Sherlock Holmes

CONSULTING DETECTIVE

A Study in Emerald

tember 1881
23 Sep

Lovecraft
Edition
 Vtáx bÇx
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23 September 1881

T
he cigarette smoke inside the Rat &
Raven is so thick, one could al-
most cut it with a knife. We are
following Wiggins, trying to get
through the mass of factory workers relaxing after
a long day of work. He shouldered through the
them, but his feet slipped on a slipknot; oily paws
everywhere caught him, feeling like thousands of
slippery tentacles. Though grateful for not falling,
he was still shaken at the thought of it.
We finally make it to the bar, where Porky greets
us and serves us all a pint. The bitter drink obvi-
ously dulled the terror from Wiggins’s thoughts.
Looking through the crowd, Wiggins is the first to
spot the doctor in a far corner sipping on a sher-
ry— his neat overcoat and his carefully trimmed
mustache reveal that he is not what one would
call a regular here. Struggling again through the
crowd, we make our way to him. Sitting down,
Wiggins is the first to greet the doctor.
“Good evening, Dr.…”
“Shhhh!” the doctor. interrupts. “Please, let’s do
try to speak as quietly as possible. And it’s proba-
bly best if we do not use any names. I know you're
used to being cautious with our friend, which is
why I called you. Now, however, we will need
even more discretion, since the threads…well, to say the least, they lead even higher than usual. It's an
extremely delicate situation.”


-1-
The doctor reaches for his glass, but as he touches it, there is a sudden tremor running down his right
arm. The blood-red drops of the sherry flashed across the table. He has to grab his writhing hand with
his left hand in order to control the seizure that shakes his body.
“I apologize. I've been getting worse lately. The war wound, I mean. The gods and men of Afghanistan
were both barbarians, ruled neither by the British government, nor by Berlin, not even by Moscow.
They stubbornly resisted all reason. I was sent to that country with … well, it’s irrelevant with what reg-
iment. What happened there is more important. While the fighting took place between the hills and the
mountains, we all had a fair chance. But as the battle descended into the caves and darkness, we were,
shall we say, in deep water.
“I will never forget the mirrored surface of the subterranean lake, nor the creature rising from the water,
its eyes opening and closing, the melodic whispers that accompanied its emergence, wreathing their
way about it like the buzzing of flies bigger than worlds. That I survived was a miracle, but survive I did.
The way that leech-like mouth touched me, it left a mark on me forever. I used to be an excellent
marksman, and now I'm having trouble raising a glass of sherry. But my nerves need it, that's for sure.
“It’s true, though, our mutual friend and I were brought together by this indelible experience. Who
would have thought a narcissist like him would be the most understanding of a war veteran and his
nightmares. ‘I was told I snored,’ he said, when I looked at the Baker Street apartment based on a
friend's tip. ‘I have been told that I snore,' he said. 'Also I keep irregular hours, and I often use the man-
telpiece for target practice. I will need the sitting room to meet clients. I'm the only consulting detective
in London, or perhaps the whole world. I don't take cases, I give advice. People come to me, tell me
about their unresolved issues, and sometimes I solve them. But it's a lot of noise, and I'm selfish, secre-
tive, and I get bored easily. Is that a problem?’ I didn't know what I was getting into when I moved in
with him.
“But I apologize for digressing. You know, I'm not a literary person, I don’t even know where to start
these kinds of stories, especially when you have to be as precise as possible, but I think it's best that I get
started because time is the least of our resources.
“Everything started a few days ago, Tuesday last. We were taking part in our magnificent breakfast, when
our friend mentioned to me, ‘We will need another place setting. We will be having a gentleman joining
us in four minutes time.’
“I wasn’t surprised at his strange statement, but I had to ask him how he deduced this fact.
“‘Elementary, dear friend,’ he replied. ‘Didn't you hear a rumble a few minutes ago? It was a hansom,
slowing down as it came up to our address. Then it speed up again going on along Marylebone Road.
There are plenty coaches and cabs at the rail station. Anyone not wanted to be seen getting off at our
address will go there as, if I recall correctly, it takes about four minutes to get there and back.…’
“He glanced at his pocket watch, and indeed, four minutes later, we heard footsteps on the stairs out-
side.
“‘Come in, Lestrade,’ he said.
“Lestrade came in through the door.
“‘Sit, Lestrade,’ he invited. ‘We just had the sausages brought up.’
“‘Oh, I really shouldn’t,’ Lestrade mentioned. ‘But to tell the truth, I had no opportunity to eat this
morning, and I could do with some of those sausages very much.’ 


-2-
“‘So it is indeed a matter of national security,’ our friend said.
“Heavens,” said Lestrade, turning pale. “There's no way it's already out there…’
“He started to stack the smoked herring fillet on top of the buttered toast, but his hand shook slightly.
“‘Alright, do tell me,’ he finally relented. ‘Did you already hear about the case?’
“‘Of course not,’ our friend replied. ‘However, I do recognize the squeaking of the wheels of the Com-
missioner’s coach, a very specific high-oscillating gis. Now, the Commissioner of Scotland Yard cannot
be seen to visit London’s only consulting detective. However, he can send someone in his stead. You
came here without breakfast, Lestrade; there is only one person for whom you would rise so early as to
miss your breakfast. And if the Commissioner calls on his main Inspector so early, then the matter he
assigned him had to be something extraordinary, something of national importance.
“‘But let’s go to the point: when are we going to Shoreditch?’
“Lestrade dropped his fork.
“‘Now, listen you!’ Lestrade exclaimed. ‘You’re making fun of me. You know everything about the case
after all! You should be ashamed of yourself…’
“‘No, no, dear Inspector,’ our friend reassured him. ‘No one told me about the matter. However, if a po-
lice officer walks into my room, boots and trousers with fresh, very evident mustard-yellow mud patch-
es, it is not difficult to assume that he is coming from the crime scene, Shoreditch’s Hoxton Street, as
that is the only area in London where this kind of mustard-yellow clay is found.’
“Inspector Lestrade appeared embarrassed.
‘When you say it like that, it seems rather obvious…’
“We took off immediately after breakfast. It was a nice morning when we got to the edge of the St. Giles
slum, a colony of the highest concentration of London’s thieves and murderers. The building we walked
towards was one of Shoreditch’s low-priced boarding houses at Hoxton Street. Our friend stopped the
cabbie on the corner beforehand, and after paying him, we approached the site on foot.
“There was nothing that would indicate a crime scene, no carriage tracks, no footprints, nothing. Ap-
proaching the boarding house, we were stopped by a drunkard. His straw coloured hair was greasy on
his head, and there was squared quilting on his coat. Our friend, showing interest in the tramp’s move-
ment, leaned close to him and asked what he saw this morning. He replied ‘Police’ and then cackled. For
some reason, our friend rewarded the answer with five pence.
“A police officer stood at the front door. Lestrade greeted him by name and introduced me, while our
friend crouched at the threshold and poked the mud around the wrought-iron bars.
“We then went upstairs. There was no question in which room the crime had been committed: there
were two police men stationed outside the door. Lestrade nodded to them, and they stepped aside. It is
difficult to describe the spectacle that we found inside. The body, or better said what was left of it, lay on
the floor. Starting next to his face, green liquid was everywhere, deeply embedded in the carpet around
the body. There were even splatters of it on the wallpaper. For a moment, I liked the work of some infer-
nal artist; it's like a painter decided to do an emerald green paper on death.
“Our friend knelt down and examined the body, looking at every cut on the body. Then he walked to
the wall to study the drying green spots.
“‘We already looked at that,’ said Lestrade. ‘There’s nothing there.’
“‘Indeed?’ asked our friend. ‘And how did you explain this here? It looks like a word to me.’


