She paused for effect, placing her hands on her hips and thrusting out her chest theatrically.

"I'm going to catch the Slasher!"

This was worse than I feared.

"You are?" I queried, knowing full well I wouldn't like the answer to my next question. "And how exactly are you going to do that?"

Hettie perched herself on my desk and gave me her most winning smile.

"That's where you come in..."

My headache suddenly felt a lot worse.

I knew from the moment I met Hettie Stead that she would be the death of me. Up to that point my life had been proceeding according to plan. I'd used my contacts to sell my first story, secured my desk at The Examiner and greased enough palms to keep the gossip columns full. I was happy, filed my stories mostly on time and looked forward to frittering away my pay packet at the weekend. An easy life, that's all I wanted.

Chasing violent men twice my size through moonlit backstreets had never been part of the deal.

So why did I find myself doing just that? Oh, yes. Hettie.

My quarry tore down the lane, heavy boots pounding against the pavement. The face that glanced over his broad shoulder was not a handsome one. Piggy eyes stared out from beneath a thick brow, ragged whiskers erupting from a nose that had been broken one too many times.

Usually, trying to apprehend such a rogue would be the last thing on my mind. I mean, what exactly was I going to do with him if I succeeded? This was a man I'd just seen kicking another poor soul to death. I was sure it was only the element of surprise that had prompted him to flee in the first place. If he had taken the time to evaluate his pursuer, he'd soon have realised that I was no threat.

And yet Hettie had used that tone I never seemed able to ignore, a tone developed from years of expecting people to do what they were told.

"Get after him, George."

So I did.

My legs were burning as Broken Nose darted left, barrelling down the alley that ran along the back of Birstall Road. Even if I weren't still suffering from the excesses of the previous evening, my body wasn't built for this kind of punishment.

The only thing that kept me going was the thought of telling Hettie I'd let him escape, a prospect considerably more terrifying than the thought of wrestling this chap to the floor.

Thankfully, for once the universe seemed to smile down upon me. As Broken Nose reached the end of the road my salvation strode into view. A policeman, on his beat, crossing the junction ahead. G.o.d bless London's bluebottles.

Broken Nose spotted the newcomer and scrambled to a halt, not knowing where to run. Unfortunately, his indecision was so sudden that I didn't have time to react. Still running full pelt, I barged into my prey, knocking him flying and tumbling to the pavement myself. A boot smashed into my shoulder as Broken Nose tried to get away, my second stroke of luck as I'm pretty sure he had been aiming at my face. The sudden burst of pain stunned me for a second, but my part in his arrest had been played. Broken Nose had been well and truly nabbed by the long arm of the law.

"Calm down lad," the burly policeman was shouting even as he slammed Broken Nose into a brick wall. "What's all this about?"

"I've done nothing wrong, guv," the villain growled, struggling against the officer's grip. I knew differently.

"He's lying, constable," I wheezed, dragging myself back to my feet. "We saw him beating a man back on Greenfield Road. There were three of them, all laying into the chap."

"We?"

"Me and my friend, Hettie."

"And where is this Hettie, sir?"

"Back with the victim. He's badly -"

A scream cut me off mid-sentence. A girl's voice. Hettie's voice.

No! I should never have left her alone.

"Hettie!"

The plan had been predictably foolhardy. The Slasher had so far attacked eight women and two men, always between dusk and midnight. The police had failed to apprehend any suspects and tensions were running high along the terraced streets of the area. No one had been killed, but folk were understandably nervous about being on the streets at night.

Not so Henrietta Stead. She had decided to trap the Slasher by offering herself as bait. A young woman alone and vulnerable, waiting beneath the lamppost on the corner of Roselyn Road, a treat no self-respecting, razor-blade-fingered maniac could resist.

My job was to lie in wait, ready to pounce on the criminal as he struck. Simple, if reckless, traits shared by most of Hettie's schemes.

