must act as my own chronicler in this singular case, that of the Whitechapel murders of 1888. For the way in which the affair was dropped upon my doorstep left me with little choice as to the contrary. Not twelve months prior, the siren's call of quiet domesticity and married life had robbed me of Watson's assistance as both partner and recorder of my cases. Thus, when detective inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard required a lead-any lead-I found myself forced to pursue Jack the Ripper alone and without the aid of my faithful friend. And all for the most damnedable of reasons:

Early on in my investigations, Dr. John H. Watson, formerly of 221b Baker Street, emerged as my prime suspect.