-3-



-4-
“Lestrade stepped beside our friend and looked up at the wall. Somehow, over the head of the inspector,
a word was written in large, green, gothic letters on the faded yellow wallpaper.
“‘R-A-C-H- E …?’ Lestrade began to spell. ‘That means nothing. They may have been interrupted.’
“Our friend didn’t say a word. He walked back to the corpse and lifted both of its inanimate hands one
after another.
“‘Well, in any case, we should figure out if the Royal Highness…’ our friend started.
“‘What the devil?’ Lestrade interrupted. ‘How could you know that?’
“‘Dear Inspector Lestrade. Please do allow me some intelligence. Despite the apparent gore, the body is
obviously not human. The color of the blood, the number of limbs, the eye, the Shape of the face — all
point to a non-human. As we know, in the current world order, if someone has such superhuman marks,
they must be a member of one of the royal families. Although I can’t tell which ruling line exactly, I
would venture that our victim may be heir to…one of the German principalities.’
“‘You never cease to amaze,’ Lestrade said. ‘That is indeed Prince Franz Drago of Bohemia. He has re-
cently arrived in the country for a change of air — a lot good that would have done him with all the re-
cent fog — and was staying at Kensington Palace upon the invitation of Her Majesty.’
“‘I would think he was more here for our theaters, game tables, and other services, than for the fresh air,
Lestrade,’ our friend said.
“Lestrade looked confused. He had no idea how he had come to this deduction.
“When we returned to Baker Street, our friend’s face was a sinister shadow.
“‘If we’ve learned anything from history, Watson, it’s that it can always get worse. And now we seem to
be close to things getting worse, indeed,’ he told me.
“We agreed that we need as many eyes and ears investigating this matter, so he asked me to meet you
here and get you all informed. He is already out doing his investigations.”
We agree to help out readily.
Having finished our drinks, the doctor and we say our good-byes, him going to meet up with Holmes
and us making our way in the other direction, seeing little in the dense city fog and wondering where to
go first.


RA
CH
E
-5-

SE AREA
11 SE
“N o, please, we’re not looking for a private
detective, but a biographer,” the man
says desperately. “Can people not read anymore?
“Last time a journalist came to ask about
Stephan Brixton, wondering if great-grandfather
knew something, but that traitor was still in the
wilderness when grandfather left the military.
“Now, please, we do not have any time to waste.
Thank you for coming by. I wish you the best in
you endeavours. Good-bye!”
28 SE
T hey never heard the doctor’s name at the
Bethlehem Mental Hospital.
32 SE
S idley & Son is a dusty little shop next to the
courtyard. Inside are less than tasteful ta-
pestries and carpets. A somewhat shabbily
dressed middle-aged man sits and reads a news-
paper in one of the chairs. Sitting beside him at a
desk is a woman with short, ebony-coloured hair,
looking in a mirror while painting in eyebrows
with a makeup pencil. As we come in, we pur-
posefully jingle the coins in our pocket.
“Hullo. When can one go upstairs?” we ask.
“You’re too early. It’s at ten.” snaps the man.
We leave and look around, noticing a public
house next doors. That will be a good place to
wait. After dropping an extra coin for his trou-
bles, the bartender there readily tells us all he
knows about the carpet business next door.
“Sam is a lucky un, tha’ the old Sidley din’t notice
wha’ his son is doin’. Not sure why they keep the
carpet; might as well put the w’menfolk in the
-6-
shopwindow. Evr’one knows what they be sellin’
there. Suppose he don’t want to burn all his es-
cape routes ‘fore the law.
“‘Sides, it ain’t the regular folks that make the
business run,” the bartender continues. “The girls
offered for th’ regulars are average at best.”
Bending closer to us over the bar, he whispers
conspiratorially, “They say the real big money
comes from ‘special orders’ for them big folks
with money.
“Once, a fellow came over from the brothel and
told me that as he was looking which girl to hire,
Sidley had appeared with a girl trailing him. A
lovely creature it was, he said, and looking at her
age and attire, he could’ve sworn Sidley brought
her from an orphanage or workhouse for
young’uns. He asked Sidley how much for her, to
which tha’ one jus’ said, ‘You ain’t born on the
right side of the Thames to get this lil’ peach.’
“Is a dirty business tha’ sellin’ off young’uns like
that. Best not think on it.”
The bartender shakes his head as he pours a
drink for another customer.
We wait until night time, watching carefully as
persons of less than reputable character start
walking around the street. Th en Wiggins goes
back to Sidley’s alone, since we figure that might
make things easier. He comes out a few minutes
later and tells us what happened.
“When I got inside, Sidley was not there any-
more. Instead a Madam was, who managed to
evade all my inquiries expertly. Eventually, she
offered me a girl with a tired face, who’s been
standing in the corner the entire time.
“‘She knows everything a woman should know,’
the Madam noted.
“‘I’m sure,” I replied. “But you wouldn’t happen
to have something…fresher…younger perhaps?’
“I knew I had pushed my luck when she replied.
“‘You ain’t no spring chicken yo’rself, ya hear!”
she exclaimed. “Because of that, there’ll be no
option for you. You can buy a carpet if you wish;
the girls are busy.”
“I smiled apologetically and left. I’m afraid there’s
no more information to be had here to-day.”

 46 SE
“A re you the language teacher?” the woman
asks in a hurry. “If I don’t understand der-
die-das soon, then the baroness will look for an-
other woman for her ‘little Alfonso.’”
54 SE
“E ven I’ve heard that the Prince wasn’t very
romantic. But to be honest, there’s always
been rumours about the royal family. So, tell me,
what have you learned so far?”
76 SE
C raig Jeter is indeed as simple as his supervi-
sor, the gardener, described him. He an-
swers all our questions without any suspicion.
“Why, yes, the young lady was ‘appy to help me,
but then she got mad at me. We were diggin’
through the back of the park, and we came upon
freshly dug earth in one spot. It was frozen as if it
had been covered by the frost las’ night.
“I put the shovel away fi rst and started hitting
with the pick, then suddenly, the tool hit summat
strange, an’ diggin’ I found some white sticks,
about a foot long. They were very hard, I tell ya.
“As soon as Miss Osborn took one in her hand,
she turned pale and tol’ me to stop working im-
mediately. I didn’t understand what was wrong
with ‘er, but she told me I was gettin’ a break and
to go to the White Mouse, have a drink, I deserve
it after all the trouble. I was sweatin’ good by
then, so she din’t need to tell me twice.
“When I came back, the guv’nor tol’ me not to
go near the miss anymore. I really don’t know
what happened her…”
81 SE
E dward Tobin’s wife answers the door, and
after we introduce ourselves, she makes us
wait in the parlour. A few moments later, the man
of the House appears. 

-7-
Mr. Tobin is a war veteran, limping with a pros-
thetic leg and leaning on a walking stick. Two
fingers on his right hand are missing, and his
right eye seems to gaze into the distance instead
of what’s before him. He looks at us with interest
and suspicion at the same time. We introduces
ourselves and explain our presence, handing him
the glove we found. Th e gentleman gratefully
takes the piece of finery he thought was lost.
“God bless you, Sirs, I thought I’d never get one
of these again. It is rather difficult to have a seam-
stress create a smooth glove for a man who’s lost
two fingers. Allow me to get you some tea.”
“You found my gloves in a black cab, did you
not?” asks Mr. Tobin.
“Actually no, Mr. Tobin. We found it at the Hox-
ton Pension,” Wiggins replies for us.
The man’s face falls.
“That’s the place of that murder…” he notes. “I
was visiting an old war comrade not far from
there, and decided to stay over night because it
was late and no coach was to be found at the time
I finally left. And now I’m involved in such a ter-
rible case!”
We ask him if he’d heard anything strange while
he was at the pension.
“I already told the police everything I know. I
didn’t know what was going on. I was in my
room at the time of the incident, so I didn’t wit-
ness much — except for the sounds on the stairs.
I only found out that something was wrong,
when a police constable started banging on my
door.
“They let me pack up, and then another consta-
ble led me out of the building. I saw a doctor
coming out at the same time. His face was full of
consternation, and I saw red stains on his coat. I
recognized immediately what must be the issue. I
was in India, you see. That’s where these battle
scars are from.”
He points at his leg and his missing fingers.
“I served as a guard in the Governor’s Office in
Bombay until the attempted murder of the Gov-
ernor. Things went wrong during that incident,

