On the morning of Monday, as the church clock in Southsea still echoed the final chimes of half past nine, a street vendor stopped before a modest yet well-kept house situated on a quiet street just a few blocks from the sea.
The breeze carried with it the salty scent of the English Channel, mingled with the warm odor of burned coal escaping from the chimneys. It was a clear morning, yet the sky bore that pale tone so characteristic of English coastal towns, where the light always seems filtered through an invisible gauze.
The peddler carefully set his case down upon the pavement. He was a young man of athletic build, and although he wore modest clothes, there was something in his posture—perhaps the unconscious elegance with which he carried himself—that set him apart from the common sort of hawker who roamed the streets selling household trinkets.
He smoothed his mustache with an automatic gesture, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.
Nearly a minute passed before the door opened.
A tall young man appeared in the doorway, elegant in bearing, his face marked by a curious expression—the look of someone awaiting a visitor with genuine anticipation.
But a single glance at the man standing on the pavement was enough to dissolve that expectation.
The smile that had begun to form on his lips vanished as though it had never existed.
"Good morning, my dear sir," said the peddler, inclining his head slightly. "May I offer you some household goods of excellent quality?"
The reply came almost at once.
"I'm afraid I have no need of anything at the moment."
The tone was polite, yet firm.
The door closed.
The vendor remained motionless for a few seconds. Then he glanced to both sides of the street, as though ensuring he was not being observed.
He waited two minutes.
Then, with a swift motion, he removed the false mustache.
Next, he opened his case, took out another hat, adjusted the knot of his tie, and, after checking the reflection of his face in a nearby window, rang the bell once more.
This time the door opened more quickly.
The young man who had appeared before returned to the doorway—now with a clearly irritated expression. His eyes were half-narrowed, and there was upon his face the offended dignity of an English gentleman whose patience had been tested beyond what was acceptable.
But the instant he fixed his gaze upon the visitor's face, his irritation dissolved.
First came surprise.
Then a gleam of recognition.
At last, a broad smile.
"You magnificent impostor!" he exclaimed. "How did I not see it?"
The two men laughed.
They embraced with the warmth of old friends and disappeared inside.
The room in which they settled bore the warm and somewhat chaotic atmosphere typical of the residence of a man devoted to letters.
Books occupied nearly every available surface. Volumes were piled upon chairs, upon the mantelpiece, and even upon the windowsill.
A faint fragrance of tobacco lingered in the air.
The host settled into an armchair and examined his visitor with interest.
"My dear Sebastian," he said at last, "I must confess—you appear extraordinarily well. What have you been doing with your life?"
The other smiled.
"Besides traveling?"
"Naturally."
"Traveling, observing, listening… and surviving. Those pursuits tend to occupy my days quite sufficiently."
The master of the house raised an eyebrow.
"How fortunate for you. Not all men are born into privilege."
The visitor leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees.
"Do not judge me so hastily, Arthur. For some time now, I have made an effort to live by my own means."
The host raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Very well, very well. I have no intention of debating economics with you."
There was a brief silence.
Then the visitor remarked:
"And what of you? I have read certain interesting things in the London papers. It would seem the name of Arthur Conan Doyle is beginning to circulate with some frequency."
Doyle's expression grew suddenly more serious.
"I wish the situation were as promising as the newspapers suggest," he replied. "The truth is that, thus far, my detective has brought me more discomfort than glory."
"You mean that fellow…"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Precisely."
Doyle sighed.
"At times, I seriously consider abandoning literature and opening an ophthalmology practice here in Portsmouth."
The visitor laughed.
"A perfectly respectable profession."
"More respectable than enduring literary criticism, I can assure you."
The silence that followed lasted a few seconds.
Then Sebastian Harrow spoke.
"Be that as it may, I have the impression you did not summon me all this way merely to discuss literature."
There was a subtle note of resentment in his tone.
Doyle noticed it.
"Are you still troubled by that incident?"
Harrow raised a hand.
"I promised myself I would not speak of it again."
"Then you may break that promise," Doyle replied. "Because it is precisely to discuss literature that I called you here."
"I am not certain I care for the direction this conversation is taking."
"You will like it even less when you see what I have to show you."
Doyle rose abruptly.
"Wait here."
He disappeared down a narrow corridor.
Harrow leaned back in the armchair.
"What are you planning, Arthur?"
"You shall see in a moment!"
Shortly thereafter, he returned carrying a cardboard box.
He placed it upon the center table.
"Open it."
Harrow raised an eyebrow.
"This is beginning to feel theatrical."
"Open the box."
He obeyed.
Inside were newspaper clippings, carefully arranged.
Harrow took a few and began to examine them.
After a few seconds, he remarked:
"Curious."
Doyle remained silent.
