The Adventure of Black Drop

By Radkris

A gunshot leaves a dead man in an East End alley. A beautiful woman lies dead on the lawns of Windsor Castle. The only certain aspect of a beadles death is its precipitation by gravity. A mere bump into a gentleman sends an old man to his death amidst Piccadillys evening throngs. Did the gunshot echo through time and claim the three other souls or had their time simply run out? One mans calibre matches these crimes.
A mathematicians ingenious deviance compounds Londons smog as he surpasses his past transgressions and discovers the means to control the future. But his plan is plagued by one man brave enough to play in the web in his criminal parlour.
Coerced to alter his modus operandi, this man works on more than one case simultaneously, navigating smoke and mirrors, while trying to earn back a trusted friend, trusting reluctantly in a mysterious Indian and evading death at every corner of London.
Can this man emerge a victor in a fight to save something as whimsical as the future of the world?
But above all else, will he emerge alive body, mind and soul?
Who is this man? He is
Sherlock Holmes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456780548

Radkris

Radkris pays tribute to his father, a veteran policeman, and homage to Sherlock Holmes, his hero in literature, by brewing imagination in this novel and distilling it with exactitude ingrained by his scientific vocation. Radkris also seems to have attempted to learn 'the trick’, but he humbly entrusts the reader with this assessment.

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© 2011 RADKRIS. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/06/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8053-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8055-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8054-8 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, Professor Moriarty and Irene Adler created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, are used here by kind permission of Jonathan Clowes Limited., on behalf of Ms. Andrea Plunket, Administrator of the Conan Doyle Copyrights, and Mr. Jon Lellenberg on behalf of Conan Doyle Estate Ltd.

Copyright © 2011

U.S. Copyright Office

For the man who, with a swing of his sword,

Gives flesh to moving words I read in a book –

‘L’homme c’est rien. L’oeuvre c’est tout’, *

My Father.

And for the woman who, with a caress of her hand,

Gives life to a withering emotion rare to sight –

‘Mon homme est tout, l’oeuvre est mon homme’ **

My Mother.

To the man: By mightier pen or by mighty sword, I shall meet your expectations.

To the woman: In my final chapter, I hope not to disappoint.

*    The man is nothing, the work is everything ¹

**    My man is everything, the work is my man

1    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

l’Homme n’est rien l’Oeuvre tout *

- Gustave Flauber

It is easy to assume a habit; but when you try to cast it off, it will take skin and all.

- H. W. Shaw

*     The man is nothing, the work everything

Contents

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

About the Author:

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

DEAR PATRON,

I begin with a series of those questions which this missive endeavours to answer, before I delve into my motive for penning the following.

• How does one stop a man who is in possession of means to control the future?

• Who would have the courage to break into Newgate Prison and the strength to shatter stone walls, all to save the Queen?

• Who could be as quick of wit as to survive the implosion of a perfectly safe London Underground?

• Who is of sufficient calibre to solve the death of the Queen’s niece at Windsor Castle, that of a beadle in his workhouse and that of an old man walking down crowded Piccadilly Street in the evening?

• How does one reanimate the skeleton of a mammoth, 40 years after its death?

A most ‘Lazarus’ effort has been undertaken in the revival of this magazine, considering it was laid to rest from public circulation a good ninety years ago. A slew of other periodicals and characters have fought to exercise control over this spot in the public’s eye, but have failed to accomplish what Lippincot and its most cherished hero had. The previous editor of this magazine had held true to his office and earned its pride before pulling the magazine off the press and stepping down, for reasons out of the scope of this letter.

The workhouses in which one may have found this magazine read and reread are gone. Child labour has been extinguished. The smog that once cast London in an eternal shade and rendered human life insalubrious, while simultaneously being proof of the rapid progress of human industry, has now been blown away by sense and sensibility. Of course, the irony is not lost that this change was brought about by the products of the very industrial revolution that had caused it. The vanity and the stiff upper lip of the Victorian society have been replaced by an atmosphere conducive to human warmth.