The gentleman pauses, apparently hesitating to
continue. His wife, who has since joined us with
the tea urges him to tell us the rest.
“I think they succeeded this time. It’s just a sup-
position, but there was a man in the pension. A
soldier. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him
before when I was in the army. He looked differ-
ent, a big gash in his face, but I would recognize
him anywhere. He had an intense look that
struck fear into even the bravest man’s heart.
“He was usually seen with the medical officer of
the regiment. Th ey were close friends…He was
also friends with Major Kanufsky and Major
Henessy. And with General Stephan Brixton.”
“Stephan Brixton?” we ask. “The one who was
recently executed for treason?”
“The same. Head of the Mesopotamian Corps,”
replies Mr. Tobin.
After a moment, he adds, “I cannot prove any-
thing, but this officer I saw…he appears to be
not very important, but I admit I wouldn’t be
surprised if he had a hand in it. He’s always struck
me as a wrong sort.”
84 SE
“I
not?”
don’t know anything about this Prince
Drago. Are you interested in pipes or
SW AREA
2 SW
P ike is sitting in the newsroom, taking ad-
vantage of the early hour to look through
the sporting events’ results.
“Prince Drago? Of course, I know of him,” he
replies. “There were whispers of him before he
even arrived. He was interviewed before he left
Bohemia as to his stay in England. He did not say
-8-
much, but did mention that besides taking care
of the official affairs, he was most interested in
seeing a piece by a troupe of actors travelling Eu-
rope, as he had already had the opportunity to
see several excellent performance in years past.
“Of course, everyone knows it’s just a smoke
screen for the Prince’s real interests: brothels and
gambling dens.”
5 SW
T he Library is closed for inventory.
7 SW
T he Carlton Club is quiet at this hour. Only
a few gentlemen sit in the club room,
reading papers. When we ask the doorman if
Prince Drago was seen here, he shakes his head.
“The only person who came over from the recep-
tion that night was the ambassador. He seemed
rather disappointed.”
The doorman suddenly lowers his voice and al-
most whispers, “Personally, I think everyone here
is quite glad the Prince did not show up, as we
have a member or two formerly from Bohemia
who do not kindly take to the Prince and his
family. Considering how their tongues some-
times slip after a few drinks, we may have ended
up closing down the Carlton.”
8 SW
M ycroft greets us from a distance.
“ Good day, young friends. What kind of
troubles does my brother bring to-day? The
Prince Drago affair, is it not?
“I must tell you, I have no small interest such
matters,” says Mycroft, waving to the waiter to
bring us something to drink. “My guess is the
Restorers had something to do with this inci-
dent. These people are no small headache to Her
Majesty’s government.”
He is interrupted by the waiter’s return.

“But you are here to fi nd out more about the
good Prince, I suppose,” he continues after the
waiter leaves again. “To get to the point, Prince
Drago is the Crown Prince of Bohemia, at least
he was until the unfortunate incident. Not exact-
ly an exemplary aristocrat, it was reported he of-
ten had quite violent outbursts. When he was
here in England June last, he caused a rather large
scandal with his extravagant behaviour.
“It was said that he had an argument with a
prominent doctor, whose daughter had gone
missing. She was found in a horrible condition,
inside a decrepit apartment. Apparently the
Prince was connected to the affair. It was a rather
delicate matter for the Crown to handle. The
man’s wife apparently tried to take her life and
has gone insane since. Th ey were given a fine
pension to assure the family’s silence.
“Yet Her Majesty was rather fond of the Prince.
His death will have affected Her greatly…”
“What can you tell us about the Restorers?”
Wiggins asks.
“Ah yes, those blighters. They aim to restore what
they believe is the rightful heir to the Bohemian
throne — Princess Alexandrina of the Romanoff
line. It is rumored that she is alive and being hid-
den by the Restorers.”
“Why has no one has been able to catch them?”
“They operate through a disconnected network,
with individual members making lone attacks on
various members of the Bohemian royal family.
So far, they have fortunately not been very suc-
cessful. But that loose organisation helps them
avoid the capture of the entire group.”
We fi nish our drinks and are about to leave the
Diogenes Club when Mycroft mentions the last
piece of information he has for us.
“Rache, by the by,” he states, “is the German word
for revenge.
9 SW
T he Embassy of the German Empire is qui-
et at this hour, the doorman telling us the
ambassador is out. Wiggins shows him Zhuk’s

-9-
invitation as a means of starting the conversation.
“This reception was nothing special,” he notes.
“They often have these events at the embassy. A
little food and drink, speeches and fuss, you
know how it is. Of course, afterwards, everyone
will go to the Carleton or Diogenes Club, where
they can continue to enjoy themselves more
freely,” says the man. “However, the visit of a roy-
al descendant will still be an event, even if he
leaves within an hour of his arrival, tho apparent-
ly not to one of the clubs, as I understand it from
the ambassador. Th e focus of Prince Drago’s in-
terests was not on betting that night. Still, the
food’s not bad, though.”
13 SW
A t Scotland Yard, we find out that Inspector
Lestrade is currently not present and the
other policeman have no time for us.
22 SW
M urray lays out the objects found on the
victim, most of which are still covered
with dried spots of red and green liquid.
“A notebook, a portrait of the royal family, a few
coins with similar silhouettes — Bohemian cur-
rency — along with several British pound notes.
Nothing too unusual seems to have been among
the Prince’s possessions at first,” says Murray.
“There were also some cards with the inscription
‘Imperial Club’ on them, as well as a little silver
tobacco box with some kind of pungent smell
inside it.”
More items appeared as he made his methodical
inspection of the Prince’s personal effects, Mur-
ray explains.
“A few pieces of paper, a half-cut theatre ticket to
the theater on Drury Lane. But the strangest item
however is a piece of jewelry: a gold ring, pol-
ished to a brilliance. It was found in the Prince’s
blood-soaked clothes. It was not immediately
apparent as there was a significant amount of
blood on the crumpled up clothes around it.”

We pass it amongst each other until it comes into
Wiggins’s hands. He points it towards the light.
“There’s writing here!” he exclaims excitedly.
We all crowd closer to him wanting to see what it
says. It’s a single number, a year: 1879.
35 SW
T he Queen’s Consort, Prince Albert is a tall
man with a spectacular moustache and
somewhat thinning hair — and is decidedly hu-
man. He receives us in the Reception Hall.
“Her Majesty, the Queen, is rather upset,” he
says. “Drago was one of her favourite relatives.
Your task is simple: find the people who did this.
“I have read the studies of your friend,” he says.
“Indeed it is upon my advice, we have contacted
him. I am not sure why he has not come person-
ally when summoned and has instead sent you in
“W
his place. But your results so far do not give me
any reason to question his methods. I hope I am
doing the right thing trusting his judgment.”
We all nod, hoping the same.
Soon after, they opened the Great Gate and led
Wiggins only into the darkness in front of the
Queen. Her name was Victoria because seven
hundred years ago she beat us in battle; Gloriana
because she was so glorious, and Queen because
human lips couldn’t speak her real name. He later
told us that she was huge, bigger than he had
imagined, and she looked down at him in the
shadows without moving.
“Thizsz muzzst be zsolved,” the words came from
the shadows, Wiggins reported.
“Indeed, ma’am,” he replied.
Then, a limb squirmed and grabbed his shoulder.
“For a moment, but only for a moment, I felt a
pain as profound as I had never felt before, and
then my mind was completely numb. Then sud-
denly I saw an apartment in front of him, a small
room with torn furniture. Th e geometry of the
world was strange, images were hard to grasp as if
I could only see the world through the eyes of a
fly. Multiplied by the number of times, the planes
were indiscriminately intertwined.
- 10 -
“There was a bed pressed tightly against the wall.
A girl lay on it, her limbs stiffly beside her body,
her neck covered with a blood-red ribbon, her
eyes closed, but I could hear her breathing. Be-
hind my back was a muffled voice as if they were
underwater, and as I turned, I saw a man with a
large stomach.
“His mouth moved slowly, but I could not un-
derstand his words. All I noticed was that the
door behind the man closed and behind him
came a stocky shadow. Then a pain of thousand
blades flashed in my hand, and all went black
with the pain.”
47 SW
e’re looking for Dr. Angel! It’s a matter
of life and death!” we pronounce upon
entering the office.
The nurse looks at us in confusion.
“The doctor is with a patient…” “Please, it is of
utmost urgency that we see the doctor,” we urge.
“A life is at stake!”
The nurse gets up and motions us to to follow
her, hurrying through the hallway. We slip
through a door with Dr. Angel’s name on it.
As we enter the doctor’s office, we see a woman
lying on the sofa, a mustachioed man leaning
over her, holding her hands. Upon seeing us, he
abruptly pulls his hands away and snaps at us.
“How dare you enter! I am in session, nurse!”
“My apologies, Dr. Angel,, but these men say
they must speak you without delay,” the nurse
responds. “They say it’s a matter of life or death.”
“Indeed?” the doctor looks at us with disdain and
suspicion etched in his face.
“Yes, Dr. Angel,” we reply. “It is rather urgent.
May we please talk in private, Sir?”
“Nurse, please leave us,” the doctor gestures.
“And please take Mrs. Morstan with you.”
After the nurse and the young woman exit, he he
points to the chairs next to his desk.
“Please, have a seat,” he says.
He rises, supported by a walking stick, but only
to go behind his desk and sit down on his chair.