"These are excerpts from The Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Edgar Allan Poe," Harrow said. "And judging by the paper, I would say they were taken from a rather old American edition."
Doyle nodded.
"Both observations are correct."
"Very interesting," said Harrow. "But I still fail to see why this concerns me."
Doyle then removed an envelope from the pocket of his coat.
"Perhaps this will clarify matters somewhat."
He handed it to his friend.
"Read it aloud."
Harrow opened the envelope.
As his eyes scanned the handwriting, a slight furrow appeared between his brows.
It was a firm hand, yet aggressive.
He began to read:
"Dear Boss,
I could not help but be struck by the insolent manner in which your detective referred to Auguste Dupin. Let us be fair: there was no need to diminish one in order to exalt the other.
Tell me, sir—would your detective be capable of solving a real crime? A crime conceived by a mind whose intelligence he would never be able to comprehend?
His arrogance in A Study in Scarlet is not merely presumptuous. It is grotesque.
Therefore, I propose a challenge.
Within a few days, I shall begin a true study in red upon the streets of London.
I shall begin by killing prostitutes in Whitechapel.
And I shall not cease until your detective stops me.
Come and catch me, if you can."
Harrow turned the page.
There was an additional line transcribed:
"It was a very tall tulip tree, and I had already climbed nearly to the top when I noticed a large dead branch."
Below it, a final remark:
Mr. Dupin would understand.
The silence that followed was heavy.
At last, Harrow spoke.
"How did this come into your possession?"
"A boy delivered the box to me when I was in London five days ago," Doyle replied. "He said a missionary had paid him five shillings to place it directly into my hands."
Harrow gave a faint laugh.
"A missionary… an admirable sense of irony."
"As you may imagine," Doyle continued, "I have no intention of taking this to the police."
"May I ask why?"
"Because the police would do nothing. And besides, I have no desire to see my name splashed across the newspapers alongside grotesque speculation."
Harrow crossed his legs.
"And where do I enter into this affair?"
Doyle answered without hesitation.
"As my private investigator."
"Ah."
"Resolve the matter discreetly. If necessary, allow the police to receive all the credit."
Harrow smiled.
"That does not seem a particularly fair arrangement."
"Do it for the sake of our friendship."
He paused.
"Or, if you prefer, do it for the women who might yet be saved."
Harrow tilted his head.
"What shall we call him?"
"I thought of 'butcher.'"
"I would say 'slaughterman.'"
"Let us not insult the slaughtermen."
Harrow returned his attention to the letter.
His eyes rested upon the literary quotation.
"This is from The Gold-Bug, by Poe."
"Naturally," Doyle replied.
Harrow then began to examine the newspaper clippings more closely.
One detail caught his attention.
A date.
"Interesting…"
"What is it?" Doyle asked.
Harrow leaned back slowly.
"My dear Arthur… I believe we can already assert certain things about the author of this letter."
"In so short a time?"
"With due caution, of course."
"Then let us hear it."
"First, this is someone who has lived in the United States."
Doyle blinked.
"How can you know that?"
"Because these clippings are from American periodicals. And, it would seem, they belonged to a personal collection."
He paused.
"Furthermore, I would estimate our author to be between thirty-five and forty years of age."
"That seems even more arbitrary."
"Not entirely."
Harrow rose and walked toward the window.
"Many years ago, I spoke with a man who had studied at a boarding school in Boston during the 1860s. He told me that one of the most common exercises there was the analysis of literary texts published in local newspapers."
He lifted one of the clippings.
"If this material dates from that period, it is likely our author encountered it in his youth."
"Even so," Doyle said, "all this may be mere coincidence."
"I agree."
Harrow turned back toward him.
"But allow me to ask you a question."
"Go on."
"If you wished to send a friend a box containing clippings from A Dinner at Poplar Walk, where would you obtain them?"
Doyle spread his hands.
"I have no idea."
"Precisely."
Harrow returned the clipping to the box.
"Unless you had preserved them for years."
Doyle ran a hand through his hair.
"While we sit here discussing these speculations… there is a killer preparing his next act."
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps?"
Harrow walked slowly across the room.
"Arthur… there is something you must understand."
He spoke calmly.
"If the Whitechapel murderer is indeed the author of this letter… then your book did not create a monster."
Doyle lifted his gaze.
"No?"
"No."
Harrow paused before continuing.
"Monsters of this kind are not born from literary insult."
He picked up the letter once more.
"They exist long before that."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"And a man capable of committing a crime such as the one recently witnessed in Buck's Row…"
He let the sentence hang in the air.
Then concluded, in a low tone:
"…is not beginning his career."
The silence that settled over the room felt suddenly colder than the wind blowing in from the Channel.
And for the first time since opening that box, Arthur Conan Doyle realized something he had not yet dared to consider.
Perhaps the game had already begun.