Despite its outlook being brighter, Sherlock Holmes still refuses to pale in the light of this changing world where its insight instills more restraint and its crimes have evolved in sophistication. Lippincot’s evergreen hero shines through the hustle and bustle of life today, shining into the hearts of the young and the old alike, inspiring and awing them. The recording of Holmes’ works by Dr Watson, his friend, philosopher and chronicler, has proved this historian a visionary. The accounts of Holmes’ cases have found their way onto the walls of many of those actively pursuing the law or reinforcing it from behind their desks.

Holmes’ methods, however, have not passed adjudged by biased personnel. As the editor, I ask you, how many would readily answer the calls that this missive highlights at the very beginning. How many would be of the right calibre to endure such calls? How would you set out to solve those puzzles?

I have been asked to helm this second coming for I am considered a patron of any man who upholds the law. I do not toot my own horn, but feel such a forceful introduction necessary to add weight to the following string of words that will recount to you one of Holmes’ adventures, from his vault, which I handpicked to show his discretion in utilizing physical force and employing intellectual acuity, the extent of his mental prowess, his human facet and his humility.

Holmes is however wrong, repeatedly on one count. He would definitely be repulsed by this long missive, but I deem it indispensable, for not all of us are blessed with minds that absorb unembellished facts and process them towards a climax that can be savoured. Some of us need to be entertained.

Yours divinely,

St. Michael.

Archangel and Patron saint of men of the law.

CHAPTER 1

LONDON, 1894

EAST END

‘HEAVENLY DESCENT’ - THE brass letters shone proudly through the thin fog that was slowly rolling in. The gas lampposts, which were already considered relics by the rest of London, still lit the way faintly for anyone unfortunate to be in the vicinity. And before the gathering fog could conceal the subterranean alcove that the wooden signboard signified, one distant figure broke the smoky wall at the end of the street and walked toward the flight of stairs that would lead into apparent heaven.

A male, insofar as a study of silhouettes can reveal, more crept along the walls of the annexes, feeling his way down the street. It was one of those nights when inexplicable fog threatened to swallow one, if unaware. The male avoided loose cobble-stones and strewn bottles which either any carefree soul would have kicked out of the way for amusement or an angry one for venting. He held a newspaper folded in half in his hand, the news already extracted. In the illumination from one of the gas lamps, the headline illustrated the glorious recovery of one of the Queen’s most prized possessions and a picture portrayed half the face of a famous, rather reclusive detective responsible for the case’s successful conclusion reported by the papers.

The male proceeded cautiously, looking over his shoulder once in a while, moving closer to some source of music that would have otherwise soothed him - it was not the fog he was concerned about, rather about what would come out of it if his stars were not aligned. The fiddle against the strings of the violin was mellifluous and the song that floated forth was melodious.

A gaunt, bent man appeared out of nowhere and by the time the male turned his attention to the road ahead, he almost stumbled upon the figure seated on the wet street and huddled against the wall of a decrepit building. The violin was against the violinist’s chin, who appeared to have played the tune more than once before and the tune was against the pedestrian’s ears who appeared to have heard the song before at his previous master’s house. It was something called ‘Barcarolle’ or the other. He had not paid as much attention to its name as to the music itself. But soon the tune was out of reach as he reached the top of Heavenly Descent.

Fourteen stairs, each six inches high; this was the depth to which Heavenly Descent was sunk beneath the thoroughfare of the pious Londoner. Climbing down this flight, the male descended toward the door and fishing out a key, turned the tumblers in the lock and swung the door open, staring at what seemed like the image one would view of the street were one on the other side of the doorway. But the difference was, instead of loose cobblestones and strewn bottles, the floor was littered with people in various states of oblivion, but never in possession of complete consciousness. And the fog was made not of water-vapour, rather of the dense swirling smoke of exhaled opium.

The basement was suffocating, but only to those who remained grounded on earth – like the male, who under the sufficient light in the room could be discerned as a teen, a typical young man of London who had fallen onto evil ways early on to fend for himself. To those already floating towards heaven on the opiate air, their soiled mattresses and the pipes sticking out of their lips, like the umbilical of some invisible womb that ensconced these hapless adults, looked a world unto itself.

