Crowborough, Sussex England – July 1931

It’s been a year now since my Arthur passed on. I miss him so. Oh, the times we had at Windlesham, up in Crowborough. Arthur purchased the Windlesham property just to be near my beloved family, although I sometimes believed he chaffed at being there as he said it took him out of his normal routine. Nay, he never let on tho, not my dear sweet Arthur. I may hast discovered another reason he was so reticent myself while collecting up his belongings after his death.

Before I go nattering on, which I am wont to do, I should introduce myself. I am Jean Elizabeth Leckie Doyle, the second wife of Arthur Conan Doyle. We were married on the 18^th of September 1907 tho we had been in love for over ten years before. I was then We then became parents to three lovely children who I adore.

While going through Arthur’s wardrobe a few weeks after his death, I discovered a locked cabinet in his closet I hardly knew existed. Unable to find a key I had it cut open. What I found came as quite a shock to my senses. There was a stack of chinks totaling 5,000 pounds, his gold timepiece he inherited from his father, a pistol and bullets, and most inconceivably, all were sitting atop a manuscript, as if guarding it.

Arthur had become renown for writing four novels and fifty-six short stories, or so that was what the world had thought. I now had what I believe to be the fifty-seventh short story of his treasured collection.

I put the manuscript aside and continued to doff his belongings from the house. The money in the safe was given to a charity for the poor. I granted the gun to my eldest son, Denis.

T’were a few weeks later, thoroughly exhausted, I decided to sit on a nearby davenport for a few minutes to put my feet up and rest. As I sat, I happened to spy the manuscript sitting on the nearby side table. My Lord, in my determination to clean out his effects, I had totally forgotten about Arthur’s manuscript. I decided to read what might have been the last installment by Arthur Conan Doyle and his illustrious detective, Sherlock Holmes.

As I read the shocking tale, I was able to ascertain that Arthur, through his Sherlock Holmes’ character, was a way to deduce the real identity of the most prolific murderer in all of England. Strangely, Arthur knew who the suspect was, yet never told a soul. By the time I was finished reading, I understood why, and am grateful he did not publish this story.

The manuscript is dated in June of 1909, two years after we were married, and during that year he did not publish any material, even though the public was clamoring for more Sherlock Holmes escapades. In my narrative I shall try to give you an abridged version of this tale as I can hardly articulate in a fashion nearing that of my late husband:

First a bit of nonsense for dearest readers interest. Did you know Sherlock Holmes was originally named ‘Sherrinford’ Holmes, and Dr. Watson was named by the ridiculous moniker of ‘Ormond Sacker’ when they were first introduced to the public in the story “A Study in Scarlet?” And at first the story itself was named “A Tangled Skein?” Arthur first published this in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887. T’were later it was adopted for a play named “Angels of Darkness” in 1888.    

Now on with my narrative.

Sir Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his room at 221B Baker Street entertaining his best and probably only friend, Dr. John Watson. Watson had just delivered a large quantity of cocaine into Holme’s vein, all the while lecturing him on the iniquitous habit Holmes had developed. In fact, Holmes was on one of his famous binges of abusing the drug, which he oft did when bored and craving real crime. Whilst under the effects of the poison coursing through his veins, he had completely missed the reports on the serial killer roaming the streets of London.

Watson then updated his colleague on the murders whilst Holmes practiced his violin, an instrument that screamed over being held in the arm of an individual devoid of a minuscule of musical talent. Watson oft confided to his wife that he was delighted Holmes had never tried to sing. Holmes persisted claiming he would one day harness the secret of what he considered the extraordinary of all musical instruments. Watson doubted it yet kept those thoughts to himself.

Seems Watson had known rumors of a letter that reached Scotland Yard in the fall of the year prior, 1887. It was called a ‘Dear Boss’ letter, although I hast no way of knowing that specifically all these many years later. Again, I’m just trying to pass on the crux of the manuscript without reading it in its entirety to readers. Keep in mind, it appears, at least to me, Arthur never meant for this story to be published. However, given the severity of the case, I thought I should shed some light on the suspect for future generations. Perhaps tho, this is meant to be a mystery for the ages.

The letter mentioned by Watson came from someone claiming to be Jack the Ripper. The Yard hardly knew what to do with the letter at the time, although they were developing a substantial list of suspects. What was known was that five prostitutes had been murdered on the east side of London, in the area known as Whitechapel.

Watson read from the list of possible people that had been rumored to be complicit. The suspects included a painter by the name of Walter Sickert; and an alcoholic cigar maker known only as Yam Yams who lived in Whitechapel. At the mention of these two names, Holmes waved WatSon off.

