn and introspective. To this day he rarely speaks, preferring quiet and solitude to the company of others.

Several years later it was my turn to attend public school. I betrayed no emotion as my curls were cut away. I was every bit the stout English schoolboy as I learned my letters. I excelled at Sports, at Maths, the Arts, and the Natural Sciences. But Samantha remained, kept within my soul. And I mourned for my sister Melissa, who I never saw again.

Only in the company of my beloved Martha could I let down my defenses and become the little girl I had once been. The cool detachment and keen observation of Sherlock is, in reality, just another disguise. Martha freed Samantha from the prison of my soul, and became for me the older sister I had lost. For this, and for so much else, I am eternally in her debt.

I gave myself over to her ministrations once again. Under Martha’s expert guidance, I immersed myself in the mysteries of the distaff side. I dusted myself with scented powder, donned the many layers of silky undergarments, endured the constraining embrace of corsetry, and attired myself in a lace-trimmed dress made after the fashion of the day. I delighted in each silken garment, every sweet fragrance. And with each additional garment I felt a burden lift from my shoulders. My manner became lighter, more carefree and emotional, until the moment when Martha affixed the cameo choker to my neck and helped me place a wig on my head. At this moment Sherlock retreated, and I was Samantha once again.

Martha had, of course, clothed herself as she was assisting me. We laughed as we helped each other dress, much as sisters would. Oh, how I envied the casual ease with which she wore her feminine finery. I was still a novice, you see, having had precious little experience as a grown woman. Martha understood, as always.

We repaired to the kitchen to prepare some tea and a light repast. We often had tea when I transformed. Martha took the opportunity of our informal teas to instruct me in the proper behaviour expected of a lady in society. Sipping our tea in the parlor, we discussed my feelings concerning Sherlock’s new client.

"Martha, dear," I said, "I am apprehensive. I do not know if I am up to the task."

"In what way, Samantha?" she asked. "You are, after all, a most accomplished artist in the matter of disguise."

"I suppose so," I agreed. "But it is one thing to blend into a crowd and observe events without being observed. It is quite another to deliberately set out and attract attention to oneself. I confess I am frightened at the prospect."

"Have you given your disguise any consideration?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. I believe I should use my red wig and affect the appearance and manner of one of the unfortunate Irish girls who ply the courtesan’s trade. You know the type."

"Yes. It is so sad, Samantha. The poor women from that benighted land who come in search of a new life; how often they become entrapped by circumstances."

"At the very least I can eliminate this horror from their midst. But I must confess, Martha, I am frightened."

"That would be only natural, Samantha. This hunter has already killed and horrifically mutilated so many girls. I certainly would not relish the thought of deliberately seeking out such a monster."

"It is not so much the hunter that I fear. It is, well, I fear being out in the open."

"But why, Samantha? You have walked the streets of London in disguise before. You never mentioned any trepidation. I was under the impression that you welcomed your excursions as a woman."

"True, I do relish being about as a woman, but I have always sought to blend in to the background and remain as inconspicuous as possible. To successfully flush out this hunter I must now call attention to myself. I am so apprehensive that I fear I may not be able to as much as walk without panicking!"

Martha smiled and took my hand. "I would not be frightened, dear Samantha. Remember, within you are still Sherlock Holmes, and have faced danger numerous times. This foe is no match for your incredible faculties. Draw upon them for strength."

"But I must play the prostitute, Martha! How can I possibly convince men that I am offering the services of, of...?" I found myself stammering. "How can I seem to offer my body and still avert the advances of men determined to purchase it?"

"Just let them down gently, Samantha. As long as you do not overly bruise their ego you should not be harmed. In any event, you are still a most formidable man despite the garments you might choose."

This made us both laugh. Oh, how Martha could erase any trepidation I might experience! Her support and gentle encouragement was ever my bulwark. My anxiety had now vanished. We continued our tea discussing the various aspects of my proposed disguise until we retired again.

Preston returned the next evening. Mrs. Hudson led him in to the sitting room and offered refreshment, which Preston again politely declined. He was seated for less than a minute when I entered, clad as the courtesan I would act.

Preston rose from his chair. "Good evening, madam," he said in surprise. "Have I made some mistake? I was under the impression that I would be meeting privately with Mr. Holmes."

"And so you have," I replied, not bothering to disguise my voice.

Preston seemed astonished. "Upon my word, Holmes, I should never have recognized you had you not spoken up."

