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altogether different from the one we reported.”
    O’Connor angrily tosses the newspaper aside, “Yes, and we will probably read all about it in [53] Beeton’s Christmas Annual or, worse still, in another newspaper, won’t we? Conjecture, guesswork. I want facts, hard facts. The only reason that you still have a job here is, sometimes, not often, you can turn in a good story. Now, what about this murdered whore?”
    Bullen pockets his handkerchief, “Most likely murdered by the [54] Old Nichol gang who did in Emma Smith.”
    O’Connor despairingly stares at Bullen, “Really? Well, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard doesn’t think so. Rumour has it that a Grenadier guard may have killed her with a bayonet. Lestrade’s holding an identity parade at the Tower of London this afternoon. Get over there. I want an exclusive for tonight’s edition. And stick to the facts.”
    Bullen frowns, “What’s so special about this particular whore?”
    O’Connor inhales deeply, “She was stabbed thirty-nine times.”
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    Located in the West End of London and less than one mile long, Baker Street is a wide thoroughfare, running from York Place in the north to Oxford Street in the south. Named in honour of its builder, William Baker, who laid the street out in the previous century, Baker Street consists primarily of residential houses interspersed with the occasional commercial shop.
    Apt to be congested at times, due to the large assortment of horse-drawn vehicles continually travelling between Marylebone Road and Oxford Street, Baker Street is nonetheless representative of a well-ordered, safe through-road, particularly at night.
    Situated on the west side, and a mere two doors away from Blandford Street, is an inconspicuous Georgian terrace house, numbered 221b Baker Street. Owned by Mrs Hudson, a motherly widow now getting on in her years, but still energetically devoted to her two eminent lodgers, 221b Baker Street has been home to Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson since they were first introduced to each other seven years ago.
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    With a grimy face and dressed in filthy blackened clothes, an elderly deliveryman, Albert Langford, heaves a large sack of coal off his back and, tipping its contents through a circular opening in the pavement outside 221b, causes a cloud of choking dust to rise from the cellar beneath his feet.
    Permanently stooped and coughing hoarsely, Langford folds the dirty coal sack and places it on the rear of his cart parked alongside the kerb. Turning the corner from Blandford Street and nearing 221b, Watson grimaces, instantly fanning the air around him with his hand, “Good Lord! This is intolerable!”
    Langford ambles across to the cellar opening and, using the inside of his boot, slides a cast iron cover over it, “’Ow’s that, guv’nor? Better?”
    Watson lowers his hand, “Thank you. How can you tolerate it?”
    Langford scratches the side of his unshaven face, “Don’t give it much thought. Been doin’ this since I were a [55] nipper.”
    He coughs and then taps his chest, “Mind yer, gittin’ ’ard t’ clear the [56] ol’ pipes in the mornin’, though.”
    Opening the street door to 221b, a perky Mrs Hudson steps out of the house, “Back from your surgery, Dr Watson?”
    Watson politely lifts his hat to Mrs Hudson, “Yes.” He indicates Langford, “Unlike this poor devil, it appears that our nation is in a healthy disposition today and has given me the afternoon off.”
    Mrs Hudson stifles a chuckle and then looks at Langford enquiringly, “Another day’s work done, Mr Langford?”
    Stepping towards Mrs Hudson, Langford touches the peak of his cap with his finger, “Aye, ma’am. [57] Dozen bags in all.”
    Mrs Hudson hands him some coins, “Please keep the change.”
    Langford takes the coins and incredulously stares at them in the palm of his hand, “But, there’s an extra [58] shillin’ ’ere!”
    Mrs Hudson gently