There are several medical certificates on the wall
behind him, as well as a military medal, framed,
along with some photos. They appear to be from
a quite a few years ago, as in many he visibly has
far more hair than he does now.
One photo shows him a proud bridegroom in
front of Westminster Chapel, with a smooth and
hopeful face. However, no matter how carefully
we run our eyes over all the photographs, we do
not discover a single photograph with a bride.
“Dr. Angel, we are investigating Sherry Vernet.”
We pull out the calling card with the doctor’s
name on it and show it to him.
“It appears he has been in touch with you.”
“Indeed,” remarks Dr. Angel. “The gentleman has
come to see me a several times. I have been
working for a while now with soldiers. This man
said he had served in the German army.
“I cannot speak to the details of his condition,
but the tests I conducted showed that he was suf-
fering from a difficult disorder, which, interest-
ingly, he was able to make good use of in his new
profession. He appears to have become an actor.
“I had suggested intensive therapy, but he did not
wish to partake in it. I could not force him as he
had come to me of his own volition and has
shown signs of managing his condition with the
right medication.
“I have not seen him since his last visit. I hope
nothing serious has happened to him. I kept on
wondering since then whether I should have
been more insistent in treating him…”
86 SW
“I ’ve never seen such tobacco. Looks Ori-
ental. Try the river. Th ere’s some strange
things goin’ on by the Thames.”
88 SW
T he Westminster Chapel is far more silent
than the abbey of its namesake, despite
both being dedicated to the sea god Cthulhu. We
knock at the rectory, and while waiting for an
- 11 -
answer, look at the wave motifs running through
the wall.
A young man, a novice, opens the door and eyes
us suspiciously. When he fi nds out that we’re
only interested in the wedding registry, his suspi-
cions seem allayed.
Once inside, he leads us to a room with several
large cabinets. Opening one, he lifts a heavy,
leather-bound book out of it and puts it gently
on the table. Dust flows in the air as he opens it.
Looking through it, he finds the entry we wanted
to see and turns over the book so we can read it:
Dr. John H. Watson
to: Mary Morstan
September 1st, 1879.
Witnesses: Olga Lanter and Sherlock Holmes
As we jot down the information a master enters,
asking his novice what we are doing there.
We see that the man’s body was not entirely hu-
man, yet according to our best guess, he was not
a descendant. His skin is scaly, his eyes are yel-
low, but his skin colour and body structure are
those of a portly, middle aged man. He is an initi-
ate, meaning that he ingested blood of the sea
creatures when he joined the cult.
We explain we’re seeking information about ohn
Watson, specifically his wedding date.
“We’d like to surprise him for the anniversary,”
Wiggins lies.
“Dr. John H. Watson? Are we talking about the
same person? I know Dr. Watson. He was not a
religious man himself, but his brother used to
come here often, so I learned a great deal about
the good doctor. He has not been here since that
terrible incident happened to dear Mary last
June…what she was involved in, we can’t wish
on anyone. I doubt the doctor would want a re-
minder of that.”

The master turns, shaking his head in sadness,
and walks away again. We thank the young man
helping us and exit the chapel, feeling quite glum.
96 SW
W e are allowed into the Palace Garden
only after lengthy inspections of all of
our belongings. Once inside, we are greeted by a
middle-aged man, who, judging by his attire,
must be the gardener. According to him, the last
time he saw Miss Osborn was three days ago.
“She was busy with the gazebo. Th e plans were
already in place, and Her Majesty had given her
blessings to start the construction. She went
around probing several areas in the park for
where to put. It was in rather strange places, if
you ask me, but she said she was not ‘planning on
setting up an English cliché’.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about her be-
haviour the day she disappeared?” we ask.
“I can’t say I have,” replies the gardener. “At least
not that day…However, there was an odd re-
quest from her a few days earlier.
“She was measuring a site and taking soil samples
with one of my assistants. At the end of the first
day, she came to me with a confused look on her
face and asked me not to send my assistant to
work with her the next day. ‘In fact, do not assign
him to work with me at all,’ she said.”
“What’s this assistant’s name?” we ask.
“Craig. Craig Jeter. He’s rather simple-minded,
but he’s a hard worker.”
“And what do you know about Miss Osborn’s
testimony?”
“Nothing,” replies the man. “Just what the news-
papers said. After the incident, I was not precise-
ly lookin for her company, considering her wish-
es, though I was wondering why she did not
want Craig working with her again.”
We ask him if he can take us to the site that Miss
Osborn was working on last, but he says it will
not be possible. Th e guards are not letting any-
one in since Miss Osborn’s disappearance. Not
even him.
- 12 -
NW AREA
3 nW
M r. Penton’s face glows with hope when
we approach him. He inquires immedi-
ately about his lost twin sister, Elisabeth, but
when we direct the conversation towards the cir-
cumstances of her disappearance, he frowns and
ushers us out as politely as possible.
12 nW
M r. Jerrold Mason’s House is located next
to The Princess Theatre. It is an elegantly
decorated building. We knock but get no answer.
Looking through the downstairs windows, we
notice that the house is dark inside and looks
deserted. We are considering going around the
back to see if we can sneak in, when a police con-
stable suddenly appears in our midst.
“And what might you rascals be doing here?” he
inquires. “Identify yourself.”
We introduce ourselves and hand him the Royal
Papers sanctioning our investigation. He looks
surprised and suspicious.
“This appears to be in order… I’ll be noting
down your information. Until I have ascertained
that you are indeed who you are, it’s best you
stop loitering around here.”
He gives us our paperwork back and points to-
wards the end of the street.
32 nW
A mbrecht & Co. is a small chemist shop
near Hyde Park. Judging by the display
case, they are involved in the manufacture and
distribution of simple domestic chemicals, but
among the items listed are also several we cannot
quite not place. A sign on the front door says the