I now affected a female voice, doing my best to emulate an Ulster brogue. "Good evening, sir. Would you be lookin’ for a bit of entertainment, perhaps? I’m certain I can provide whatever you might be searchin’ for."

"Incredible! Your mannerisms are perfect, Holmes. And your voice is superb!"

"It remains to be seen whether my disguise will be adequate to ensnare the Breej hunter. Did you remember the device?"

"I have it here," Preston replied. He proffered a small wooden box with a hinged cover. I uncovered the lid to discover what appeared to be a cameo choker, similar to the one I often wore as Samantha.

"How does it function?" I asked.

"The device remains inert until the wearer speaks a predetermined code sequence. It will be necessary to prime the device with the correct sequence. A short pattern of three words easily spoken but unlikely to be uttered under normal circumstances is best."

"And what shall happen when I speak the sequence?"

"At that instant the device shall be activated. It shall emit a signal imperceptible to normal senses, but easily detected by our instruments. We shall then use the signal as a locating beacon and immediately effect neutralization of the Breej. The process shall take no longer than three seconds once the code is uttered."

Preston removed the choker from its box and affixed it to my neck. He then placed a small cylinder next to the choker. "Now, Holmes," he said, "say three words."

I spoke a sequence of three words. Preston then removed the cylinder. "It is done," he said. "The beacon shall respond only to your voice and only when you repeat the phrase you have primed it with."

"Excellent," I said. "And now if you will excuse me, Preston, the game is afoot. I am off to Whitechapel."

I took my leave of Preston and made my way to Whitechapel. I hailed a dog cart to convey me to the vicinity, but made the final journey on foot. My outside demeanor betrayed nothing, but within I was a quivering mass.

I lit a cigarette to calm myself as well as to add to my disguise. Smoking was the sign of a fallen woman, as much as my painted lips and powdered complexion. Ladies of refinement did not use such cosmetics as lip rouge or cheek colour. The presence of the cosmetics only served to advertise my status as a prostitute.

As I strolled along the dimly lit streets I gradually became more comfortable with my appearance. I strode in the manner Martha had instructed me, swaying my hips in an enticing fashion. Oh, I received a number of offers to be sure, which helped my confidence no end.

I could not help but observe. Whitechapel was the gathering place of the most wretched sort of persons, and a warren of crime and corruption. The overwhelming stench of human waste and human bodies combined with the rank odors of rotting blood could easily turn a more sensitive stomach. And yet, one could find the cream of English society within its environs, gentlemen of distinction in search of illicit pleasures. More than a few of the offers I rebuffed were from such "gentlemen."

Alas, I could detect no trace of the Breej. I made a circuit of the district to no avail. Eventually I gave up and returned to Baker Street.

I repeated this solitary patrol for three weeks, each evening resulting in disappointment. Perhaps I should have rejoiced that the Breej had not claimed a new victim. But I remained convinced that the hunter was still present, waiting for the opportunity to present itself.

To be sure, the denizens of Whitechapel were more wary. Strangers were viewed with more suspicion than usual, and business from the more affluent sector of London society was far less brisk than normal. But with no new incidents reported, precaution waned in favor of opportunity. I was certain that the hunter would take advantage of this relaxed mood and strike again.

Apparently, Scotland Yard was of the same opinion. As I made my solitary patrol clad as a woman of the evening, I chanced upon the most ludicrous display I had ever beheld. It was a man, a detective from Scotland Yard, dressed most unconvincingly as a prostitute!

I could scarcely restrain from laughing as this obvious fraud paraded himself through Whitechapel. Clad in an ill-fitting dress with excessive breast and hip padding, the poor man stumbled down the street, obviously not used to walking in a woman’s high-heeled shoes. His makeup was similarly ridiculous, being applied so thickly and inexpertly as to remind one of a Red Indian in the woods. But most farcical of all was the inept attention paid to his beard. Whiskers protruded through the man’s heavy makeup. This man was fooling nobody, as the heckling and derision hurled at him from the locals bore witness.

I decided to make some sport of this hapless man myself, and so drew near to engage him in conversation. As I approached I recognized this unfortunate fellow. It was Lestrade! It took every iota of self-discipline I possessed to restrain myself from doubling over in laughter.

I opened my purse and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. "Evenin’, dearie," I said to Lestrade as I withdrew a cigarette. I struck a match and lit it, drawing the fragrant smoke into my lungs. I proffered the packet to Lestrade. "Fancy a fag?"