Then there was a butcher named James Maybrick, who admitted being Jack the Ripper in a diary yet was daft enough to conclude the diary with the line, “Yours truly, Jack the Ripper. It is suspected Mrs. Maybrick had been reading the gents diary given that he was poisoned shortly after that entry. Watson laughed at this, but again Holmes waved him off.

Also on the Yard’s list was a woman, if one could conceive it. Mary Pearcey was hanged for murdering a woman who was seeing her partner. Watson remarked that he doubted her guilt. She had been dubbed Jill the Ripper! Once again, Holmes waved him off.

Watson took a drink from his tea cup before continuing, outrageously wiping his mustache with the back of his sleeve as Holmes had not offered him a napkin.

Even the Royal family had been besmirched with accusations aimed at Prince Albert “Eddy” Victor, son of Queen Victoria and King Edward V11. Eddy was thought to hast possibly committed the murders during an insane fit brought on by syphilis. Holmes made no acknowledgement.

Another man, H.H. Holmes, no relation I’m sure, who was known as the Chicago serial killer was also a suspect. It is thought he may have fled England to Chicago where he committed more murders during the World’s Fair Expedition, held in the White City. Holmes tilted his head in thought at this name but made no comment.

Then there was the horrible Robert Mann, who was employed at the Whitechapel mortuary where the victims were brought. He had been caught undressing one of the victims, presumably to view his own handiwork. Holmes shook his head in the negative.

(It is at this point in the narrative I should tell you that in Arthur’s manuscript, he went on in great detail about each and every suspected person, more than likely in his quest to finger the real killer. I hast saved you some of the more specific details and travails that Holmes and Watson attempted in order to chase down every lead.) 

At last, Watson read off another suspect named Aaron Kosminski, who was known to be openly hostile to the prostitution profession due to his own mothers suspected livelihood.

Holmes stopped playing the violin abruptly at the name of Kosminski and looked over to Watson sharply. Holmes queried Watson extensively on the man, wanting to know how sure he was that Aaron Kosminski had been a suspect. 

Watson fumbled with the newspapers he brought, knowing his colleague would require more detail while at the same time reminding Holmes he was only relaying the findings and assumptions of the Yard as reported to the London Times.

Watson finally befell the article in the Times and handed it over to Holmes for inspection. Holmes devoured the article twice it seems and then combed through the rest of the papers looking for added information. Finding none, he threw the papers down disgustedly on the floor.

Saying no more, Holmes lit his pipe, the horrible cheap black shag he preferred fouling the air in the room. Watson, on the other hand, preferred finer tobacco’s, such as the Arcadia Mixture or sometimes Ship’s tobacco. He would oft smoke it to fend off the odors from Holmes’ disgusting choice, and so he took the opportunity at that very moment. Smoke wafted heavily throughout the room.

Watson sat there puffing his pipe and staring at his friend waiting for further direction. After a few moments Holmes picked the violin back up to torture both Watson and I’m sure the violin some more. But this time he wasn’t looking at the sheet music that lay before him. Instead, he was looking off into a corner of the room, seemingly at one with himself.

After a few minutes he looked back to Watson, requesting he read to him again the names of those five murdered women. He stated his belief that if he heard the names out loud, it might assist him to come to a conclusion.

Watson sighed and bent to pick up the Times Holmes had so haphazardly thrown to the floor. He thumbed through the pages until finally finding the names. The poor women were Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly Watson stated. He then asked how possibly this information might help the case.

Holmes replied with his usual narcissistic answer, “Elementary my Dear Watson.” (I have no idea where Arthur came up with that passage as he never used it around me or the children, but I must say, it did become quite a classic.) Homes did not explain himself any further and Watson left shortly thereafter.

As usually is the case, the detective and the doctor summarily traipsed all over London in the days to come, looking for clues of the murderer. Watson suspected Holmes already knew who the suspect might be and was merely going through the motions of flushing out the killer.

(At this point, I did not feel the writing fashioned by my husband was up to his past prose. Looking back, perhaps he was wishing to find he might have the wrong culprit, allowing him to be able to rewrite the details. Yet, there was something else driving this narrative, of that I was becoming sure.)

Watson reported in his diary that he was completely flummoxed by Holmes’ methods of investigation, but remained mostly silent throughout the search, only responding when spoken to. Asking the great detective a question on the trail of a killer would only be met with silence or odd stares.

In time they found themselves being shadowed by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, as they did in most cases they undertook. The two constantly quarreled while on an investigation. Holmes felt Lestrade was always purposely in his way.