shop is closed, even though according to their
opening times, they are supposed to be receiving
customers by now.
We go through the alley next to the shop to the
back of the building, where the private quarters
are likely to be found. Knocking on the door and
receiving no answer there either, we are assured
that no one is inside. While we keep look out,
Wiggins picks the backdoor’s lock skillfully.
Immediately a horrible stench fills our noses. The
place is in a terrible state; the owner apparently
hadn’t left it in days as we can see a bucket full of
feces in a corner. But there is another smell.
Walking around carefully between the dubious
rags covering the ground, we discover a crystal
glass filled with red wine on the windowsill. An-
other one lies on the ground near by, broken, the
red drink it contained splattered everywhere.
As we turn around, we notice a man-sized ma-
chine in the corner of the room, with various
coloured containers connected with tubes, all
containing opalescent liquid. A three-headed
snake is imprinted on it. We realize we are look-
ing at some sort of explosive device based on a
diagram laying on a nearby table.
As we enter the adjacent bedroom, we fi nally
discover the source of the infernal smell. A man’s
is body hanging from a rope tied to a middle
beam. Th e man is wearing a military uniform.
This has to be Mason.
We notice a piece of paper hanging out of his
pocket, and after carefully fishing it out and read
what it says.
We search the rest of Mason’s clothes but only
find two apparently identical pills in his pocket.
We look around the room. There are two beds on
one side, both of them used. Someone else used
to live here. It is not long before we find the other
occupant: in the filled bathtub lays the body of a
white, bearded man, his lips and nails black. His
white cloak floating around him like seaweed.
As we leave, we lock the door again not wanting
to leave any trace of us being there. We walk to
Trafalgar Square, with Wiggins stopping quickly
insider a baker’s shop on the way to buy a bun.
- 13 -
Sitting on a bench, he fishes out one of the two
pills. Breaking it with the edge of his pocket
knife, he tears a small piece of the pastry and
covers it with pill powder. He then throws it to
the pigeons milling around on the square. Bick-
ering amongst themselves, several pigeons man-
age to grab pieces of it.
We watch the pigeons for a while, but nothing
happens. Wiggins takes the other pill from his
pocket and repeat his experiment. This time the
fight is short, a fat brown bird taking the whole
bite. It hasn’t even made two moves after that,
and it’s already dead on the ground.
Forgive me for what I did. Forgive me for
not being worthy of my uniform. I be-
trayed what I swore to do.
He was after me, and there was nothing I
could do. I had to buy time - our food
ran out and we couldn't leave the lodgings
- but that is no excuse. My crime was
immeasurable.
We trusted ourselves to fate, but I betrayed
everything that was sacred. I was weak, and
now I'd rather stand before the Almighty
Judge than live this wretched life.
May God forgive me!
33 nW
W ells Osborn’s long, thick beard hangs
down to his lap, making him look like an
old wizard.
“I’m sure it’s another one of those petty cases. My
Rachel is a magnet for trouble, but she has the
gift of slipping out of trouble’s clutches. Men ten
can’t bear the fact that she is successful. Ever

since the Royal Court asked her to design that
gazebo, they have become even more envious.”
“When was the last time you heard from your
daughter?” we ask.
“I read in the paper about her testimony in that
terrible case. I have no idea how she got involved.
I sent her a telegram immediately at the time,
and she replied that it was nothing, that she was
obliged to give the information to the police, but
now she would rather focus on the design work,
looking for the perfect place for her gazebo. She
said not to worry. So I did not.”
53 nW
W e ring the doorbell at the address indi-
cated as having the missing piece of jew-
ellery. A grim, square-faced man answers the
door. We say that we are looking for the piece of
jewelry advertised. Th e man at the door asks
which of us is the rightful owner. When Wiggins
pipes up, he says to describe the missing trinket
to verify it. Wiggins replies that he lost a necklace
in Shoreditch. The man smiles, and says we had
better go somewhere else to look for it, for he has
something entirely different in his possession.
57 nW
T he address we arrive at is a butcher’s shop.
We go inside.
“We’re looking for George Thomas,” we say to a
man who stands behind the counter, cutting up a
piece of meat with a sharp knife.
Without looking up from his work, he says,
“Hope you’re int’rested in my leg of lamb…”
“Your mother Mathilda sent us, Mr. Thomas,” we
lie. “She said she is having trouble with that man
again. He’s been harassing the guests.”
“That blighter!” Mr. Th omas exclaims, ramming
his meat cleaver into the cutting board with all
his might. Turning to us, he asks “‘o are you in
any cas, and why’s my ma sendin’ you?”
“My name’s Crawford Bolton,” Wiggins quickly
replies, inventing a name on the go. “And these

- 14 -
are my associates. We are detectives. We are in-
vestigating a case of a missing girl, which led us
to your mother’s pension.
“She told us there was this man who used to
room there and bring back women. He had left
for a while, but now he’s back and in the compa-
ny of some rough looking men, which is why she
is worried…so, we decided to help her out.”
“That dog!” Mr. Thomas rages. “Breakin’ ‘is arm
wasn’t enough for him, now he wants more?! I’ll
destroy him; I’ll light up ‘is shop, I’ll drag ‘im out
an’ throw him front a train in Waterloo. Or better
yet, I’ll wrap ‘im in those bloody carpets of his,
and toss ‘im in the Thames.”
The man in front of us is like a roaring bull, spit-
ting out sentences at rapid speed. At the end of
each sentence, he smashes his huge fist onto the
metal counter, shaking all the glass in the room.
We decide it’s best to disappear as soon as possi-
ble, so we take our leave with a friendly good-bye
and are out the door before he notices.
60 nW
A t our knock on the door, we hear wild
barking from the inside. However, no one
answers the door.
68 nW
A t the cab company, we use the card to get
information, but neither the name Sherry
Vernet nor Dr. Jonathan Angel sounds familiar to
the owners.
81 nW
N o one at St. George’s knows who put the
ad in The Times.
95 nW
T he kiosk in Hyde Park is closed. A notice
states the owner was charged with fraud.
All activity is suspended until the end of the trial.


WC AREA
5 WC
“N o, the prince did not hire a cab. He
never came here.”
11 WC
“G eorge Thomas? Never ‘eard oh ‘im.”
14 WC
T he Archives are closed today.
16 WC
A t the address, only the maid is present. She
says that since the death of the master of
the house, Mrs. MacDowell has been very ill. The
doctor forbade her to have guests.
31 WC
W e expected an elegant opera house, but
the theatre on Drury Lane was perhaps
the cheapest theatre around. If we’re honest, it is
not even really on Drury Lane, but rather at the
end of Shaftesbury Avenue, where the broad road
borders the slum of St. Giles.
In front of the entrance a shabbily dressed man
sits on a piano chair, with a sign to attract guests
and hitting a worn-out drum in the hope that the
sound would attract the attention of the passers-
by.
We pay for the show’s tickets and go inside. A few
minutes later, the band hits the fi rst notes, and
the curtains are drawn. It is a pleasant show, in its
own way. Three one-act plays are performed after
- 15 -
each other. The first play was a broad comedy of
mistaken identities, the second a heartbreaking
tale of an orphan girl who starved in the snow
selling hothouse violets
The performance finished with a rousing histori-
cal narrative: the entire company played the men
and women of a village on the shore of the
ocean, seven hundred years before our modern
times. They saw shapes rising from the sea, in the
distance. Th e hero joyously proclaimed to the
villagers that these were the Old Ones whose
coming was foretold, returning to us from R’lyeh,
and from dim Carcosa, and from the plains of
Leng, where they had slept, or waited, or passed
out the time of their death. Th e comedian
opined that the other villagers had all been eating
too many pies and drinking too much ale, and
they were imagining the shapes. A portly gen-
tleman playing a priest of the Roman God tells
the villagers that the shapes in the sea were mon-
sters and demons, and must be destroyed.
At the climax, the hero beat the priest to death
with his own crucifer, and prepared to welcome
Them as They came. The heroine sang a haunting
aria, whilst, in an astonishing display of magic-
lantern trickery, it seemed as if we saw Their
shadows cross the sky at the back of the stage:
the Queen of Albion herself, and the Black One
of Egypt (in shape almost like a man), followed
by the Ancient Goat, Parent to a Thousand, Em-
peror of all China, and the Czar Unanswerable,
and He Who Presides over the New World, and
the White Lady of the Antarctic Fastness, and
the others.
And as each shadow crossed the stage, or ap-
peared to, from out of every throat in the gallery
came, unbidden, a mighty “Huzzah!” until the air
itself seemed to vibrate. Th e moon rose in the
painted sky, and then, at its height, in one fi nal
moment of theatrical magic, it turned from a pal-
lid yellow, as it was in the old tales, to the com-
forting crimson of the moon that shines down
upon us all today.
At the end of act three, the members of the
troupe bow, and the audience applauds them,

