“Never heard of him,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor.

“Your superiors have; they placed this case file in his hands, and I am dealing with it now.” Will placed the envelope upon the miserable desk, the constable turned it towards himself and gave it a peering at.

“The Ripper,” said he, and then he began to laugh.

“Why do you laugh?” Will asked. “This is no laughing matter.”

“I laugh,” said the constable, “because we’ve already caught the blighter. Less than an hour ago. We have him banged up in the cells even now. That’s why I laugh.”

“You have caught Jack the Ripper?”

“Didn’t give up without a struggle. Took four officers to bring him down.”

“And you have him in custody? Here? Now?”

“Down below in the cells. Presently being interrogated by Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott.”

“Samuel Maggott?” said Will. “Of DOCS?”

“Docs?” asked the constable. “I wouldn’t know about any docs. The fiend might need a doctor by the time we’ve finished with him though. Doesn’t seem too keen to confess to his evil crimes.”

“But you’re sure you have the right man? How can you be sure?”

“Covered in blood, he was. And raving too. Well he was at the time, when we caught him. ‘I did it’, he shouted. ‘I had to. God made me do it.’ Can you imagine that? God made him do it? That’s a new one, ain’t it?”

“It will stand the test of time,” said Will. “Can I see him?”

“See him? Why would you want to see him?”

“Because I was assigned to this case. Look, there’s a letter in this envelope. Passing the case on to Mr Holmes. He passed it on to me.”

“A lot of passing about,” said the constable. “That’s not how things are done through official channels.”

“Yes it is,” said Will. “That’s always how it’s done.”

“Is it?” asked the constable. “Well, nobody’s ever told me. All I ever get is orders from above.”

Will paused.

“Oh I see,” said the constable. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Then I can see the suspect?”

“The murderer, you mean.”

“The murderer, then.”

“Well,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor, and he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a significant fashion. “I don’t know. Just letting anyone in. That might be more than my job’s worth. I just don’t know.”

Will reached into his pocket and brought out a golden guinea. “See this,” he said.

“I do,” said the constable.

“Then take me to the murderer’s cell and perhaps I’ll show it to you again.”

“This way, sir,” said the constable and he raised a depressing flap upon his miserable desk and led Will down to the cells.

The down-to-the-cells way was all that Will might have expected, had he been expecting it: dark, dank, damp and dripping stone walls; sounds of steel doors clanging in the distance, horrid smells, slimy steps.

“Like the decor?” asked the constable. “We’ve just had it redecorated. Chap off the wireless. Laurence Llewellyn-Morris.”

“Very, er, atmospheric,” said Will, stepping over something vile that lay upon a step.

“A bit too modern for my taste,” said the constable. “I prefer things traditional. Can’t be having with this trendy stuff. It was all aluminium tiles and pine decking down here before.”

“Please lead on,” said Will. “I’m becoming confused.”

“We’ve had them all down here,” said the constable, as he led on. “Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, Sawney Bean, the Galloway cannibal; the Count of Monte Cristo, the Prisoner of Cell Block H. And the Prisoner, of course, played by Patrick McGoohan.”

“What?” said Will.

“I’m a member of the fan club,” said the constable. “Six of One; you get a badge and everything. I’d send away for the t-shirt, but they’re a bit expensive.”

“Chief,” said Barry. “There’s something very wrong here, we should be going, I think.”

“I know what you mean,” Will whispered.

“Oh and Hannibal Lecter,” said the constable. “He’s a real terror. We have to keep him in a straitjacket with a leather mask, or he’ll bite your face off. Happened to Constable Colby last week. He was token policewoman; took the mask off to give Mr Lecter’s teeth a clean. Bad mistake that.”

“Away, chief,” said Barry. “Now.”

“I think I’d like to see the prisoner,” said Will.

“Mr McGoohan, your lordship?”

“No, Jack the Ripper.”

“That’s what you’re,” the constable tapped at his nose, “you know, bribing me for.”

“It’s official business,” said Will. “But you will be recompensed for your trouble.”

“That’s it, your lordship ‘Recompensed’. Good word, that.”

“Please just lead the way,” said Will. And the constable continued with his way-leading.

“Now down here,” he said, “there used to be all big cells, very spacious, en-suite bathrooms and that kind of thing, but Mr Llewellyn-Morris split them up, made them more down-market. Newgate chic, he called it. Retro-look. Ah, here we are. Would you like to go in?”

They had stopped before an iron door, an iron door with one of those little grilles upon it with the sliding panel that you can move aside to have a peep into the cell and a good old gloat if you’re that way inclined.

“Could I just have a peep through the little grille?” Will asked.

“Certainly, your lordship. And have a good old gloat too if you wish. I always do. The captured villain on the inside, the good fellow on the outside, that’s always worthy of a good old gloat in my opinion.”

“A peep,” said Will. “I’m not ready for a gloat just yet.”

“Please yourself,” said the constable. “And I suppose that really you don’t have anything to gloat about. After all, you didn’t catch Jack the Ripper. I did.”

“You said it took four of you.”

“But I caught him. Wandering in the street, burbling like a mad man. Covered in blood from head to toe. I’ll take the credit. My name will go down in history for this.”

“Well done,” said Will, but not with enthusiasm.

“So have a little peep, your lordship, and then we’ll settle up.” And the constable rubbed his thumb and forefinger together once more.

“Indeed we will.”

The constable pushed the little sliding panel aside and Will peered through the grille and into the cell.

Within the tiny wretched-looking cell sat two men, either side of a table, one the suspect, the other Chief Inspector Samuel Maggot.

Will viewed the suspect. He was strapped into a straitjacket. There was much blood upon the straitjacket. There was much blood upon the suspect also. It was clotted into his hair. It was all around the edges of his face also. The suspect’s face was contorted, madly contorted.

“It wasn’t me,” he was yelling. “You don’t understand,” he was yelling. “You have to do something,” he was yelling also.

The suspect’s yelling hurt Will’s ears. And Will’s face made a very pained expression. But it wasn’t the yelling that did it. It was the suspect.

Will stared at the suspect and Will’s mouth opened.

“Chief,” said Barry. “I see that. Do you see that?”

“I see that,” Will whispered.

“But chief, it’s … it’s …”

“It’s me, Barry,” said Will. “That man in the cell is me!”