The Barber of Whitechapel

Based on true events.

I make my way through the fog.

The lad came round earlier— at half past supper— though I was but midway through my meat pie and whiskey. The lad, maybe eleven years old, with sandy hair and a face that might have seemed innocent had he not been raised as a messenger boy in the the city. He bid me come at once. There’d been another.

“Like the others, sir,” he’d said excitedly. I had not apparently responded with enough enthusiasm, so he continued “Missing innards and all that. Right?” he added. “Ghastly business. They told me to come round and ring you. Said you should come at once, sir.”

“You have an envelope for me,” I asked, irritated that my supper was now spoiled.

“Oh. Right, sir. My apologies, sir.” He reached into his pouch and produced a grey envelope with a waxy seal bearing the crest of Scotland Yard. I broke the seal and read the missive.

I looked up, startled to see the lad still standing there expectantly and realized my manners.