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in the news for several years, and many experts speculated that he had either left the country or committed suicide. So what was Scotland Yard doing looking for him now in Mornington-Crescent? His prowl had been the unfortunate streets of Whitechapel.
    Undoubtedly there had been a murder, but why even suspect Jack the Ripper? God knows, there had been several hundred cheap imitations of the man’s style in the past two years alone, if The Times were to be believed. But how could the police be so certain that the grisliest killer of them all was at it again? Wells shuddered. He knew
that they knew. He possessed absolutely no knowledge of criminology, but he had an intelligent respect for Scotland Yard. If their detectives said that Jack the Ripper was in the neighborhood, chances were, he was. Wells understood that and regretted the manner in which he had treated Adams and Duggan. He sighed again and thought that the detectives’ visit was actually a blessing for he knew that his house was safe. He turned and read the clock on the desk. Ten minutes to seven. The fire had gone out and there was no more claret. It was time he retired.
    Just then Mrs. Nelson called out to him from the hall by the front door. “Mr. Wells? Did Dr. Stephenson go with the others?”
    â€œOf course he did.”
    â€œDid you actually see him leave?”
    â€œMrs. Nelson—”
    â€œWhy would he leave his cape and bag in the cupboard? He couldn’t have left.”
    â€œThe police just searched the house, Mrs. Nelson! There’s no one here but you and I.” Just after he had spoken, he realized that he was probably wrong. He bolted up out of his chair and hurried into the hall.
    Mrs. Nelson was white with fear. She was holding up Stephenson’s cape and staring at it aghast. She glanced at Wells, then pointed to the hem of the garment. He frowned, for he did not immediately see the object of her concern.
    â€œWhat, Mrs. Nelson?”
    â€œBloodstains, Mr. Wells.”
    He took the cape from her, inspected it more closely and did indeed find several brown spots on the wool. Only a person as meticulous as Mrs. Nelson would have noticed them in the first place.
    He hung the garment up again in the cupboard, then pulled the leather physician’s bag down from the shelf and stared at it for a
long moment. When he finally moved to open it, Mrs. Nelson shrank back against the wall. He looked up at her. “Shouldn’t you be fixing us some breakfast, Mrs. Nelson?”
    She nodded, then hurried out of the hall. He watched her leave. When he heard the door to the kitchen close, he turned back to the bag, unsnapped the hasp and slowly pushed the sides apart. His heart pounded. He exhaled in a long hiss while lifting some bloodstained rags out of the bag. He dropped them on the floor and leaned farther forward. Under the rags was a collection of stainless-steel surgical knives that glittered brightly even though no direct light was hitting them. An odor penetrated his nose. It reminded him of a childhood Sunday morning when his father was butchering chickens behind the shop for the evening meal. He pinched his nostrils shut with his fingers and breathed through his mouth to avoid gagging.
    There was a small tin in one corner of the bag. With his other hand he reached inside and lifted the top off the tin. He gasped and lurched back.
    The police had been right about Jack the Ripper, for the tin contained a finger, a kidney and two eyes.
    Wells quickly jammed the rags back inside the bag, snapped it shut, then stood and pushed it into the cupboard with his foot. He closed the door and leaned against it. His jaw muscles worked furiously. So, Dr. Leslie John Stephenson, former classmate and journeyman surgeon, had been doubling as Jack the Ripper all these years. H.G. felt cold and shuddered. Who would have known? The man always had seemed bright, articulate and socially graceful. Yet, H.G. had noticed a quiet,