What we hadn't expected was happening across a bunch of rogues kicking the living daylights out of a chap beneath the selfsame lamppost. I'd been all for turning about and returning to the safety of the offices of The Examiner, but Hettie wasn't having any of it. Her defiant yell had scattered the mob and I had taken off after Broken Nose, leaving my friend alone with a badly beaten man.

Alone and vulnerable.

If anything had happened to her...

Accompanied by the sound of police whistles I tore back down Birstall Road, turning into Greenfield, already fearing the worst.

Then I saw Hettie, standing where I'd left her, the bodies still at her feet.

Wait a minute. Bodies? Plural?

"Hettie," I wheezed as I ran to her side, "what happened? I thought I heard you..."

The second body-the new body-let out a groan.

"George," she gasped, turning to me, a lock of her usually immaculate russet-brown hair hanging loose against her pale face, "he grabbed me as I was examining this unfortunate fellow." I glanced from the moaning figure to the man I'd hoped we had saved from the beating. It was obvious that we had been too late.

"What did you do?" I asked, pulling her into the gaslight to check for any razor-marks. Thankfully, while she looked a little dishevelled, my impetuous friend seemed unhurt.

"Why, hit him with this of course." Hettie raised the velvet chatelaine bag that usually hung from her waist. I took it from her and, surprised by its weight, flicked open the clasp.

"Since when have you taken to carrying around half a brick in your purse?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Since I've been offering myself up as a lamb for the slaughter," came the reply. "Do you think I'd put myself in peril without a means to defend myself?"

"I thought I was your means to defend yourself?"

The look I received for that comment told me everything I needed to know.

"What's going on here?" said a gruff voice behind me. I turned to see my fortuitous policeman from Seven Sisters Road, accompanied by a further two officers.

"My friend was attacked," I explained.

"By the Demon Slasher no less," Hettie cut in, her nose held high in victory, "who I have single-handedly managed to apprehend."

I couldn't help but think that the word "single-handedly" was aimed squarely in my direction.

"I hate to disappoint you, young lady," came a voice somewhere near our feet, "but I am no demon. I was merely attempting to stop you destroying vital evidence by moving the body."

The befuddled policeman pushed past me to help Hettie's victim to his feet. The stranger took the officer's arm gratefully, rising shakily to his feet, a trickle of blood running down from an angry-looking graze on his high forehead.

"Then who are you?" I asked, putting myself between Hettie and the fellow.

"I, sir, am Sherlock Holmes."

An hour later, Hettie was still apologising. Once the police had taken our statements, she had insisted that we take Holmes to the hospital to be checked over, but the detective refused. He had, however, been persuaded into accepting an early supper in a nearby hotel.

Hettie had taken this as evidence of her powers of persuasion, but I couldn't help but notice that Holmes had only agreed when she revealed she had already interviewed one of the Slasher's victims. I must admit it had come as news to me. Hettie had obviously been planning tonight's activities for days.

"Beatrice Kelly was the fourth woman to be attacked," Holmes was recalling, staring intently at my colleague, "on the Chiltern Works."

"That's right," Hettie replied, buzzing with excitement. "On Sunday the fifth. Her story matched the others exactly. The Slasher appeared out of nowhere when she was walking home."

"She was injured?"

"Not seriously. Apparently, she threw up her hand to protect herself and the blade pa.s.sed through her thick sleeve, only scratching her arm beneath."

"A lucky escape," Holmes mused. "And you believe her account?"

Hettie frowned. "Well, she showed me the clothes she was wearing at the time. They were cut to ribbons."

"And the scratch upon her arm?"

"Healed, but still visible."

"Why wouldn't Hettie believe her?" I asked, only to be ignored. I was beginning to feel like the proverbial gooseberry.

"So you are investigating the Slasher, Mr Holmes?" Hettie asked, unable to keep the obvious hero worship from her voice.

"It's true I have accepted the case," Holmes replied, taking a sip from his gla.s.s of medicinal brandy. "Usually I wouldn't give much credence to such sensationalism, although I have been following the story in the morning papers, including your own."

"Wait a minute," I interjected, "how did you know we are journalists?"

Holmes finally looked at me, although his expression was of complete bemus.e.m.e.nt.

