Sherlock Holmes: (1888) Autumn of Blood

Jack the Ripper is not the only blood-soaked fiend at work
in London.
There are others.
In the festering alleys of Whitechapel, a habitual murderer is at work slashing women of the night to death and mutilating their remains. As the body count rises, local and national newspapers heap scorn on the Metropolitan Police and their hapless commissioner, Sir Charles Warren.
Gory descriptions of the victims' wounds are published, illustrated with images drawn as much from the artists' imaginations as from witness testimony. The vaunted Scotland Yard sleuths are helpless, and the murderer sends them taunting messages in blood red letters signed Saucy Jack.
And what of Sherlock Holmes? Is the foremost private consulting detective in the world standing aloof as the capital of the Empire is paralyzed by the nameless terror stalking its streets?
Here, for the first time, is my account of those dreadful days and nights in that blood-soaked autumn of 1888.

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