cheering and laughing. Th e curtain is lowered,
and the show is over.
We walk out into the street, turning into the alley
next to the theater and go to the stage door,
where a skinny woman sits knitting busily.
“Do you have a visitor pass?” she asks.
“Certainly,” says Wiggins, handing her five
shillings. She nods and let us walk inside the
building. We walk up a set of backstage stairs to a
small common dressing room. Oil lamps and
candles fl icker in front of fat-stained mirrors,
men and women sitting before them, taking off
their makeup and costumes regardless of gender.
A middle-aged, long-haired man approaches us
suspiciously and asks what he can help us with.
Wiggins improvises and says using his best Yan-
kee accent, “My Name is Henry Camberley. Per-
haps you’ve heard of me, Mr. …”
“Vernet. Sherry Vernet,” comes the reply. “But I
haven’t had the pleasure of seeing your name yet,
Mr. Camberley.”
“I am a theatrical organizer in the United States,”
Wiggins continues. “And my associates and I
were fas-ci-nated by your wonderful piece. Your
play is so extraordinary that I would gladly un-
dertake to put the entire company on a ship to
the new world.”
Sherry puts a hand over his mouth and waves
towards his colleagues in the background.
“Keep your voice down.”
Turning back to us, he says pleasantly, “Come
along, gentlemen, let’s go back to my dressing
room to discuss matters in peace.”
The room we enter is small. Only a compact,
mirrored table with lights sits against on the wall;
A rack with costumes hanging on it is the only
other piece of furniture. We note that the cos-
tumes are quite varied: a priest’s cassock; a horti-
culturists’ bridle pants and a straw hat; a shiny
tuxedo and a top hat; a torn, patched jacket; a
long blond wig. Vernet draws a few chairs from
the hallway into the room and offers us seats.
Wiggins continues his story about the New
World and the possibilities for the troupe, in the
process asking questions about the company’s
- 16 -
work. He takes his pipe out of his pocket, look-
ing even more important, and Vernet offers him
some of his tobacco.
“Yes, indeed, we have great guests coming to see
our shows. Why, the Bohemian Prince Drago
considered us a favourite. Indeed he was here…
recently,” Vernet says vaguely.
“Really?” says Wiggins. “How did you notice it
was him? I heard he is known as a private man.”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy. He tried to sit in the shadow
of the lodge, but that laugh…You know, a lot of
people in Europe don’t take kindly to the pres-
ence of the Bohemian royal presence.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Vernet laughs. “I make good money out of
their story. Of course, it’s all hidden behind
putting a fantastical setting to it. But, that’s all,
really — just money.
“Although it isn’t easy. I had to invest a lot of
money to develop the technology used in the
show. Do you remember the part where the
armies line up on the horizon? Well, that screen-
ing technique is my invention, and it’s been in-
teresting to a lot of people lately. Someone from
the palace was here recently asking about it, a
lady, a Rachel…oh, what was her name?”
After a moment he has it.
“Rachel Osborn, I think. She didn’t say what on
Earth she needed it for at Buckingham Palace,
but she wanted to give me a lot of money. And I
had some shadowy folks asking as well. I sus-
pected them to be part of the Restorers — But
maybe even a Yank knows why I shouldn’t talk
about that loudly.”
“Ah, yeah,” says Wiggins. “I heard some mention
of this in the news since I arrived here. They are
seen as an enemy of the state of Bohemia or
some such thing, aren’t they?”
Despite the attempt to direct the conversation
again to Prince Drago, Vernet seems only inter-
ested in the prospect of a contract. We make an
appointment to return to sign the contract, and
then leave not planing to return to the Drury
Lane theatre ever again.
 38 WC
M r. Hornby’s face has an expression simi-
lar to that of his father at the mention of
the girl’s name: resigned sadness.
“I’ve made a thousand statements in this case,
and I don’t know if what I’ve seen actually hap-
pened or if I’m just going through my own ac-
count like a parrot. Even if it was of any use, no
one really listened to me; they wrote it down,
thanked me, sent me away, but having searched
the Thames Delta with no results, they ultimately
ignored me.
“A while back, a man came up to me, introduced
himself as Emily’s father, and said he was taking
her home because she wasn’t feeling well. Of
course, I had no reason to suspect him.”
“What did this man look like?” we ask.
“Normal, black hair, pale face, quite elegant. But
every time I talked about this meeting, my inter-
rogators told me that I must have misremem-
bered that Emily went with us to the Thames
Delta. You know, after all this time, I don’t know
what to think. I just pray for that little soul, that’s
all I can do.”
61 WC
“N o, Sirs, butchers don’t come here
often,” says the owner with a half-smile
of resignation under his moustache.
69 WC
W e ask all around the block until the own-
er of the nearby spice shop recognizes
one of the men we describe.
“Yeah, I’s saw the tall ‘un. ‘e didn’t ‘ave any scars
on ‘is face, but ‘e was smokin’ a pipe like you told
me ‘bout. I can’t ‘member what he bought, I
think, just some oranges. ‘e went up to that ‘ouse
across the street.”
We go into the same building. The janitor who’s
dusting the carpets doesn’t know the name Ver-
net, but upon hearing our description of the
- 17 -
man, immediately points to the second-floor
apartment. We go up the stairs. We reach for the
doorknob, and to our surprise, it is not locked.
Our nose is struck by the aroma of fresh, strong
tobacco smoke. We can feel a draught. Looking
across the room, we see the window is open, its
curtain rippling like a sail in the wind. We rush
over and see a figure getting away across the ad-
joining roofs and disappearing into the forest of
chimneys. For a moment, we consider going after
the figure, but we are forced to admit that there’s
no chance of finding the man who is on the run.
There are several theatrical props in the apart-
ment; makeup and masks lie around the table.
We fi nd several rubber-made adhesive injuries.
The closets are wide open, and it appears some-
one tried to empty them quickly. A heavy suit-
case lies on the floor, filled with ordinary clothes,
a few elegant pieces, and some strange costumes.
We rummage through the clothes, finding a sec-
ond-class cabin ticket for two on a cruise to
America, with a C and L wrapped in a fancy coat
of arms on top of the ticket. We also find a card
deck with an inscription from the Imperial Club.
We next go through the rubbish bin by the fire-
place and find two interesting calling cards:

