A tall window let in the morning light as rain drizzled against the glass. The room smelled faintly of ink and pipe smoke, which lay on the desk. Shelves overflowed with academic volumes, and a chessboard half-played sat near the small fireplace, where the flames caused the room to have an enjoyable temperature. Mr. Finegold, headmaster of St. George's, sat across from Inspector Abberline. The inspector, whose coat was still damp, took out a carefully folded letter from his coat and laid it on the desk.
"I'd appreciate your thoughts on this, sir. Arrived the day before last. Delivered by a messenger — said something about a saint and George. I have reason to believe that your school may be the place he was talking about," Abberline said and nodded towards the letter.
"No return, just that signature at the end. "M.H."
Finegold nodded, adjusted his glasses and read the letter slowly. His expression didn't shift until the final lines. Then, a furrow formed between his brows, subtle and grave.
"Not mad… methodical," Finegold read softly and in thought.
He looked up.
"This was written by someone rather intelligent."
"That's my thinking. Whoever wrote it — either they know something and try to help… or they are the killer. And they want me to dance toward him on a leash."
"The style is deliberate. He's trying to sound rougher than he is, but only in certain places. It is double trickery. But that kind of concealment takes effort."
Mr. Finegold reread a line.
"His blade is not driven by passion, but precision." That's no gutter poet."
Abberline nodded slightly, watching him.
"Do you have a professor at St. George's with the initials M.H.? Or could it stand for something else?" Abberline asked.
"We don't have a professor with those initials. However..."
"However?"
Finegold stared at the page long enough that the pause spoke louder than words. Then he exhaled through his nose, reluctantly accepting the truth.
"I believe I know who "M.H." is. And he is not a professor."
"Go on."
"Mycroft Holmes. Fourteen. He's been here six years. Quiet. Reads everything. He loves riddles and puzzles of any kind, and the harder, the better. Mycroft doesn't boast about it, mind you — he's modest. A gentleman already in manner. But always… a little apart. Like the rest of us are moving on tracks, and he's watching the whole system from above."
Finegold gently placed the letter back on the desk and looked out the window.
"And you believe he could write this?" Abberline asked.
"Yes. Without question. In truth, I have never seen a more intelligent man in my life, and that includes those of us claiming to be grown-ups."
"And could he… commit what has been going on? I mean, according to his timetable? The murders took place late at night. What do you reckon?" Abberline asked.
A long silence hung in the room as Mr. Finegold considered the question.
"Not unless he sneaked out at night, and that only through his window. We don't have a tendency to check on our students at night. However, I don't believe he is the killer you are looking for, Inspector."
"We shall see."
.
The heavy door of the library creaked closed behind Inspector Abberline and Mr. Finegold. The rain still trickled down the leaded windows. The light from the desk lamp flickered gently against the walls lined with old leather-bound volumes. Seated at the far end of the long oak table was a young man with an unreadable expression and a school uniform. He looked to be in thought, and his eyes moved from one book to the other.
Mr. Finegold gestured quietly toward the student, and Inspector Abberline nodded his head, walking forward.
"Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Inspector Abberline from Scotland Yard," Finegold introduced them.
Mycroft closed the books he was reading — Livy's Ab Urbe Condita and dozens like it, and looked up calmly.
"Good evening, Inspector. It is nice to meet you. You've come about the letter?" Mycroft said and shook the Inspector's hand.
"I have. Though I've half a mind to think its author wanted to be found," Abberline answered.
"That would be a rare change from the man you're actually chasing.
Abberline steps forward, taking in the boy — well-spoken, poised, too still for someone his age," Mycroft said, lightly amused.
"So you admit you wrote it?"
"Oh yes. I hoped you'd see through the affectations. Though I hope my imitation of a meat hall worker attempting formality wasn't entirely without charm."
He gestured for the Inspector to sit. Abberline remained standing, however.
"If you're so eager to help, then help me now. What else do you think you know?"
Mycroft's expression didn't change — but there was something in his eyes. A quiet pleasure. He set his fingertips together and looked at the Inspector as though reading a book.
"Very well. Let's begin with you," Mycroft said.
He stood up and walked a few steps, not with arrogance but with detached elegance — like a mind stretching its legs.
"You were a builder's apprentice before you joined the force. I'd say until the age of… eighteen. Your boots are scuffed at the outer edges — not from walking, but from bracing on ladders or ledges. Your right wrist is slightly thicker than your left from years of hammering. And your posture, good now but forced, suggests it took time to unlearn the hunch."
Abberline raised an eyebrow.
"You lost someone recently. A woman. Not a wife — your ring finger shows no pale band or mark. But your pocket watch chain has a locket attached. Worn from being opened. You're not a sentimental type, so I would guess the loss is fresh, within the year, maybe a bit less."
Abberline looked at Mycroft with a confused expression. He was not expecting this to happen but couldn't say anything to stop the young man either.
"You spent the morning at two locations. One muddy and open — likely Dutfield's Yard — and one cramped, with stairs — Hanbury Street? The soles of your boots tell me that. And the scent of linseed oil and plaster tells me you've been near fresh construction… or recent demolition.
This means you've visited not just the sites but a tenement or butcher's annexe recently cleared. Perhaps where you suspect the killer works… or hides. A good thought, Inspector, but wrong, I believe."