Lestrade hesitated, not knowing what to make of my gesture. He then accepted a cigarette as well as a light. "Business been good, dear?" I asked.

"Well, that is, I…" Lestrade stammered, not quite knowing how to answer.

"Relax, dearie," I said, "yer secret is safe with me. Makes me feel a lot better knowin’ that Scotland Yard is on the job, protectin’ us workin’ girls."

"Scotland Yard?" he said in an unconvincing falsetto, "Why, whatever could you mean?"

"Oh, you go on!" I replied. "As though I wouldn’t recognize the famous Inspector Lestrade when I sees him. You go right ahead, dearie, and keep us protected."

I must confess that I took a positively evil delight in observing Lestrade’s discomfort. His cheeks reddened in an embarrassment obvious through the thick layer of makeup. Trying to hide his embarrassment, he quickly left Whitechapel, followed by a chorus of taunts and mocking cast at him by the locals.

It was perhaps a bit cruel to bait Lestrade in this manner, but I could not afford to allow him to interfere with my work. So obvious an attempt to capture the murderer would force a canny hunter such as the Breej to ground. I continued my patrol, but I was certain that the Breej would not show this evening, and perhaps for the next several.

I was correct. I maintained my vigilant patrol, walking the Whitechapel district in the guise of a prostitute each night, until the night of 8 November, 1888. It was on this evening that my quarry was sighted.

He appeared to be a gentleman of average height and build, in no way remarkable save to one aware of the minutiae of appearance as myself. Like Preston, the red lining of his cape was undimmed by the spectral glare of the gaslights, and his boots betrayed no sign of scuffing or wear. Perhaps all the more remarkable was the shadow he cast, a silhouette not at all in keeping with his actual appearance. I concluded that the Breej cloaking mechanism was insufficient to adjust the appearance of the shadow he cast. It is on the one hand amazing to me that people could go about their business without notice of such incongruity. But humans are sublimely capable of filtering out data which does not conform to their preconceived notions of reality, and so an incomplete masque such as that employed by the Breej is rather effective.

I made eye contact with my quarry from across the street. I smiled invitingly, a smile he returned. It was time to engage this gentleman and determine his true nature. I began to step toward him when I was restrained by the firm grasp of another "gentleman."

"Well, well," I heard a man’s voice say. I turned to discover that I was being restrained by the insistent grasp of a tall man. "I had a bit of strawberry tart in mind for this evening." His dress, deportment, and speech all betrayed a life of privilege. This was one of many "gentlemen" of the Victorian era, come to Whitehall for a bit of illicit entertainment. And I could tell from his gaze that this man intended that I be his entertainment this evening.

I managed to remove my arm from his grasp. "I’m sorry, sir," I said in my Ulster brogue, "I think you must be mistaken."

"I think not, girl," he replied, now with an edge of impatience. "We both know just what you are doing here. If it’s about the money have no fear, I shall reward you quite handsomely."

"Sir," I insisted, "you don’t understand…"

He grabbed my arm again. "It is you who does not understand, girl. I mean to have you and that is all there is to it!"

His grip was firm, but I managed to extricate myself a second time. "Sir, you are mistaken!" I said, pulling myself away rather forcefully. This served to enrage him.

"You impudent little slattern!" he exclaimed. "Do you have any idea just who you are dealing with?" Indeed, I knew, for this man’s face was unmistakable. He was not only a peer of the realm, but also a highly placed minister in Her Majesty’s government. Victorian morality being the hypocrisy it was, news of his foray into the environs of Whitechapel would undoubtedly bring him disgrace and force him to resign, as well as causing untold damage to Her Majesty’s government.

Angrily he continued. "Perhaps a lesson in manners and a proper appreciation of your betters is in order." He raised his walking stick to strike me.

As he swung the stick down I grasped it and stepped into him. I grasped his arm as I pivoted my hip under him, using the force of his own blow to propel him. I lifted and continued my pivot, throwing him to the ground. His stick flew out of his hands and clattered into the street.

He was stunned by my move. In truth I was nearly stunned myself. I had instinctively employed a hold from my college wrestling days, but to so exercise with the constraint of a corset and the poor balance of high-heeled shoes left my head swimming. But I dare not show weakness now. I placed my foot over this hapless fellow’s neck.

"I know just who you are, my lord," I replied, temporarily abandoning my brogue and speaking in my normal voice. "I also know that knowledge of your presence here would cause you irreparable harm. It is only my concern for your family and to prevent any scandal to the crown that stays my tongue."