Dr. Jonathan
Mental Health Angel
Royal Militar Practitioner
y Asylum
In addition, we find a red ribbon with fine silver
buckles at the end, a one–day reading ticket for
the London Library, two empty match cases, and
some burnt tobacco.
“It’s a very heavy, dark tobacco,” observes Wig-
gins.
70 WC
“N o, Sirs, there have been no reports of
missing orphans. Is there anything we
should know?”
93 WC
“T ry Old Mortimer next door. What he
doesn’t know, doesn’t exist yet.”
95 WC
M r. Mortimer looks at the half-burned to-
bacco fibers under his magnifying glass.
“Yes, I’ve seen this before. Although it’s not cus-
tomary in England to smoke this kind of stuff. I’d
say it’s too strong for the average gentleman’s
taste here. They bring it from the East, Bohemi-
ans, Germans, Hungarians usually. A tobacco
dealer like me doesn’t like to keep it if there’s no
demand.”
EC AREA
2 EC
T he constable posted outside the boarding
house won’t let us into the building until
after a thorough check. Once inside, we mean to
go upstairs but are distracted by a loud voice.
One of the officers posted at the door whispers
to us, “That’s Mrs. Th omas. She’s the owner, re-
ceptionist and housekeeper.”
- 18 -
We follow the sound of the voice and find a full-
bodied, gray-haired woman sitting on a chair in a
small hallway, who is cursing at the police.
“Now, wha’ is keepin’ you all? ‘ou all act as if
some royalty been done in in my pension. Th’
last time this ‘appened, they was in ’n out in no
time. Came in, looked ‘round, asked a few
qu’stions, took the poor girl – it was a whore, Sir,
I saw it right away what with the red ribbon on
her neck – and an ‘our later it was all clean. I
could put a new guest in that room that night.
“‘n you see, Dearie, I run this ‘ole big house all by
meself, only if there’s something to fix, I’ll call my
son Georgie. ‘e grunts like a flea-ridden dog, but
‘e always tidies up. Last time I saws ‘im, ‘e scared
the bloody life out of ‘un of them rotten dogs ‘o
kept coming ‘ere making it seem my nice pension
is a ‘orehouse. Mind ya, ‘e left a big mess after
that. Bu’ I haven’t seen that ruddy dirtfink or his
women since.
“Yesterday, I was thinkin’ that dog had the
courage to come back, ‘cos, you sees, tha’ girl
came; she ‘ad white skin, white as a peach, her
hair fi re-red, she must’ve been from the North.
Quite a sight, I tell you. She squeaked as thin as a
mouse when she asked for a room. She look’d a
chorus girl, but they don’ fool me nomore. I
knew she was one of ‘em. Them ribbons give ‘em
away. But she paid me, and I couldn’t say a word,
even when I saw ‘im, dark as a shadow, a tall man
following ‘er up the stairs.
“I thought it mighta been that horrible man
again, but I’m telling meself, Mathilda, give ‘im a
chance to see if Georgie’s reprimand worked…if
it din’t…Well, Georgie can be tougher. I ain’t
scared. Please, I’ve never been scared.
“But then the tall man left about ten o’clock, and
he r’turned half an ‘our later with another one,
and th’other one, too, was heavy, and ‘is head was
covered with a hood. I told ‘em, I did, I was
closin’ the gate at 11 o’clock, but they din’t care.
Good thing they broke down the back door.
That’s ‘ow I saw the mess this mornin’.
“Is there a list of the your guests?” we ask, inter-
rupting the old woman’s soliloquy.

“‘course, it’s all in the “So why is there a blank
guest book, you know, next to the checkout
it’s protocol. Although date for several
is a big question ‘o uses guests, Mrs.
his real name in this Thomas?” we
neighborhood…” ask.
Without getting up, “ Th e y d i n’ t
the old matron shows report when
us where the book is they lef ’,” said
located. We open the the matron.
dusty tome, and look “But they’s
at the names of all the g o n e . The
entries for the last few p o l i c e a l-
days. Th e name of the r e a d y
murdered man is cir- searched
cled. their rooms,
“What did Imre Ko- and ’s far I
vacs look like, Mrs. know, nothin’
Thomas? I believe, you remarkable ’as
mentioned he rented been found.
the room before the Th e g e n t l e-
incident took place,” men who dis-
we ask. appeared as well
“I’ve tol’ the police a as the others, they
thousand times, I did,” paid in advance.
she gripes. “There was ‘Sides Mr. Pruck
a big scar runnin’ and Mr. Benton
down ‘is face, all along still had plenty of
‘is right side, from their pre-paid
forehead to nose, there time.”
was hardly anything We t h a n k t h e
else to look at. But his woman, who keeps
eyes were intact. His on scolding the po-
irises was pure steel, a lice, the men that
determined look in came in, and by the
‘em. ‘e was left-handed, time we leave the
but ‘e held the pen strangely, as if ‘e din’t have the room, she doesn’t spare us either.
‘abit of writing, and he asked where to sign ‘is We check the backdoor, and indeed it is broken,
nam.” the lock having been apparently forced from the
We look suspiciously at the signature line, where inside. We see a lot of muddy footprints here as
Kovacs’s name was signed in childish letters. well, and on a slightly cleaner surface, we discov-
“The rest of ‘em, they all lef ’ at once ‘cos the po- er a stain the size of a penny.
lice had driven ev’ryone away, causin’ a lot of We go back into the hall and start to search the
trouble for the guests, and for me, ‘course,” added rooms of the boarding house. It takes quite some
Mrs. Thomas. time.

- 19 -
 (Select the rooms you want to visit in any order.)

Guestbook
Guest Room Checked In Checked Out Signature

Med. Off. Benton 3 (2nd floor) 11 Sept WiliamBenton

Stanley Pruck 7 (4th floor) 15 Sept Stanley Pruck
Hermann Zsuk 1 (1st floor) 16 Sept 20 Sept H. Zsuk

Imre Kovacs 2 (2nd floor) 18 Sept Imre Kovacs

Dr. John Alberton 4 (2nd floor) 18 Sept Dr.JohnAlberton

Edward Tobin 5 (3rd floor) 19 Sep 20 Sept Edward Tobin

Vaclav Zsersky 8 (4th floor) 19 Sept Vac-lav-Zsersky

1st Floor
Rm. 1
The room is a suite. It is tidy, but it’s evident that
the occupant had to leave his quarters in a hurry:
the soap was left on the side of the sink, and the Invitation and Entry Permit
foam is still spread out all over the ceramic. We
lean down and notice that something is stuck Mr. H&mann Zsuk
between the fl oorboard and the wall: a razor of The German Imperial Guard
blade longer than usual, with a handle. It is bright The Veneration of
and sharp, but as we raise it to our eyes, we see
that among the little grooves there are tiny blood Prince Franz Drago of Bohemia
stains. It is evident that its owner had tried to re- September 19 at 18:00 o’clock
move the unwanted dirt. at the German Embassy

&
In the sitting room we find a piece of paper lying
on the windowsill:

- 20 -
 2nd Floor
Rm. 2
We enter the room of the victim. The body had
been moved in the meantime, but the room is
still chaotic. Th ere are muddy footprints on the
floor mixed with green fl uids. We look again at
the pale yellow, not-so-clean wallpaper by the
fireplace, and notice the inscription ‘RACHE’
again. It is about 6 or 7 inches above eye level.
In the fireplace, there are ashes that are soaked in
moisture, but on the shoulder-height stone sill,
there is also a teaspoon of a much darker, fibrous
tobacco ash. Wiggins rubs it between his fingers,
sniffs it, and then pockets a small portion
wrapped in a piece of paper.
“We will need to look at this a bit closer,” he says.
The footprints across the room are smudged, so
there is no way to tell which one belongs to the
police, to the people in the yard, and which to
our murderer.
As Wiggins closes the door of the lodgings, we
find an oddity: with light falling in from the win-
dow, we encounter, on a relatively clean corner of
the carpet, a pair of cleanly identifiable foot-
prints. Th eir size is average, yet the impression
made by the right foot is much deeper than that
of the left. A strong circular indentation, the size
of a penny is next to the left foot print.
On the inner side of the closed door, among the
red splashes, is a small chalk or powder stain of
similar size, around chin-height.
Only one piece of furniture in the whole room
seems unmarred from the any liquid: the single
bed in the corner of the room is still carefully
made, its surface smooth and firm, showing that
the last man sleeping in it liked order and thor-
oughness. In view of the poor condition of the
room and the pension equipment, we doubt this
to be the work of the staff, given that it consists of
just Mrs. Thomas.
 take it with us before leaving the room.
- 21 -
Rm. 3
The room looks like someone lived in it, even
though it looks like the resident cleaned up be-
fore he left.
“A soldier’s room,” Wiggins notes.
We find traces of burnt logs in the fireplace. We
kneel down to look closely. With a pair of tweez-
ers, we carefully lift a half-burned notebook from
the ashes. Printed on the top of the pages is a
name: Medical Officer Jerrold Mason, with a lit-
tle seal on it, a three-headed snake wrapped
around a bayonet underneath it.
Some of the lines are still readable:
“…our only goal is to remove all these parasites
living in our country….
“No one on the continent dares to speak of it, but
the Middle East is more free than Bohemia…
Brixton’s plan is bigger than anyone could possi-
bly imagine, but that’s the danger…
“…they have not yet agreed, but the means of
revenge are extremely convincing.
“…they can…they’re killing more and more
people, and they’re lucky enough to be able to
figure out what Revenge is…I don’t dare go into
the Tower, what can I do, I just hope their si-
lence…
“The Germans were easier to deal with, disci-
plined folk who knew orders…oss, Stephan was
the centre of everything, but we owe it to him…
Ambrecht, unbelievable, but now he’s our only
chance at anything…
“…they’re arrogant, they underestimate chem-
istry, they think he’s a quack, his chemical
work…they’ll never fi nd it in the organization,
perfect plan, revenge rising…detectives came to
my home, I had to disappear, but in this hole…”
We can’t read more from the burned book due to
the holes in the pages. We wrap it carefully and


Rm. 4
The room looks completely untouched as if no
one stayed in it. We see a mirrored dressing table
beside the bed. We swipe a finger across the sur-
face. Th ere is a white powder on it, much
brighter than the rest of the room.
When we pull out the chair, it makes a strange
sound. We look at it, and find a tiny piece of skin
attached to a foot. However, as we peel it off, we
see it is actually rubber, one half smooth and
sticky, the other skin-coloured, cut in half by a
thin red crack.
On the way out, we look one more time at the
carpet pattern. There are two stains the size of a
penny in it, the same shape that we’ve seen in the
rest of the house.