He paused and looked directly at Abberline now, not confrontational, but uncomfortably perceptive.
"You didn't come here merely to verify the letter. You came here because something in it disturbed you. Something only someone with either a scalpel or a secret could have known."
Abberline, caught off guard, tries to recover.
"You're well-read, I'll give you that. And you've eyes are sharp enough to slit a man's soul in half. But cleverness alone doesn't prove you're not involved."
"Of course not. And if I were involved, I'd have never written the letter. But I sent it to you. Not the newspapers. Not the constables. You. Because while London is slow to think, I believe you might not be. And I was right. You're here, after all."
"What do you know about the killer?"
"All of Jack the Ripper's confirmed victims were women engaged in prostitution, a vulnerable demographic in London. They were attacked late at night in dark, secluded areas of Whitechapel, suggesting the Ripper has a deep understanding of the area's geography and the habits of his victims.
His modus operandi is characterised by extreme violence. He uses a sharp knife to slash the throats of his victims, ensuring a quick death. Following this, however, he mutilates their bodies, removing organs such as the uterus and kidneys. The level of precision in his mutilations suggests that he may have had some anatomical knowledge, possibly pointing to a background in butchery or medicine.
Each crime scene bears similarities, with the bodies left in public places. The killer shows no apparent fear of being caught, hinting at his confidence and possibly even a desire to instil terror in the community. His ability to escape without detection suggests he blends seamlessly into the local populace or has a predetermined escape route.
His murders are escalating in brutality, and if I'm right, the increasing violence feeds into a compulsion that grows with each act. The space between his murders will either decrease if he grows to enjoy it, or they will stay this randomly spaced, should the catalyst for his explosive and brutal bloodlust be something else."
Silence falls. The lamp buzzes slightly. Abberline finally lowers himself into a chair.
"You're not like other boys," Abberline says softly.
"That's the great tragedy, Inspector. I'll never be. My greatest wish is to become a detective very soon and solve crimes in all areas. I would like it if you would allow me to help you."
"You have more to tell?" Abberline asked.
"Indeed. I believe the list of suspects isn't as extensive as you might think right now."
"How so?"
"By creating a profile of the man, and I am most certain he is a male, I managed to narrow it down quite a bit. And if we use your access to information and the manpower of Scotland Yard, this should be solved very soon."
Abberline looked at the young man and then nodded very slowly.
"Tell me."
"The Ripper does not kill for reasons of torture, financial gain, or any monetary motive. His methods indicate that he kills quickly, with the mutilation of the body serving as the primary driving force behind the murders. He is not sadistic in the sense that he derives pleasure from inflicting pain. Instead, he strangles his victims into unconsciousness and then, while they are on the ground, performs his ritual of mutilation. This behaviour suggests a killer who seeks to dominate his victims through power and sexual violence. His actions reveal a deep-seated resentment toward them, as he feels the need to destroy their identity.
Jack the Ripper probably lives in the Whitechapel area, amongst his victims, since this is where he feels safe and knows his way around. He is sure of himself. I also believe that he has a respectable appearance and possibly possesses a disarming charm, which puts people at ease and off guard. Right now, during the murders, women would be very wary of who they approached or were left alone with, no matter how desperate they were to earn money. Possessing a superficial charm or respectable appearance, the Ripper would put his victims off guard.
The Ripper primarily targets the genital region of the body in his initial attacks. Although he does not have intercourse with his victims, the attack does have strong sexual suggestions. It's possible the killer is impotent or, ironically, fears women. His act of de-sexing his victims would mean he was removing their ability to scare him. This could stem from an inner desire to seek revenge on a dominant female figure in his life, possibly a mother who tortured him mentally, physically or sexually in his youth. As he grew older, his mother would represent all women, whom he would despise. It's possible she, too, may have been a prostitute."
"..."
"So, to finalise this, we can say that you should look for someone below or above average in height and/or weight. May experience difficulties with speech, a disfigured appearance, physical illness, or injury.
I would not expect this type of offender to be married. If he were married in the past, it would have been to someone older than himself, and the marriage would have been for a short duration. He is not adept at meeting people socially, and the major extent of his heterosexual relationships would be with prostitutes.
This offender does not appear to be out of the ordinary. However, the clothing he wears at the time of the assaults is not his everyday dress. He wants to project to unsuspecting female prostitutes that he has money. He comes from a family where a domineering mother and a weak, passive father raised him. In all likelihood, his mother drank heavily and had a history of engaging with many men. As a result, he failed to receive consistent care and contact with stable adult role models. This could have resulted in the would-be serial killer having an introverted nature, lashing out violently as a result of his frustration.
As well as being an introvert, the killer is likely regarded as a shy and retiring loner who would also take great care of his appearance. He drinks in the local pubs, and after a few spirits, he becomes more relaxed and finds it easier to engage in conversation. After he leaves the pub, he strolls throughout the Whitechapel neighbourhood with lowered inhibitions. He lives or works in the Whitechapel area.
After each killing, he would return to a safe area where he could wash the blood from his hands and get rid of soiled clothing."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Well?"
"How old are you again?" Abberline asked.
"Fourteen, sir. Why?"
"I was just wondering, is all. By god, you are a peculiar individual."
"Thank you, Inspector. I assume you will look into it?"
"I certainly will."