I removed my foot from his neck. His face was etched with horror, knowing the possible consequences of his actions tonight. "Leave this place," I said. "Leave and never return, or by the living God I shall expose you and shall give no thought to the consequences."

He arose silently, his face a masque of terror. I watched as he scrambled to his feet and fled, not bothering to recover his stick.

My heart was pounding! I gasped air in the shallow breaths permitted by my corset and scanned the area. Damn his eyes! My quarry was gone! That fool had frightened him away.

I knew that my masquerade would no longer be effective. I had no choice but to track the Breej hunter to his lair, and time was of the essence.

I withdrew a magnifying glass from my purse and examined the walk where he had stood. I scanned the area for any sort of telltale sign that might serve as a clue. Hello, what’s this? A curious sort of scraping appeared upon the cobblestones, resembling the material of a horse’s hoof, but not completely. As I examined the area it became apparent that whatever had made these unusual scrapings walked upon two legs, not four. It could only be the Breej!

I could not believe my fortune! The Breej had actually left a trail for a skilled observer to discern. Like a hunter following the spoor of a wild beast I tracked the Breej through the winding streets of Whitechapel.

Following the trail was slow work. My quarry moved swiftly, and the trail was not always obvious. Several times I lost the trail, only to pick it up after a distance. In this manner I slowly followed the progress of my quarry.

What’s this? The Breej appeared to have stopped at a lamp post. From the pattern of the scrapings I concluded that he had lingered a while. To what purpose I could not conclude, but I suspected that he had paused to engage the services of a prostitute.

The trail eventually led to Miller’s Court. I stood outside number 13, which is where the trail seemed to end. The door was closed. A broken window was covered by what appeared to be a coat. I suspected that the Breej was within, and that his latest victim was with him. Praying that I was in time, I opened the door.

I was surprised that the door had not been bolted. I swung it open only to be greeted by the most horrific sight I have ever beheld. For inside the small room, nearly devoid of furniture, the mutilated body of a red-haired woman lay sprawled upon a bed. Her face had been removed. She lay naked, her breasts having been cut off and the surface of her abdomen and thighs removed. Her viscera were removed from her body and arranged about the bed in a complex pattern. But even more horrific was the Breej hunter that loomed over her body.

Standing on two hoofed legs, it had the appearance of a sort of leather ball from which tentacles emerged. Two of these possessed swellings at the end which each contained a large eye. Four others appeared to bifurcate halfway down their length. These segments themselves bifurcated again and again so that each tentacle possessed eight articulating digits upon its end. One grasped what I took to be a cutting instrument, as the word knife is inadequate to describe it. Another grasped a device that shed a brilliant light upon the room, rivaling the brightest light of the summer sun. But one held a bloody organ which I immediately recognized as the hapless girl’s own heart. I was too late to prevent her murder and mutilation. And I watched in horror as the devilish apparition that could only be the Breej shoved the heart whole into its devilish maw!

The Breej took immediate note of my intrusion and with its free tentacle ensnared me by the neck and restrained me. I was unable to speak as it proceeded to crush my windpipe. I struggled against its powerful grip until I managed to grasp a hatpin from my wig. With all of the strength I could muster I plunged the pin into the tentacle about my throat.

The hunter reacted in pain, reflexively loosening its grip upon me and withdrawing the tentacle. It made no sound, but turned both of its eyes upon me. I somehow managed to catch my breath before it could renew its attack and uttered the three words with which I had primed Preston’s device. "Watson, the needle," I said.

Immediately a suffused light surrounded the monstrosity and myself. I was unable to move, frozen in place like a living statue. The Breej was also immobile, held in place by the same forces that acted upon me. The stark room of 13 Miller’s Court began to fade from my sight and was gradually replaced with a different surrounding. I found myself in a large room devoid of furnishing, brightly lit from an invisible source and carpeted. I still faced the Breej, and we were surrounded by a dozen beings resembling Preston.

Several of the men (for it is convenient to refer to them in this manner) grasped tubes that they pointed toward the Breej. From within the tubes there quickly emerged a kind of sticky netting that ensnared the hunter and completely restrained it. All the while the Breej made no sound of any kind. I concluded that the monstrosity possessed no vocal cords or any analogous organ, a conclusion that was soon confirmed.

One of the green men stepped forward holding a small device. I immediately recognized him as Preston. The differences in appearance that identify individuals among Preston’s race are subtle but not indistinguishable.