As another side note, if you permit me again, is that some of Arthur’s characters in his tales were modeled off people he knew. As examples, Holmes was modeled off Arthur’s medical school professor, Dr. Joseph Bell at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland.

And although never verified, I believed Detective Lestrade was a poke at Holmes’ older brother Mycroft. I also had suspicions Arthur loosely modeled the villain, Sebastian Moran after my father. Moran was a character from the tale “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Whereas Moran was a Minister to Persia, a professional gambler and ultimately a murderer, my father, James Leckie was a merchant who had been to Persia and enjoyed gambling. There were other similarities of the two men in the story. Arthur denied any such resemblance.

I hast drifted from the story again and am dreadfully sorry.

Here are the details as to what Arthur, through his remarkable characters Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, was able to discern about Aaron Kosminski, possibly leading him to believe Kosminski was a prime suspect to be the Ripper.

Holmes knew at the time of the Ripper murders, Kosminski was twenty-three years old, a Polish Jew who had emigrated to Germany and ultimately England. He had worked as a barber in Whitechapel and lived close to where the murders occurred. Holmes directed Watson to report to the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum where Kosminski had been committed after threatening his sister with a knife in 1894. Using his medical credentials, Watson was to find out what he could about Kosminski while Holmes checked on other clues. He did not share with Watson what those other clues might be.

When the two men met up again, Watson reported that Kosminski had been transferred to the Metropolitan Asylum for Chronic Imbeciles. Kosminski was reportedly lazy, only sporadically working and living off his sisters’ largess. Suffering from syphilis, mental illness plagued him and in 1890 was institutionalized to the Old Town workhouse by his brother Wolfe. He stayed only three days but the police recommitted him seven months later. He was later transferred to Colney Hatch where he remained for three years.

Watson continued with his report that it was thought Kosminski caught the syphilis from a prostitute and for this reason he was seeking revenge for his madness.

Case notes obtained by Holmes on Kosminski stated he had been mentally ill since at least 1885, three years before the Ripper murders. His madness included hallucinations, paranoia, and an odd refusal to bathe. He was also known to ‘self-abuse’ himself, a claim I’m sure you dear readers can figure out for yourself. He died of gangrene in 1919 at the age of fifty-three.   

Holmes had procured an 1894 memorandum written by Sir Melville McNaughten, the assistant chief constable of the Metropolitan Police.  McNaughten had named Kosminski as one of three suspects, although he was positive Kosminski was the Ripper, and would testify to that very conclusion.

Holmes also shared with Watson that actually eleven women murdered between 1888 and 1891 around Whitechapel. Seven had their throats slashed and four others were mutilated with precision strokes after death. Police suspected that four to five of the victims were by the same serial killer. Holmes did not inform Watson how he obtained this information.

Holmes had also managed to uncover notes written by chief inspector, Donald Swanson naming Kosminski. Swanson reported Kosminski had been observed by police at his brothers home in Whitechapel as a suspect. 

Incredibly, nobody at Scotland Yard interviewed Kosminski’s sisters, Matilda and Betsy, a fact Holmes had discovered in discussions with various officials. He had made his way over to 16 Greenfield Street to question Matilda and then Betsy, who lived at 3 Sion Square. Both women swore that their brother lived with each of them from time to time although he kept odd hours. He stayed with Betsy more often as Matilda had recently had a baby. When given the dates of the victim’s deaths, neither could recall Kosminski home with them at those times, although he often came home long after they had gone to bed. They both swore that their brother was mentally ill yet could become so violent they were afeard to confront him with their suspicions.

Holmes asked both women if they thought their brother was the Ripper.  They disagreed with each other whether he actually could be the noted serial killer.

T’were at this point in the narrative where the great Holmes seemed to be faltering. He became petulant around Watson, to the point the doctor stopped visiting for a few weeks. T’were only because he feared Holmes would overdose on cocaine that he went back to check on him.

When Watson arrived at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met him at the door in a terrible fright. She told him how for eight or nine days Holmes was up at all times of the day and night, pounding on the walls, screaming and caterwauling on like nobody’s business. She heard him ranting and repeating over and over that he just couldn’t have been the murderer, and then at other times crying why he couldn’t solve this infernal case. Then everything went silent and she hadn’t heard anything for four days, not a peep.

Mrs. Hudson looked terrified. Her hand was shaking as she put the key to Holme’s apartment in Watson’s hand.  With that, she turned and ran back into her own quarters, bawling all the way.

Watson quietly let himself into Holmes apartment. The place was a wreck, as if a thunderstorm had gone through the room. T’were pitch black inside and he nearly tripped when his bad leg bumped up against something he could not see. He would have fallen if not for his cane. He swore under his breath.