Closing the door behind him, the young man tracked his way through the patrons of the opium den. And that night too, he failed to see a breathing soul with a sallow complexion and high cheekbones that made their eyes diminutive. He was starting to question what he heard on the streets above about this evil, a force from the East, clinching the unsuspecting Englanders. He cleared his head and carried on until the thick, black damasks of the den, which purported to lend it feigned opulence, gave way to peeling plaster and finally bare brick which served its true purpose of harbouring this social evil from the prying, judging eyes of gentry. A small door checked the young man’s progress.

The young man rapped on the door twice.

There is no one here but him who will blow your head off if you approach with some mischief in mind! It was the voice and not the words that lent weight to the threat, in complete contrast to the timorous sound that escaped the young man as he answered.

It’s me sir, David.

There was a slight commotion behind the door - the faint noise of a table scraping against the wall and the sound of an ill-managed metal hinge yielding to a reluctant pull of the hand. A second later, the door opened and a man with the best smile one could find in East End opened the door.

Welcome David. Ready for the night’s errand?

Yes Mr Mulroney .

Good. Mulroney waved David into his office and closing the door, took his place behind his small desk. He reached under the desk and pulled out two rectangular packets, tightly bound and reluctantly dropped onto the desk.

Mulroney eyed the packets, with some contempt at an entity not in the room, and threw one of the packets over to David. This is for the black drop… he said, and throwing over the other just as David pocketed the first, Mulroney continued …and this is for paying off the copper.

David nodded. He secured the two packets in the inner-pockets of his coat and turned to exit when Mulroney stopped him with a caution.

The money you are holding is not the price of tonight’s transaction, but that of your life. You lose the money, I will have its worth. And I don’t care if the money is pried from your cold dead hands by you know who, I will kill you again. Understood?

Yes Mr Mulroney said David, his voice more timorous than earlier and exited the office sweating despite the cold.

If there were a path that changed course every instant one’s back was turned on it, it was the one through the opium addicts that littered the floor. In the few minutes David was with Mulroney, at least three more people had arrived and were looking for a place to begin their descent to heaven. And despite the uniformity of their appearance – disheveled hair, soiled clothing and unshaven chins, one man stood out or rather appeared out of the ordinary. It was his eyes which glinted with some purpose, eyes which rested above a nose, the shape of which was distorted by a thick moustache and a long beard that covered his mouth. The eyes were as attentive as a hunter’s, when he hunted grouse in the autumn-befallen English woods. And he rested these eyes on David’s back as he opened the door that took him back out onto the street in East End again.

The fog had slightly cleared up when the man with the hunter’s gaze left the opium den. His head barely cleared the fourteenth step when David turned the way he came. The night was now host to songs without words, the Bacarolle having ended a while ago. The violinist’s attention was not toward his violin, but toward the boy who had crossed him earlier, and yet there was not one errant note. A few notes later, another man emerged from the depths of East End. The violinist could see that he was a man addicted, who strode with purpose nonetheless. And by the time the violinist decided the night was too cold for his dexterous yet numb fingers to move to his will, the addict had turned the corner after David.

Silent as a ghost, spry as a cat and relentless as a shadow, the man from the opium den followed David through well nigh half of East End. And never once did David, comforted by sight offered him by the thinning fog, turn his attention over his shoulder. This mysterious man’s actions defied those that a man lost to reality would exhibit, begging the question: did this man even smoke opium? If not, what could have prompted him to remain hidden in plain sight either resisting the temptation to inhale some, or bearing the decadence around him?

But just then, the follower faltered in his step. Whether it was due to the delayed reaction of the opium or because David suddenly spun around and decided to survey the street behind, the violinist had a hard time deciding. And had David performed this intelligent act but a few moments earlier, the follower would have been made. But now, approaching a busy intersection, David could not tell one stranger’s intent from another’s purpose in the crowded street and there was no bearded patron of the opium den in the population he surveyed.

A traffic policeman was busy at his job at the middle of the cross-roads. He was operating a semaphore and just then, he signalled the pedestrians to cross the road. David, caught in the sudden release of men and women and children held back by a light from reaching their destinations at their will, turned his attention to the crossing in front of him. He hurried across the road and waited on the other side to appease his sudden suspicion.