Preston spoke to the restrained Breej. "You know that you are forbidden from hunting on this world. You chose to defy our authority."

Sound emanated from the device Preston held, a sort of guttural voice. "It is my right! The Breej do not recognize your authority! We hunt the beasts of this world at our will! You have no right to prevent our sacred hunt!"

Preston replied, "Whether your kind chooses to recognize out authority is of no consequence. We have placed this world under our protection, and the full combined force of the Confederacy enforces this protection. You have made a grave error. When we return you to your kind, you shall learn just how serious this error has been."

Preston then spoke to his companions. "Take it away for transport." Several of his fellows took hold of the restraining net and lifted the monster into the air. They carried it to a doorway at the far wall and into whatever lay beyond.

At this point I took stock of my appearance. In the struggle my wig had fallen off and was now on the floor. I bent to pick it up and replace it, then reconsidered and left it off. My dress was torn and blood stained, and my stockings were torn in several places. In truth, I looked a fright.

Preston turned to me and extended his most unusual hand. Realizing that he was making a human gesture, I grasped it firmly. His grip was firm but not crushing. "Mr. Holmes, our peoples are in your debt. You have led us to the Breej and enabled his capture. We would never have succeeded without your assistance. How may we repay you?"

"We have already discussed the matter of my fee," I replied. "A deposit to my account shall suffice."

"We feel we owe you a great deal more, sir. The medium you use for exchange is of little value to us, and so we wish to convey our gratitude in a manner more meaningful to ourselves.

"Perhaps we can compensate you in another way. We are quite skilled in the healing arts. While your physicians are quite remarkable in their own way, we have amassed a body of knowledge that surpasses any on your planet. There are certain aspects of your people’s life style that is not conducive to long-term health, such as your curious use of the herb tobacco. We would like to apply our techniques to you, sir, to correct certain anomalies and grant you an extended and healthy life."

I considered this most generous offer. "May I ask that the techniques you describe also be applied to my companion Martha? I confess that a long life would be a sad one were I to lose her companionship."

"Of course, Holmes. But we must also beg your indulgence and request another service from you."

"And what might this service be, my dear Preston?"

"Only that you continue to apply your formidable powers of observation on our behalf. From time to time I shall call upon you to simply discuss your observations. As I stated before, yours is a most powerful mind, unequalled among your kind. Your observations would be of inestimable value to our mission."

"Of course, Preston. I shall look forward to our meetings."

"And now, Holmes, we shall return you to your residence. As you have no doubt deduced, you are now aboard one of our vessels that circles your world. Our technology can return you to Baker Street in the same manner as you were brought here."

"Thank you, Preston. I am certain that Martha shall be relieved that this affair has ended. Good evening, sir."

"And a good evening to you, Mr. Holmes."

Again I found myself surrounded by an ethereal brilliance and was held immobile. The room aboard Preston’s vessel faded, only to be replaced by the familiar surroundings of my parlor at Baker Street.

"Martha," I called out, hoping she had not retired. I vaulted up the steps to her bedchamber. My beloved was asleep. I gently kissed her brow to awaken her.

She was startled at my disheveled appearance. "Sherlock, what has happened? Are you all right?"

"I am fine, my beloved. The danger has passed. Come help me out of my corset and I shall tell you of my adventures this evening."

She arose and embraced me.

 © 2004 Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Perhaps no character in the English Language has so captivated readers than the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes has been the subject of more fan fiction than any other character, and has been portrayed by more actors.
I am not the first author to suggest a less-than-platonic relationship beween Holmes and his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. Neither am I the first to put Holmes in the garments of the distaff side. I am certainly not the first to set Holmes against Jack the Ripper. But perhaps I am the first to attribute a transgender motive to Holmes' dressing.
Jack the Ripper remains history's most celebrated serial killer. To date his identity remains unknown, but has been the subject of considerable speculation. The description of the last victim of the Breej is that of Mary Kelly, the Ripper's final victim, who was found murdered at 13 Miller's Court on 9 November, 1888. Scotland Yard did actually send a detective disguised as a woman into the Whitechapel district in an attempt to decoy the Ripper. His disguise was so incredibly bad that it fooled no one, and the poor fellow was subjected to general ridicule. I hope my readers will not mind that I put the hapless Lestrade in this role.
As far as Sherlock's brother Mycroft, well, do we really know what went on within the Diogenes Club?

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment