Victorian Nocturne

The London Chronicle
August 2, 1891

Investigation continues into a rash of grisly murders in Whitechapel and Mile End New Town, after several gruesome discoveries last week.

On July 29, the body of a woman identified only as 'Polly' was discovered in a garbage bin on Halifax Street by a Mr. Oliver Norwood, who was questioned by the Criminal Investigation Unit and released. Polly is believed to have been aged 20-25. The extent of her injuries is not known, but witnesses report the victim sustained several burns.

On July 31, the body of James Keddle (aged 22) was discovered on Pelham Street. The extent of his injuries is not known, but witnesses reported puncture wounds to Mr. Keddle's hands and burns around the neck.

Both of the bodies suffered damage to the skull, similar to remains of Mr. Albert Brewer (aged 41), discovered life-extinct on July 20th in the Thames River.

Detective-Inspector Howard Grant will oversee the investigation.


[Submitted by Moderator]

If it hadn't been for the rain, Fox would have missed seeing the small hand.

She'd been taking some papers to an associate of Mr. Templeton's, some estimates on purchasing a particular quality of marble, and the sky had been heavy with clouds all morning. She had a hat but no umbrella, and when the first rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, she looked up at the foreboding grayness overhead. If she hurried, she wouldn't get soaked.

But she had to wait because the man she'd been told to see was already with a client, and the first fat drops of rain were starting to spatter the cobblestones as she exited the shelter of the building. Grimacing, Fox pulled her coat tighter about her shoulders, glad to have dropped the papers off so they wouldn't be illegible. She, on the other hand, was likely to be drenched by the time she reached the mason's workshop again. At least it was warm rain, not the freezing kind the city got in winters. Being wet to the bone was no delight, to be sure, but catching pneumonia was a fair sight worse.

( And The Rain Came Down )

"Martin!" she snapped, fist gripping a weathered stone pestle as she furiously ground it against the battered mortar. "Apuro!" She had taken the aged Mexican servant into her home when he was but a child, and though the years had been kinder to him than to most, he was still well beyond the years usually reserved for such arduous servitude, and moved much more slowly than Madame Passebon would have liked. The time was nearing, she knew, when he would be relegated to naught more than further fodder for her potions and serums, and he would have to be replaced.

But it was so difficult to find good help anymore! More and more, Nanette found herself longing for the days when a faithful servant was bought at the auction block and his loyalty and obedience wrought with the whip. The years might not have been hard on her pretty face, but they had certainly done their work upon her patience, and Nanette could not abide a slow, slovenly servant who might demand his wage.

"Martin!" she shouted again, just as the old man ambled in, carrying with him the limp corpse of a young prostitute, aged little more than Nanette looked. "Put it on the chaise and do try to keep the head tilted up, would you? The last, you'd left it lolling about and I'd gotten gore all over the upholstery."

"Si, Senora Passebon," the old man responded obediently, tottering towards the chaise.

( Beauty Ritual )

"You know, generally-speaking, I much rather prefer to do this sort of thing during the day..."

Nocturnal hours seemed to have little effect on the undead, save for it being a time when preying upon the living would go less noticed. Even so, Inquisitor West preferred having the advantage of daylight in the open air. For situational awareness, if nothing else. Besides, he reasoned, the things had to sleep at some time. Or at least, that was what Michael guessed they were doing, when being caught off-guard, every now and then, in that curiously death-like catatonic state. Whatever the reason for their slumber, a skilled hunter knew that it was best to strike at a dangerous foe when they were least likely to counter anything thrown at them.

Still, though, it was now late afternoon, and the latest mausoleum they had gained access to might well turn out like the last five: A dead end, in every sense of the phrase. Extending a hand to help guide fellow Inquisitor through the unlocked door, Michael coughed at the stale, dusty air found within. Even with sunlight still visible outside, he had to squint through the internal gloom.

"Looks like an adjoining chamber," he observed, pointing ahead. A moment taken while he lit a match, by way of illumination. "So, tell me... Did 'Alfonso' live up to his reputation?"

( A Noisy Entrance )

( Stakes and Mallets )

( Catching Their Breath )