As a soldier and a doctor, I know that a man who is very badly hurt in battle often feels no pain. If he lives, he remembers nothing about what has happened to him. After that terrible night in Whitechapel, I was like that man. The next day, I woke up and found myself lying in a park. My watch and my money had gone, and I was cold and dirty. I knew that I had spent many hours drinking, but I did not know where I had been, or what had happened to me.
I did not want to go to Baker Street, because I was afraid that Holmes would be there, but I needed a bath and dry clothes. In the end, I paid a cab-driver to knock on the door. The house was empty, so I went in.
There was a telegram from Holmes. 'M has escaped us,' it said. 'He is trying to leave the country, but I am following him.' I did not know what to think. Was I mad, or was my best friend, the man who I had worked with for so many years, a murderer?
That evening, the murder in Whitechapel of a young woman called Mary Kelly was reported in the newspapers. This murder was more bloody, more horrible than any that had happened before. It was clear that it was the work of Jack the Ripper.
I was still reading the newspaper reports of the murder when Lestrade arrived.
'Good evening, doctor,' he said. 'I'd like a word with Mr Holmes.'
I did not know what to say. Did the police already know what Holmes had done?
Then Lestrade saw the telegram, picked it up and read it. 'Running off for a little holiday, is he?' he said. 'Some of us have to work for a living. We've had enough of Mr Holmes and the kind of help he gives the police.'
Come now,' I said. 'Holmes was right. There was a murder on the night he told us that there would be.'
Lestrade laughed. 'Oh yes. There was a murder all right. We had hundreds of policemen on the streets, but we couldn't stop the murder or catch the killer. The police were everywhere _ except the little corner of Whitechapel where the girl died.'
He spoke in a low voice as he continued, 'I've never seen anything like it. It will be days before I can eat meat again.
You're lucky you didn't see her, doctor. We had to keep the worst thing of all out of the newspapers, but I can tell you. The girl was pregnant. He cut her up, and he cut up the baby, too.'
I felt a cold hand touch me. 'He will kill twice tonight.' . 'What did you say?'
'Oh, nothing. What are you doing to catch him?'
'What can we do? Nobody heard a scream or saw anything.' He looked again at the telegram. 'Who is this "M"?' he asked. 'Oh, he just means the murderer,' I said.
After Lestrade left, I tried hard to think of some other way of explaining what I had seen that night. I had seen Holmes cutting up the body, but I had not seen him kill the girl. How could my dear friend possibly be this terrible killer? Perhaps it was all part of some clever plan that I did not understand.
For some days I thought I had found an answer to the problem, but then a telegram arrived from Holmes, who was now in Switzerland. It said, 'M is no more. Returning Saturday. Holmes.'
Suddenly I realized that I was afraid of seeing him again, and my worry returned, stronger than ever. Was he the killer or not? I had to know the truth - and quickly. To help me think clearly, I wrote down what I knew.
Is Sherlock Holmes the Whitechapel murderer? The arguments for:
1 He was in Whitechapel on the nights of the murders, and alone at the right times.
2 When he was out of London or I was with him, there were no murders.
3 He can change his appearance easily.
4 He studied medicine. He could easily cut up a body in the dark.
5 He knows the lanes and yards of Whitechapel well.
6 He can escape from the police because he knows their plans - indeed, he makes their plans.
The arguments against:
1 He spends his life fighting crime.
2 I know my friend. I know he could not do these things.
When I read what I had written, I began to wonder how well I knew Holmes. Did he really fight against crime? He took cases because they interested him, not because he hated crime. It was all just a game to him. He fought crime to amuse himself. It was now late at night. I was terribly tired, but I knew that I had to decide what to do before Holmes came back. Suddenly, as I lay back in my chair, half-asleep, the terrible picture of Holmes cutting up that girl's body appeared again before my eyes. Then, finally, I knew. It was not what I had seen him do, but how he had done it. That look of cool amusement on his face. The way he sang as he worked. The man who could do that could do anything.
Next day I packed my bags and moved into a hotel. That evening I asked Mary to have dinner with me. I told her that I could not sleep while she lived alone in London and the Whitechapel murderer was free to kill again. I asked her to marry me sooner than we had planned. She laughed and said she was not afraid of the murderer. He never killed women like her. But she would marry me as soon as possible, she said, because I looke