The Red Dog Tavern

As I sat in the creaking hansom cab I observed the lighted windows of the pub across the street. The glass was steamed from the heat and the number of people inside, causing the occupants to appear as ghostly shadows, back-lit by the flickering oil lanterns. It was impossible to tell which wraith was my quarry.

I settled back into the rolled leather seat, pulling the blanket closer around my legs, and sighed deeply; my breath visible in the chill night air. All I could do was watch the door and hope to God that Barnes hadn't used another exit.

This was the third day that I had followed this, so-called, gentleman. As usual, he had finished his round of house calls and various appointments. Today he was in surgery at Blackmont Hospital before retiring to his club for a brief repast. Now he was back at the Red Dog Tavern, just as he was the first night. I looked up quickly as I heard a glass smash and a woman squeal. But, after a brief pause, there was laughter and the tinny strains from the piano resumed. Just some drunken tom-foolery.

The murders weren't happening on any set schedule that we could observe. But they were becoming more frequent and the last atrocity was a fortnight ago. Nobody thought the fiend would wait much longer before his next attack.

I was following Dr. Randall Barnes of Halsey Street because he fit the general description of The Ripper, he frequents the East End night spots, and he has the medical training necessary for some of The Ripper's signature mutilations.

As I ruminated upon Barnes' qualifications the tavern door opened. A tall man, wearing a cloak and top hat emerged. Beside him was one of the local street walkers, laughing at something he must have just said. She clutched her thin shawl around her bare shoulders and peered into the night. As they stepped into the halo of the streetlamp I could see it was Barnes.

The couple headed south down the wet cobbled street. She was leaning heavily against him and singing some drunken melody. An alley was nearby where many such brief assignations took place. It was also at just such a setting that the last victim was found.

I looked frantically about the street. "Damn it all! Where was Holmes?" I thought. It could be happening right now!

There was nothing else for it. I must act. I tossed the blanket from my legs, threw open the hansom door and stepped down into the cobbled street. I looked over my shoulder to the slouching driver and called, "Find Holmes. Quickly!" and trotted down the street towards the alley, my hand finding my service revolver in my overcoat pocket.

The driver immediately snapped his reins and wheeled the coach about in the narrow street. He lashed the reins to get the horses moving and careened toward the alley. "Right you are, Watson!" he shouted. "I'm right behind you!"

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