Read Online Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Holy Ghost Writer - Free Book Online Page B

to frame Holmes as the murderer. Holmes was sure that the Ripper was proud of his “work,” as he must have seen it, and would want recognition for himself—so why pin it on another?
    Holmes was mulling this over as he strolled home in the twilight. When he arrived, he was surprised to see lights blazing in every window; Mrs. Parker was waiting for him on the front stoop, wringing her hands. A few strands of her usually perfectly-coiffed hair had come loose from its bun, and her apron was mussed.
    “Mrs. Parker!” Holmes exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?”
    Mrs. Parker jumped to her feet. “Oh, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “Someone has been in the house—they must have slipped through the back door; you know we always leave it unlocked. I came home early from evening mass, and I noticed the door ajar; I thought it was odd, but went inside.”
    “Continue, please,” said Holmes. “Did you see the intruder? Have you reported this to the police?”
    “No, no, I didn’t see him,” said Mrs. Parker. “And I haven’t moved from this front step, I wanted to wait for you!”
    Holmes nodded, and she went on with her story. “As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I heard muffled noises coming from your study. I thought perhaps you had come home early, and I called out for you—but the noises stopped, and then I heard footsteps pounding toward the front door. I froze for a moment in fright, and heard the front door fly open; when I finally worked up the courage to walk down the hall, whoever was here had escaped.”
    “And then what did you do?” asked Holmes.
    “I shut and locked the back door immediately, as well as the front; and then I went through each room of the house to see what the fellow had been after. At first I thought it was a robber, but I thought it odd that the robber would take your best cufflinks and leave your mother’s diamond ring; it also appears he took a few handkerchiefs and books from your study. And—sir, this is most upsetting—he left a note on your desk.”
    At that, Holmes rushed past Mrs. Parker to his study. His eyes swept the room, noticing its disarray, and he strode to his desk. The note was laid neatly in the center, and the spidery handwriting on it read “Catch me if you can…JTR.”
    Mrs. Parker had followed him inside, and the pallor of her face worried him—she looked as if she might faint. “Has the killer been in our house, sir? How I will get through the days here alone I can’t imagine!”
    Holmes took Mrs. Parker’s elbow and led her back to the kitchen; he started a pot of tea. “You are quite safe,” he said. “It does appear the murderer has been here, yes—but you have little if anything in common with his victims. I know you have had a shock, but I would never allow harm to come to you. I will have an officer stroll by the house several times a day, and I will drop by more often as well.”
    Mrs. Parker nodded, and seemed to calm as she sipped her tea. “Thank you, sir—I appreciate your kindness. What a day!”
    Later that night, Holmes held the note and the postcard in front of a candle as if they would reveal their secrets if only he stared at them long enough. He had confirmed Mrs. Parker’s suspicions—his cuff links and several of his monogrammed handkerchiefs had been taken, as well as a few slim volumes of poetry. If any of these were left at the scene of the crime…
    Finally, he admitted to himself that he should share the information with Inspector Grant—Holmes would never be able to solve the case if he was arrested as the murderer. And he knew, given his own propensity for odd and even erratic behavior, that London society might even believe he had done the crimes.
    Nevertheless, something told Holmes to wait—whether it was pride or his natural secretiveness, he did not know. All he did know was that he felt locked in a secret struggle with this murderer, and he refused to admit his fears to