Patricia was exhausted. Some days working with the Women’s Society felt productive and rewarding, but on days like today, it seemed as if the whole city of London was determined to fight her. The cobblestone streets which she would regard as a bit cleaner on a good day, looked as filthy to her as they did to the disgruntled shopkeepers who cursed under their breath as they cleaned the storefronts on cold wet mornings. The air, which she would normally fancy as urbanely pleasant and cheerfully inhale, was laden with coal dust, and who knew what else, making it smell positively foul.
Taking a deep breath anyway, out of sheer British determination, she looked around at the neighborhood and began her walk to the other side of the block where she knew that a cab would be waiting to take one of the many available travelers home for the evening. She did enjoy this small part of the evening. The small lapse of time when she didn’t have to deal with the complicated problems of the day was relaxing, and she could let her mind wander as she indulged in the simple mechanical process of putting one foot solidly in front of the other. Looking around Patricia saw old Mrs. Haycot just ahead taking a walk with her granddaughter down the street to where her son worked in a bookshop. Henry, the young and now eminent solicitor, walking on the other side of the street, heading in the other direction with his arm entwined with that of his young bride. So many other people walking the streets trying to live their lives.
Her breath caught for a moment as she bumped into someone.
“Oh, excuse me, Miss. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
The first thing that she noticed about him was his height. Patricia was a statuesque woman, and she could look a man of average height square in his eyes. But this man was of such an uncommon height he stood head and shoulders above her. The second thing that she noticed about him was that he was handsome. He had grey-blue eyes that reminded her of a stormy sky, and jet-black hair the exact shade of his coat. His face possessed a light complexion, a perfectly proportioned aquiline nose, and a pleasant mouth. And all these features were put together in an expression of concern and attention, that for the moment, Patricia allowed to flatter her vanity.
“Oh, N-no problem sir.” She said in that voice that some women used when they tried to seem poised while being flustered.
After proving to himself that she was indeed unharmed, he said, “Well, have a good evening miss.” And looking back, just once, walked on.
Patricia took a second to watch the tall handsome gentleman walk away as she rounded the corner. Heading down an ally towards a waiting handsome cab, she could not help smiling to herself and hoping that she might meet the gentleman again somewhere.
Within a few feet of the cab, she seemed to trip on something. Wha—that’s odd. She thought to herself. Though she managed to stop herself from falling she couldn’t seem to regain her sense of balance; her vision also seemed to be getting fuzzy. A moment later, her balance and vision went completely; Patricia White fell to the ground just a few feet away from the waiting cab.
Police Inspector Grierson was looking down at his desk, where the photograph of Patricia White’s body lay. Littering his desk beside the photograph were all his notes on the case so far. But no matter how much he stared at his meticulously recorded observations he could find no clue that would shed any light on Miss White’s murderer, or any of the other murders. The whole facts of the case boiled down to this: Patricia White left her work with the women’s society at about six o’clock in the evening of the twenty-third of October. She was last seen heading down an alley supposedly to a place where cabs were known to pick up those leaving their places of work. The next day her body was found laid out in front of the Women’s Society for the police to find.
So far Patricia White was the fourth victim to be murdered in this manner in as many weeks. The third victim was an old vicar of the local Anglican Church. The second victim was Sister Mary Andrew of the Convent on the south side. And of course, the first victim was Inspector Charles Malloy. The murder of old Charley had riled the whole force before any of the other murders took place, but after a week of no leads, the damned blighter that killed Charley went on to mock the whole force with more unsolvable murders.
All the Yard’s resources were brought to bear against the case, and none of the Inspectors were a whit closer to finding the murderer; the main trouble being a complete lack of physical evidence. The Inspectors had combed the areas around where the victims had been found for any trace, any clue, but to no avail. All the victims had been killed at another location and then returned the next day to their places of work. As if they had just reappeared out of the air. Of course, all victims’ family, friends, and coworkers were thoroughly interviewed to see if any of them had means or motives, but there were none. Not a soul who knew these people had the slightest hint of a motive, and most had alibis. Besides, the murders were all far too uniform; meaning that the murders were either committed by a group working together or by the same person. A conclusion that did not narrow the pool of suspects one bit.
He pounded the pile of notes with both his fists, impotently trying to release his frustration.
This cannot go on! Grierson thought.
He already knew what he was going to have to do, though he loathed it with every fiber of his being. He’d have to bring the case to the Doctor.
It was a big risk. The last time he asked “Him” for help on a case Grierson had had to do things that went against all his convictions of moral decency and duty. The case had been solved, in a way. However, Grierson had almost been discharged and was still laboring under the stigma that stained his professional reputation. But the victims deserved justice. The inspector pushed himself away from his desk with a disgusted grunt and grabbed his hat and umbrella as he headed out of the station.
Walking down the stone streets of London, Grierson desperately wracked his brains for another way that he could make at least some headway on the case. He was not to his destination yet and until the Inspector crossed the dreaded threshold, he could not in good conscience give up his effort to find an alternative solution. But as he passed through the rusty iron gates of the college’s department of medicine, he could not help feeling that his heart had become resolved to the grim choice. As he walked towards the ominous black door he could feel the accusing glances and disdainful visages of the gargoyles overhead. With a heavy hand and darkened heart, he knocked.
“Yes, Yes. I am coming.” answered a light German accent. A moment later the shadowy door opened to reveal the face of Doctor Eric von Schneider. “Oh, it is Inspector Grierson, my good friend and confidant. What a pleasant surprise.”
Suppressing the revulsion roiling in his stomach, the Inspector forced himself to look the Doctor in the face. The Doctor’s face always had an eerie pallor; however, the most striking aspect was his agelessness, or rather its ability to reflect whatever age the doctor wished. The face itself would reveal nothing, but the doctor could assume the expression of either a wizened old man or an impish youth with such effect that he seemed to be able to either rejuvenate or age himself at will. And whichever he chose, the total atmosphere of the unnatural that permeated Dr. Schneider’s person, could not be ignored.
“I’ve asked you not to call me that doctor,” Grierson said while trying to maintain an even polite tone in his voice. Stepping determinedly through the door, he set aside his umbrella and walked down the dark entry hall towards the doctor’s parlor.