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in another bloodbath.’
    Holmes applauded enthusiastically. ‘Capital, Doctor! Really first rate! If I were in the market for a theory, I would sooner take yours than half a dozen others I have heard. In fact there is still more evidence you might adduce in its favour. The arrangement of the objects around Chapman’s body, for instance, might be explained as a heathen rite.’
    ‘I know nothing of that.’
    ‘The killer took the rings from her fingers and laid them out carefully at her feet, together with a few coins. By her head he placed part of an envelope, and you have heard Dr Philips’s evidence about the arrangement of the intestines on her right shoulder. Does that not suggest some form of ritual sacrifice?’
    I could scarcely believe my ears. With each new detail the case seemed to grow darker and more unfathomable.
    ‘It’s devilish,’ I cried.
    ‘It has certainly been made to appear so. Incidentally, one of the inmates of the boarding-house Chapman frequented identified the envelope as being the property of the deceased. She had seen her with it earlier that night, but at that time it lacked the mark it bore later, when it was found by Chapman’s head.’
    ‘What mark was that?’
    ‘The letter “M”. A capital “M”. That would seem to put paid to your ignoble savage, Watson.’
    ’Perhaps one of his fellow-seamen had taught him a few letters,’ I suggested feebly. ‘Or perhaps –’
    My voice died away. Holmes nodded.
    ‘Aye, “perhaps”. There you have the key to this whole affair. “Perhaps.” Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?’
    ‘What?’ I was rather startled by this sudden change of tack. ‘I don’t believe I have. Is it one of the new safety models?’
    ‘Hardly. It has been with us for over five hundred years. It is a philosophical axiom. In its original form it runs: Entia non sunt multiplicanda .’
    ’I see.’
    ‘In other words, entities should not be unnecessarily multiplied. Now then, Doctor! How many theories are necessary to solve a problem?’
    I sat up straight and endeavoured to collect my thoughts.
    ‘How many are necessary? Well, just one. As long as it’s the correct one, of course.’
    ‘Precisely! But when we come to look into these White-chapel murders, what do we find? Handfuls of theories! Theories by the score! One penny plain and tuppence coloured! Every man you meet has his own and every hour brings with it a fresh one. So let us try all these prolific hypotheses upon old William of Occam’s cutting edge. Are they necessary to explain the facts? They are not. Do they bring us any nearer to apprehending the criminal? They do not. Do they enable us to predict what he is likely to do in the future? No. Then what use are they? The answer, my dear Watson, is that they are of no use whatsoever to us, but of very great value to the murderer.’
    As Holmes expounded his argument, his tone grew more heated and his gestures correspondingly more intense. At length he leapt up from his chair and began to pace the floor.
    ‘I said that I had a clear idea of the kind of man he is, Watson. Perhaps now you begin to perceive the outlines. You must put all conventional notions out of your head. We are dealing with an artist of misdirection with an uncanny knack for manipulating the public mind. He knows that organ as well as any great musician knows his instrument, and he can make it play whatever medley of popular airs will best enshroud the augmented tones of his grim leitmotif . Is it any wonder then that Lestrade and company provoke my mirth? This Whitechapel killer is as far beyond their ken as Lassus’s polyphony is beyond the patrons of the Savoy Theatre. In fact, Watson – and I say this without the slightest immodesty – I very much doubt whether there is any man in London besides myself who is capable of cutting through this cunning devil’s webs of deception, to reveal the unholy genius at the heart of it all. He is truly a formidable