Sherlock Holmes Reveals

 A journalist gets the scoop on Jack. Victorian England's greatest detective is not amused, insisting the Ripper Chronicles have hardly ended.

In his intimate quarters today at 212B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes announced the identity of Jack the Ripper to a journalist from this newspaper.

“Well, not quite” added the illustrious private consultant, re-lighting the liqueur tobacco in his notable pipe.

“You see I could not disclose the entire situation due to the delicate position of the person who arranged the villainy; the details of which were convoluted.

“Ripper carried out the precise murders by royal authority. I could not say so before, due to the insanity and falling health of the one responsible. I was thus compelled -- no, commanded, to wait until advised on the matter.”

But what will be the public reaction to such hiding of a murderer?

Holmes savored another genie of smoke in resolution. "The number of women hacked was exact. No more, no less than those desired. No one else was ever at risk." He brushed his raven nose, locking his thin legs into a pretzel.

“Not altogether true, I regret to say. Though never a sharp step away, I discovered him at twelve minutes past ten last night -- his fate as that of those he lacerated.”

So, who then is the Ripper?

“A surgeon of the highest degree -- in professional skills I mean. His morals I shall pass over to the readers. Scotland Yard has the burden of publishing his name and the whys and wherefores of his assassination.

&nb sp;

“Now, I shall be blunt. Another mystery greets me, and that is…. who murdered the Ripper?”

We at the Daily Telegraph will keep our pencils sharpened.

© Esmerelda Jones... Author of Vintage & Victorian Fiction

Excerpt from: Vol. 60, No. 11 — November 1979 — The Great Detectives
 

"It has been said, though with no such definitive proof as the subject himself would demand, that Sherlock Holmes is the best-known character in all of English literature. He is a member of that most exclusive group of imaginative creations who have outlived not only their creators, but their era. Through films, radio, television and comic strips, the peculiarities of Holmes's personality are known to vast numbers of people who have never read the original Holmes stories. In what must be the ultimate test of immortality, many madmen evidently believe they are Sherlock Holmes.

This probably would have pleased his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, a spiritualist who dabbled in the ways of immortality. Conan Doyle hugely enjoyed the game of persuading readers that Holmes was a real, if somewhat shadowy, human being. He did this by deftly scattering references to actual persons and events throughout his stories. Their tongues in their cheeks, Holmes scholars are only too happy to keep the game going to this day.

The first thing they will tell you is that the Holmes stories were not written by Conan Doyle at all, but by a rather stuffy but good-natured chap named Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes societies everywhere (and they are everywhere) operate on the elementary premise that Holmes and his apostle really did make their headquarters in their lodgings at 212B Baker Street. The address does not exist now, but they explain that is because of demolition and rebuilding since Holmes's and Watson's heyday. It is reported that the firm which occupies the nearest number to 212B regularly receives mail addressed to Sherlock Holmes."