The signal changed and the slew of cabs that were held at bay now rolled down the road, the cabbies whipping their horses to a start. David peered through the gaps in the procession and spotted no one interested in him on the other side. There were only two pedestrians – a huge English gentleman with a top hat, but he was interested in the newspaper he was reading in the bright light of a nearby electric lamppost, and a violinist who was looking around for something. Neither was interested in some poor messenger who held his life in his hands.

The traffic policeman pulled a lever at the base of the semaphore and changed the signal again. The cabs stopped and the large Englishman crossed the street while the violinist remained motionless.

The gentleman tucked his newspaper under his arm and tipped his hat to the policeman who returned the courtesy and changed the signal. Making sure he was not being followed, David continued on his errand. The cabs proceeded and just as the last in the procession cleared the semaphore, its door opened and the bearded man from the opium den stepped out and crossed the street.

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The alley was dimly lit and deserted, not unlike the other alleys that broke the street. However, this was one with a dead end, covered with a brick wall which the light from the lamppost at the entrance did not reach, casting it in darkness. It was at the entrance of this alley that David stood resolute, swelling his lungs with air copious enough to steady his knees.

David proceeded cautiously down the alley and stopped just shy of the wall of blackness. He glanced up and a moment later, he could make out the top of the brick wall in the light from a nearby second floor window. The third alley, on the right; the one with the brick wall at the end, Mulroney had told him. But he was not there to learn the intricate maze that was the streets of London. He was there to perform a transaction, but his counterpart had failed to show up. David decided to face the misplaced anger of Mulroney rather than sit in the alley defenseless.

A voice, soft and light to the extent of conveying menace, emanated from the dark section of the alley and stopped David’s return.

Have you got it? the voice asked David.

David was stunned. He turned around slowly, but he saw nothing. Whoever was speaking was not intending to enter the light.

Yes. Have you? asked David, his non-incumbent stutter resurfacing.

The voice replied, still menacing to hear, You seem new at this.

So do you replied David. Where is Winston?

That’s Officer Winston to you greenhorn! shouted the voice. As much as it was soft and light earlier and conveyed intended menace, it was hard and heavy now conveying immediate threat prompting David to take a few steps back.

The voice continued, in a much neutral tone now, All you need to know about him is that his brothers considered this route a bit overwhelming for him. Now, what about you?

David’s stammer got the upper hand. My boss sends a new one every day. He’s afraid of the opium den killer.

Aren’t you?

Only of losing the money replied David, trying to sound brave.

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David was not alone with the voice in the alley. And had he known of the presence of the man who had followed him from the opium den, hidden from view at the entrance to the alley, he might have been a mite more confident without any grounds for such a feeling towards a man who had pursued him so covertly. Such was the terror that the invisible antagonist in the shadow now inspired in David.

The follower pressed himself against the wall as closely as possible and allowed himself one small peek into the alley to assess the situation. As soon as he spotted David standing at the other end, with his back to the entrance, the follower withdrew. He strained his ears to listen to the conversation that reached him in faint doses in the silence of the night. The moment the money was mentioned, the follower slipped a hand under his coat and drew out a weapon. He stood tense, poised for action in an instant and listened.

Had the follower known of the presence of the violinist standing at the corner of the street behind him, peering through the quasi-darkness, he would not have pulled out his weapon thereby exposing his intent to cause harm.

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Did you make sure you weren’t followed? asked the man in the shadow, a small concern evident in his voice.

I’m sure said David as he pulled out one of the packets in his coat and threw it into the shadow. Without stammering he continued, That’s for you. Make sure it’s all there.

A silent moment passed. David could hear a rustle in the shadows.

Throw me the money for the black drop demanded the voice.

David’s hand clasped the second packet of money in his coat tightly and held it closer to his chest. His stammer returned. He had now come to the difficult part of his job – returning home alive.

No. You’ve made it so we have to buy this stuff from you. You even know where we open shop. Throw me your bag first. Delivering his employer’s ultimatum only served David in holding his breath rather than breathing easy.

The voice became soft and light once again. I can’t, it said.

David readied himself to spring out of the alley at the first feeling of trouble. His indecision was only worsened by the fact that he could not see what was going on just a few feet in front of him.

Why…. Why? stuttered David.

Because in one hand, I am holding my pay-off and in the other, I am holding my gun returned the voice.

