My dear Harrow,
Pray permit me to occupy a portion of your time with a few lines which, though personal in their nature, nonetheless carry with them a disquiet I believe to be of broader concern.
I have followed, with increasing attention, the events in Whitechapel—not only through accounts conveyed to me by mutual acquaintances, but above all through the manner in which they have been treated by the press, both here and across the Atlantic. It is precisely this latter aspect that compels me to write to you.
What one observes, with ever greater frequency, is not an honest effort at understanding, but a lamentable inclination toward sensationalism. Men are described, pointed out, almost condemned, on the basis of mere impressions and fragile testimony. There lingers in the air a troubling haste to name a culprit—any culprit—as though that alone might suffice to restore the order so brutally disturbed.
I fear, my dear Harrow, that such a disposition may yield not justice, but error; and not infrequently, irreparable error.
If you will allow me a measure of frankness, the greater danger now presenting itself may lie not solely in the man who wields the blade, but also in the crowd which, inflamed by imprecise reports, may come to take justice into its own hands. There are already no small number of indications that innocent individuals are beginning to bear the weight of suspicions that ought never to have fallen upon them.
It is a prospect that causes me profound unease.
I am aware that you find yourself, as it were, close to the very heart of these events, and that you possess faculties of observation and discernment of no common order. For that reason, I venture to address to you an appeal which, under other circumstances, I might have refrained from expressing so directly:
Put an end to these crimes.
Not only for the horror they represent in themselves, but for the consequences that are already beginning to radiate from them—consequences which, I fear, may extend far beyond the confines of Whitechapel.
I have the impression—and I readily admit it may be mere conjecture—that behind all this there lies an intelligence that comprehends not only the act it commits, but also the effect it will produce. If I am correct, then we are dealing not merely with a criminal, but with someone who foresees and perhaps exploits the reactions he provokes.
If that be the case, every error committed in his pursuit will serve only to strengthen him.
Pray forgive the length of this letter. I felt, however, that silence, at such a moment, would amount to a form of negligence.
With esteem and sincere concern,
Conan Doyle