Upon lighting a lamp, Watson was aghast by what he saw. He held it higher to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Heavy black curtains had been put up over every window. Newspapers were thrown everywhere, drawers emptied onto the floor and flung at the walls. The one lone mirror he owned was smashed, as if something had been flung against it. Even his prized books were thrown everywhere, and it was this development that scared Watson most as Holmes cherished books.

Watson called out for Holmes several times but received no reply. Making his way to the back of the quarters he thought he heard a whimper of sorts. He quickened his pace at the sound and nearly fell over the sprawling Holmes who looked as if he had fallen out of bed some time ago and simply not gotten up. Watson nudged him gently with his cane, demanding he wake up.

Holmes rolled away from the light in Watson’s hand, screaming about his eyes. Watson wondered how long he had been in this state of total darkness. With that he began to tear away the heavy black curtains to let the light of day in to flood the room. Holmes shrieked in pain from the light.

After an hour of cajoling by Watson, Holmes got up to clean himself up while Watson went about cleaning the mess as best he could. An hour later Watson had straightened up the quarters as best he could, although Mrs. Hudson still hast a lot of work yet to do. Holmes returned cleaned and shaven, appearing somewhat refreshed, if a man just waking up from a two week binge can look the part. Both men took their seats in the room and lit their pipes without a word. Watson did not expect an apology nor a thanks, as it just wasn’t in Holmes’ nature.

Finally, Holmes tried to speak. Phlegm lodged in his throat made him sound hoarse, and his speech forced. When he finally was able to enunciate words, he was sullen. He looked directly at Watson and uttered that he feared he was incapable of finding the killer. He had lost his powers to out think the criminal. Saying so seemed to pain him all over again, and he began to shake. He then said something that shook Watson to his core, almost as much as when he had discovered Holmes fell into the gorge while battling Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls.

Watson stated Holmes cried he was done investigating and chasing criminals. If he could not identify a bumbling serial killer, what good would he be in future crimes? Homes then looked away while Watson tried to find the words that might snap his buddy out of this black period.

With nothing better to say, Watson blurted that Holmes could not quit, this was only one setback and he had many more cases to solve before him. The people of London needed him to solve their mysteries. Alas, Holmes could not be consoled no matter how much Watson tried to talk him out of his doldrums.

Holmes handed Watson a letter asking him to deliver personally to Mr.  James McParlan of the Pinkerton Detective Agency announcing his retirement from their services, effective immediately. Watson noticed the letter had been dated two weeks prior.

Watson of course continued to try and talk Holmes out of his melancholy yet was unable to persuade him differently. Holmes thanked Watson for his loyal years of service together and all Watson had done for him. T’were almost as if Holmes thought he was dying and Watson would never see him again. Within the hour, Watson realized Holmes’ mind was set and resigned himself to delivering the letter as requested. Holmes had promised him to stop his heavy dependence of the snow lady. Watson presumed it would only be temporary. He left not knowing he would never see the great detective again.

A fortnight later Watson was attending a men’s social event when he ran across an old friend, Sir William Cameron Gull, a barrister and politician. Mr. Gull’s father had been the Physicians-in-Ordinary to Queen Victoria. The senior Gull, who had passed away of a stroke in 1890, had also been on the list as a possible suspects to be the infamous Ripper due mostly to his surgical skill and that there were no more murders attributed to the Ripper after 1890. Obviously, this came as a great source of embarrassment and rage to his son and somehow the subject came up during a conversation twixt Watson and the younger Mr. Gull.

Watson asked point blank if Gull had any knowledge as to the actual killer, given his station in life in legal circles. It was more of an innocent question to make conversation between too friends.

Gull claimed to not only know as fact his father was not guilty of being the Ripper, but that he also knew exactly who the murderer was. There had been a witness to the crime who had come forth to Scotland Yard, but the truth was buried by the Yard due to the sensitive nature of the guilty party. Watson, almost in shock, leaned in on his cane a little closer to Gull to ensure he was hearing correctly.

Before answering, Gull said he had to use the facilities, asking Holmes to order him another cocktail in his absence. Holmes raced to the bar to fetch more brandy, bypassing their attendant so as not to be interrupted upon Gull’s return.

Within due time, Gull returned, looking as if he had regained some of his composure. He apologized for his boorish behavior, but admitted he usually became quite upset that anyone would have the gall to besmirch the family name, especially after all that his father had achieved in the medical field.

Watson was beside himself waiting to hear who the real Ripper might be, but did not want to interrupt his friend even tho he seemed to be gaining momentum again with his temper. Finally, Watson heard what he had been waiting for.