David’s face became a mask of fear. And as if to signify the volatile position he was in, a light vapour of fog rolled across the entrance to the alley. If he stayed in the alley, he would be shot to death. If he returned without the money of the black drop, he would suffer a similar fate at Mulroney’s hand. He had to decide soon.

Don’t kill me please. You can have the money pleaded David, having decided to try his luck in the moments between his escape from the alley and feeling the clutch of Mulroney around his neck. He reached for the second packet of money inside his coat.

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The follower at the entrance was assessing the situation and determining the possible outcomes when his job was made much easier. He heard the threat from the shadow and the moment he heard David’s plea, the follower sprang into action. He sprinted into the alley, clutching the weapon in his hand – a gun with a long nozzle. He raised his gun and aimed at the man in the shadow who was still speaking to David.

The moment the follower disappeared into the alley, the violinist sprinted toward the spot the follower had just vacated.

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Inside the alley, time slowed considerably for all involved.

No the voice responded decidedly to David’s plea as the follower fired his first shot into the shadow.

This shot was not much louder than a muffled cough and the sound was even masked by the follower’s rapid footsteps. But his aim must have been off for the bullet never even sailed into the shadow. It broke the cobblestone at David’s feet, who heard neither the gunshot nor the man running in to attack his future murderer – he already had purgatory in his sight.

The second shot fired in the alley that night was loud and typical. It was made sonorous by the confining walls of the dark alley. The follower was lifted off his feet and landed spread-eagled on his back and lay still.

The violinist was not fast enough to witness the shooting in the alley. It happened when he was halfway to the entrance to the alley. But it didn’t matter. The moment he heard the loud cough and the subsequent gun-shot, he turned and bounded away into the night, violin in one hand, fiddle in the other.

David, finally shocked into possession of his faculties, turned around in surprise at the thud of the body hitting the ground behind him and then turned his attention toward the shadow in front of him, half anxious and completely stunned. But neither voice nor visage broke the cover of darkness. Instead, a thin wisp of smoke emerged floating upwards, and breaking this wisp out flew a bag which landed at his feet.

Once the echo of the bullet died down, the voice spoke again. Guardian angels don’t always take a bullet for you. Now, throw me the money!

David complied. The packet was snagged inside his coat and he kept yanking at it until by the replacement of realization with fear, failing to see that it was in fact his balled-up fist that was the deterrent, he ripped off half of his coat and threw the packet into the shadow. But even after delivering the final payment, he did not feel secure enough to turn his back on the shadow. Instead, he kept staring at the bag at his feet.

Faint but shrill whistles sounded in the distance and were starting to draw progressively closer to the alley.

David! The voice called his attention, but now it came from atop the brick wall. Its manifestation was wearing a cloak, large boots and the silhouette of a bobby cap was prominent. The insignia of the London Police on the cap glinted in the light from the nearby window as he looked down at the shaken boy looking up at him.

Looks like my brothers are coming in fast. Time to run, little boy. Saying so, the man on the brick jumped down the other side of the wall, his arms outstretched and his money clutched in one hand and his gun in the other.

David looked at the bobby cap sinking rapidly behind the wall, took another look at the man who was fallen dead behind him and was thoroughly confused about the roles these two men had played in this short event during one night of his life. The whistles grew shriller and David more alert, however not alert enough to choose to leave the dead man’s gun behind and remember to pick up the bag that had come sailing out of the darkness; a bag that would have set his place in eternity swimming in a polluted river, a little farther off; a bag, the contents of which were the precursor of many a grave event to come.

CHAPTER 2

THE POLICEMEN DID THEIR best to prevent civilians from entering the scene of the crime - a man shot to death in an alley. Constable Morris had received express orders from his inspector to prevent the contamination of the crime scene at any cost. The inspector had learnt this lesson time and again from a man considered to have the last word on criminology.

Constable Morris! cried Lestrade above the din caused by the crowd. Put two more men on crowd control he continued as he bumbled into the alley, adjusting his coat and top hat after fighting his way through the throng.

That was mighty quick of you sir said Morris.

Pleased at the compliment, Lestrade said, It’s a matter of communication Morris. Now, off you go.