"Mr Rayne, while I have received a blow to the head, I am not deaf," Holmes replied coldly, leaving me none the wiser.

"You told Constable Terry who we were," prompted Hettie, her look warning me not to embarra.s.s her. "And who we worked for. Remember?"

"Oh, yes." I nodded as if it had been obvious all along. "I just a.s.sumed it was part of your turn."

Holmes' face darkened.

"My... turn?"

"You know, your act." My head knew I should stop talking, but my mouth had yet to take the hint. "Impressing us with your observations and deductions." I leant in, feigning an air of brotherly conspiracy, hoping Holmes would see in me a kindred spirit rather than a young fool woefully out of his depth. I'm ashamed to say I even added a wink. "I've read Dr Watson's stories. I know how this works."

"Do you indeed?" If Holmes' tone had been frosty before, it was positively Antarctic now. "What a relief not to have to impress anyone, especially you."

I laughed and leant back in my chair, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the baleful glare that Hettie was no doubt casting over me. I willed myself to shut up, realising I'd gone too far, knowing that no good would come of continuing the conversation. At this point in the proceedings Georgie-boy needed to be seen and not heard.

"Besides, I doubt there's little you could deduce from me anyway."

Georgie-boy was an imbecile.

Holmes smiled, although the expression didn't reach his eyes.

"You're right. Nothing whatsoever. You, Mr Rayne, are a closed book. Save for the fact that you overslept this morning and were no doubt late for work. If I was performing my turn I would probably enquire if you enjoyed your lunch of beetroot sandwiches and advise you to purchase a new pen."

Yes, yes, I thought, forcing myself to grin like idiot, very good. You've put me in my place. Shall we return to the mystery in hand now? Unfortunately it appeared that while Sherlock Holmes was a man of rare talents, his abilities didn't include mind reading.

"Then there is the question of what led a footman such as yourself to leave service and move to Fleet Street in the first place? Or why you have never made your feelings known to the woman you love?"

I have no idea how long I sat there, feeling my cheeks colour and my heart sink. It felt as if the entire world had paused, waiting for a witty retort worthy of a man in my profession. I wouldn't say I hated Holmes at that moment, but I'd be lying if the thought of wiping that smug sneer off his grey face didn't cross my mind.

The detective held my gaze for a second longer than was tolerable and turned his attention back to Hettie, who, to her credit, was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Where was I? Ah yes," Holmes continued, barely pausing for breath, "I have been hired by a guild representing the local businesses of the area. It appears the nocturnal activities of the so-called Slasher are having rather a negative effect on trade. The streets of South Tottenham are considered too dangerous to walk alone."

"As we witnessed tonight..." Hettie commented, her expression grave. "That poor man..."

"The mania caused by the attacks has reached fever pitch. When an innocent fellow is kicked to death by a mob of blood-thirsty vigilantes just because his face isn't known in the area..."

Holmes let his words hang, the memory of the man's b.l.o.o.d.y corpse on the corner of Roselyn Road still painfully fresh in our minds. Terrance Rudge had been a pa.s.sing tradesman, whose only crime had been to cross the path of a drunken group of locals who had taken to patrolling the streets to protect their women folk from the Slasher. He'd paid with his life. Suddenly the events in Seven Sisters had taken a somewhat more sinister turn. Someone had died, not at the hands of a razor-wielding phantom, but a band of scared, paranoid locals.

"What about the police?" Hettie asked. "Have they any leads?"

"Unfortunately not. I have conferred with a colleague at Scotland Yard and they simply do not have the manpower to investigate further."

"But that's dreadful," Hettie exclaimed, appalled at what she was hearing. "People around here are terrified."

"Indeed they are, but no lives have been lost-until tonight that is. Trust me Miss Stead, our law enforcers have enough problems without chasing after ghosts and goblins."

"So you think that the Slasher is of supernatural origin, then?" I asked, only to be rewarded by another of Holmes' icy glares.

"You claim to have read my friend's accounts, Mr Rayne?"

"I have, sir."