It is at this point, dear reader, that I will read directly from the lost manuscript the words from Watson that Arthur wrote so as not to withhold any of the meaning of the passage…

“I was leaning in on him in order to make sure I heard his every detail. So far, that had accomplished little but to wet my ear, as the man was speaking and venting in such a way as to be hurtling spittle in my direction. I kept listening, not adding much to the conversation except occasional grunts and a few ‘my Lord’s.’

At one point, the tempo and volume of his vociferation became such that I was afraid others might hear him. I kept a close eye on who or what was going on around us, and fortunately nobody seemed the slightest bit interested in our conversation.

I was raising my brandy sifter for another snort when he fumed that the world had a right to know the true identity of Jack the Ripper even if it was the author Lewis Carroll. Yes Watson, the very author of that silly children’s story, Alice in Wonderland.

I almost coughed up my brandy at this revelation. Gull continued to seethe before I had time to say anything:

“In fact, Watson, there was a witness that came forth to testify they had been there when Annie Chapman, standing next to her when the Ripper attacked. She was able to flee from the Ripper, but he got Miss Chapman and slit her open. “

Gull gulped down his brandy and sat down his sifter with a thud before continuing.

“Watson, the fact that Carol was known the world over for his classic tale, and that he died in 1890, the authorities as high up as the Queen herself proclaimed that Carol’s guilt should never be known to the world so as not to upset the sensibilities of mothers and their children. Can you imagine that my good man?

The Queen forbade Scotland Yard to release any further information concerning Carroll, including the name of the witness, and to veer away from Carroll’s name with that of others. Anyone who might dare to speak ill of Carroll’s name, or to include him as a suspect, would be met with a fine of two years in solitary confinement and 250 pounds!”

I was stunned to the point of being shaken, although I did not let on to Sir Gull. I excused myself with a tale of my own bladder relief, but actually in order to get some air and drink more from a flask to settle my nerves. When I returned, Mr. Gull had taken leave, without paying our fare. For what I had learned on this night, I was only too pleased to pay the pittance.

I took a hansom directly to 221B Baker Street, fully intent on waking Holmes, even if I was risking time in prison and a hefty fine. Holmes would know what to do with this information, and perhaps it would lift his spirits.

Upon arrival to the Hudson residence, I sprang from the hansom, throwing money at the driver as I sprinted toward the door. I pounded heavily on the door so as to wake the dead if that is what it took. After what seemed forevermore Mrs. Hudson finally opened the door, remarking that I must have been mad to knock so on her door at such hour.

Alas, once the shock had worn off her that it was me standing before her, she took on the countenance of someone with bad news. Her face colored as she looked down upon the entryway with a forlorn look. Finally, she spoke to me, although I could not make out what she said over my own heavy breathing. She was about to sob before repeating herself, words I shall never forget.

‘He’s gone, Dr. Watson. Holmes moved out and left no forwarding address. He left me with a year’s rent and this envelope addressed to you should you come around again.’

Words escaped me and I tore into the heavy envelope to see what Holmes had written. With hands shaking, I read his neatly typed letter, the last I was ever to hear from my dear friend again. 

“My Dearest Dr. Watson,

No words could ever been said to thank you for being my close ally these past years. I will not try, as surely you grasp that fact.

As I mentioned to you, I have left the detective profession as I feel my services are no longer essential here. I have decided to travel to the Orient to explore new worlds.

So long my dear friend,

Sherlock Holmes”

I must tell you when I read Watson’s words, I was every bit as stunned and shaken as he must have been. Not so much for the loss of Sherlock Holmes and the affable John Watson, who after all were merely fictional characters of Arthur’s imagination, but for the information I learned by Arthur while writing as John Watson.

You see, Lewis Carroll was Arthur’s best friend and confidant. They often dined and regaled each other with tales, some of which made it into their publications.

Arthur had started out writing another Sherlock Holmes tale from his vivid imagination, only this time he decided to use current affairs as the background, something he had never done before. In doing so, he wound up finding that the real-life fiend murdering those woman was none other than a dear associate and friend. It was no wonder he could not publish this story and that it took him nearly two years to publish another tale.  

I threw the manuscript in the fire.

CONCLUDING ADMISSION

Folks, please understand I have no idea who Jack the Ripper was. For all I know it could have been ET.

I seriously doubt the culprit is the noted author Lewis Carol and my apologies if I have offended anybody with the use of his name in this fictional story. I also am unaware if the sisters were interviewed by the police.

I simply used easily obtainable facts on what is known or thought about the Ripper’s identity, then fused it together as a Sherlock Holmes story.