Lestrade proceeded toward the body and squatted down beside it. He took his time examining the situation. He then looked about and spotted a patrolman, who was taking notable interest in the investigation, whom he beckoned closer.

You came down here right away? With the violinist? asked Lestrade.

Yes sir.

How long ago was that?

About ten minutes sir.

So, where’s the violinist?

Ran away after leading us here sir. He started a different tune when he was asked to stick around for the investigation.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. You say you heard a shot and this man was already dead and on his back when you arrived? the inspector questioned the patrolman.

Yes Inspector answered the patrolman and continued. I found this too. He handed Lestrade the bag left behind by the messenger.

Lestrade weighed the bag which proved to be considerably bulky. He set it down beside him and opened it. A thin veil of white dust rose from the bag.

Opium! he exclaimed.

Yes, Inspector … and lots of it corroborated the patrolman.

Enough to feed the entire population of East End with black drop! These brigands seem to have become more active after the law was passed against the unlawful production and consumption of this stuff mulled Lestrade as he turned his attention toward the body again.

But where is the blood, Patrolman?

That’s just it Inspector. There is none.

Lestrade fussed about with the dead man’s clothes to see if he could find any wound. A hole was evident in the man’s shirt, just below the sternum. The bullet should have pierced the heart and caused a lot of bleeding instantaneously.

He’s been shot and there is no blood? Lestrade tilted his hat and glanced up at the patrolman as he questioned him. Then he ain’t dead is he?

In heart-wrenching suddenness, the man presumed dead until that point sat up with a heavy intake of air, coughed up blood on Lestrade’s shoes and fell back gasping for air and coughing. Lestrade, the patrolman and a two other policemen who were close at hand were stunned pale even as a collective gasp escaped the unwelcome audience at the alley’s entrance.

The patrolman was pointing at Lestrade’s feet.

What? asked Lestrade, irritated.

Blood, Inspector the patrolman observed.

As the follower lay coughing, Lestrade signalled the two policemen to cart the man away and angrily took out his handkerchief to wipe the blood off his shoes. The follower was jerked off the ground, when Lestrade heard something metallic fall onto the cobblestone pavement. He looked around, utter concentration wrinkling his brow, and found a small metallic disk which appeared to be crushed. It looked like some kind of a locket or at least previously had been.

Lestrade held the object in his fingers and observed it in the faint light, muttering to himself What the hell is this?

Inspector! cried out one of the policemen handling the follower.

Lestrade saw that he was not the only one to have found something of interest. The policeman who had called his attention was holding a sideburn in his hand.

A wig! exclaimed Lestrade as he walked toward the follower, held up by the policemen. He tugged at the other sideburn which came off easily. The same happened with the beard and finally the moustache. Lestrade did not proceed to test his hair, for by then the man was unmasked enough to see him for who he really was.

Lestrade could not contain his grin as he cherished the moment exclaiming My, my. Who do we have here! Didn’t think it would be you who was finally outsmarted. And it’s about time too.

Recognition settled on the policemen’s faces as they joined Lestrade in his jubilation.

Looks like we’ve finally got the better of him, boys. The public will be safe now. Lestrade led the way towards the crowd and the policemen dragged the follower behind. The inspector paused for a moment to regain his officious tone and announced The opium den killer is apprehended!

The crowd reacted a moment after the news sank in. The opium den killer had been having his way with the subjects of London. So many robberies, so many assaults and even a few murders were linked to him. And his preys were not only the patrons of the opium dens but also anyone who chanced to pass that way, intentionally or not.

The crowd cheered Inspector Lestrade while some started pelting hard objects at the prisoner. Lestrade instructed for the killer to be carted away from the crowd. He took the small metallic disc from his pocket, scrutinized it but for a second, shrugged his shoulder and threw it over his shoulder and it promptly rolled into the shadow at the end of the alley.

Inspector Lestrade! called out Constable Morris.

Morris my good man. Come. We need to celebrate tonight. I have solved my first case without crawling to him for help. The manner in which Lestrade uttered the word ‘him’ emulated the disgust he had nurtured in that regard. But Morris appeared too grave to rejoice.

What is it Morris? inquired Lestrade.

I just canvassed the people in the house up there… said Morris pointing to a window two floors up, the light from