The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors by Edward B. Hanna

man by the name of John or Jack Pizer, who lives in the district and is believed to have been seen in the vicinity at around the same time the murder occurred.”
    “And the fact of his being seen in the vicinity — believed to have been seen, in your words — that alone makes him the prime suspect? I should think that if he resides there, he quite possibly has legitimate business to be seen there.”
    Abberline shook his head and looked up, meeting Holmes’s gaze finally. It apparently took some courage for him to do so. “He is known in the area as ‘Leather Apron.’ He habitually wears one, you see. He is a cobbler or boot finisher by trade.”
    “Leather Apron,” mused Holmes, “Leather Apron. How very convenient.” The sarcasm in his voice, though gently expressed, was unmistakable, and Abberline visibly blanched.
    Holmes continued. “I take it that the similar article of apparel that Inspector Chandler found at the murder scene and correctly deducedcould have had nothing to do with the crime is what ties our Mr. Pizer to the event. Or am I only jumping to conclusions?”
    Abberline sighed heavily. “Look, Mr. Holmes...” he began, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
    Holmes jumped up from his chair and began pacing in front of Abberline’s desk. “Of course, of course, that must be it! How stupid of me for not realizing it sooner! For, after all, there cannot be another soul in all of London who also wears a leather apron: Not another cobbler, or butcher, or slaughterhouse worker, not a collier, or farrier or smithy, or hod carrier, not a surgeon or iron worker, or, or... I fear I am running out of occupations! Help me, someone!” He threw up his arms dramatically as if in entreaty and spun about. Then, leaning over the desk with anger in his eyes, he glared directly into Abberline’s face.
    “Really, Inspector, this will not do! This will not do at all!”
    Abberline looked miserable. Clearly, he could marshal no argument in the face of Holmes’s assertions, and made no effort to try. He clasped his hands together on the desk and held them tightly. Holmes stood there, exasperated, looking at him.
    “Have you followed up on no other lead, then?” he asked quietly.
    Abberline shook his head.
    “That fragment of the envelope that was found near the body, bearing a regimental crest — the Sussex Regiment, I believe. Has any progress been made in tracking that down?”
    “As far as we can tell,” said Abberline, “it had no connection with the murderer. It was the woman’s apparently. She probably picked it out of a dustbin somewhere and used it to wrap some tablets in, some medication she picked up at the clinic. We’ve established she appeared there the previous day complaining of feeling ill.”
    “Yes,” mused Holmes half to himself, “such an obvious clue would have been too easy.” He stroked his chin. “Nothing else, then?”
    Abberline shook his head again.
    “No effort has been made to search the streets for more of these cigarette samples? None of your men have attempted to question cabbies? Nothing has been done to seek out the man whose identity I described to you?”
    With each question Abberline shook his head.
    Holmes gazed at him silently for a long moment, then turned to retrieve his hat and stick. “Come, Watson. Our business here is done.”
    Abberline rose from his desk and followed Holmes into the corridor, taking him by the arm as they walked toward the front hall. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I am not at all happy about this situation, that much must be obvious to you,” he said very quietly. “But as you no doubt are aware, our department has been under severe pressures of late. Surely you must realize that my hands are tied. I do have my orders, after all.”
    Holmes nodded. “I assumed as much. I am not unaware of the stresses and recent changes that have been inflicted upon the CID. 26 And I know what orders from a superior mean to a policeman. But what