3rd Floor

Rm. 5
The room appears not much used by its occu-
pant. The only thing out of place is a black leather
glove, half-sliding between the mattress and the
wall next to the bed. We note something odd
with the garment: the glove is missing the mid-
dle and ring fi nger. Th e holes appear to have
been carefully, practically professionally sewn
together.
As we take a closer look, spinning the glove
around, a part of a train ticket falls out. Neither
the destination nor the price can be gleaned
from the portion, but we do see part of an in-
scription: for veterans.
On the carpet and in the bath, we discover foot-
prints, along with stains of a what is likely a rub-
ber-tipped stick.

4th Floor
Rm. 7
The windows of the room are darkened, covered from my memory once this case is over.”
with a blanket nailed to the window sills, block-
ing out any light. Wiggins lights a match to pre- Rm. 8
vent us from covering any clues by groping in the The room smells of mold. A message with spi-
dark. dery handwriting is attached to the bathroom
In the weak light we see that the room is messy. door with a rusty nail.

The bed is trashed, the duvet lying on on the
floor. On the mirrored dressing table, medical
supplies are scattered: a worn little scalpel, a
tourniquet, several injection needles and vials.
One of the bottles we pick up and sniff at is filled Try to give your rats the
with a pungent liquid.
The bathroom is in equally bad shape: there’s a rooms to see if they tolerate
broken glass as well as several drops of blood and
vomit on the floor. We turn around to try to re- this stench!
member as many details as we can, though to be
perfectly honest we agree with Wiggins when he
says, “I sure hope I can erase what I’m seeing


- 22 -
 14 EC
A fter an extensive inspection, we are let into
the prison. We have to slip a considerable
amount of banknotes into the pocket of the war-
den in order to get him to allow us a brief meet-
ing with Henessy.
Once at the cell, we pull the latch on the cell-
door’s window. Inside, Henessy sits surprisingly
calm in his cell. Seeing the latch open, he turns
towards the door and asks us what we want.
“The three-headed snake sent us,” we whisper.
“Ah, Mason. That coward,’ he spits out the last
word. “He thinks if he writes things in the papers,
he can rise to our level, the level of true martyrs.”
“All he told us was to ask you for anything about
Prince Drago’s death,” we venture.
“He’s sent you here for that?” Henessy asks,
standing up and coming to the door. “Well, what
would I know about that, except what I read in
the papers. And those claim that some butcher
did it.
“The man did the right thing, but that’s not the
way to do it. Our way is more sophisticated. They
“N
think by imprisoning me, they can stop us. Ha!
They only delayed the inevitable. Soon everyone
will know the name of revenge, when there is a
death rattle in every palace in the world.
“Take a message to Mason: tell him he doesn’t
have to worry, we won’t talk. But he has to con-
tinue what we started.”
Then, Henessy turns away from us, looking at the
wall and ignoring us. Th ere is nothing more we
can get from him.
30 EC
“O ur readers are not too interested in Bo-
hemian Affairs,” says the journalist. “You
know, that’s not real world policy. The Germans!
The Russians! Or the States, yes! Besides, all I
know is that the Queen turns a blind eye to a lot
of dirty business when it comes to her relatives. I
wonder if the missing architect had something to
do with the Prince’s murder.”
- 23 -
36 EC
A t the Old Bailey, all they do is shake their
heads. Th e Palace having ordered a news
blackout, there’s almost nothing to fi nd out
about the Prince’s death from the Court officers.
So we head down the hall to the offices of our
favourite barrister.
“Prince Drago didn’t need a lawyer, that’s quite
certain,” said Mr. Hall. “There was a terrible inci-
dent last year. A girl of a prominent family, the
Thompsons, went missing, and it ended badly.
The mother apparently was overtaken by grief,
hasn’t been herself since. Catatonic they say.
There were allegations that there was evidence
connecting the Prince with the sordid affair, but
the Queen vouches for her family in every situa-
tion, so there was no need for lawyers.”
37 EC
sorry.”
o, Sirs, no can enter the into the Royal
Court’s message exchange. We’re
38 EC
S ir Jasper’s face hosts a strong, determined
look typical of him after an autopsy.
“I’ve been practicing for a long time, but I’ve
never dealt with royalty before. It is unfortunate
that I could only study it partially, as the Court
did not allow me to do a full autopsy.
“The Prince was murdered with a freshly sharp-
ened, thin yet rigid blade. Th ere are perfect,
straight cuts on his body, indicating that his
murderer has not opened up a body for the first
time. The cuts hit the vital organs exactly right. If
you ask me, the murderer knew exactly what he
was doing. It’s not every day to see a professional
like this, I tell you.
“Also, it may be important that the Prince’s cloth-
ing was covered in blood, but interestingly, his
fingers, all of them, had no traces of blood on
them.”




- 24 -
 51 EC
T
age.
he Scottish National Church is a small
Azatoth church, with an attached orphan-
Wiggins pulls out a piece of paper, writes
“PRESS” on it, and puts it inside the ribbon of
his hat. We now understand why he asked us to
bring a camera with us. He bids us to stand back,
while he and Henry walk up to the door. When
they return, they tell us what happened after they
passed through the orphanage gate:
Getting to the front entry desk where a young
novice sits, Wiggins plopped himself on it, tap-
ping at the paper on his hat.
“Hi, I’m John Hammond from The Telegraph.
This is my photograph’r,” he announced. “We’re
here for an interview of the local champion, little
Ashley, for the paper. You see, guv, The Star of
Albion gave ya only one of those tiny lil’ spots to
tell a great story. We are gonna give ‘u a whole
page in The Daily Telegraph. That’s somethin’,
innit?”
The novice apparently didn’t know what to do at
this hour, so he invited them in, walking through
the dark corridors of the orphanage. He intro-
duces the two to Brother Matthew, whom Wig-
gins also tried to persuade with his acting skills.
“It is indeed a great achievement,” Brother
Matthew said. “And it does the children good to
see their names in the newspapers. At the same
time, we don’t want the article to be about Miss
Crow’s disappearance, like The Star reported,
because it’s just a tiny, little part of the story. At
least in this case.”
“I can promise you, guvn’r that’s not what head-
line gonna be this time, but I gotta be honest:
you said in this case. Were there other ones?”
Wiggins asked.
Brother Matthew looked at them suspiciously,
but eventually relented.
“There is a lot of coming and going in our or-
phanage. We are not a wealthy parish, so when
someone comes to adopt a little one promising a
loving home, we are always happy as it means
- 25 -
that they need not be here where disease and
fever strikes far too many.
“However, we have noticed a pattern of adop-
tions lately, where they disappear shortly after
being adopted. We have no idea where they go
to. Of course, we’ll always press charges at the
Bow Street Police Station, but nothing ever
comes of it. Either way we pray for their souls.”
“How many cases were there?”.
The priest did not answer them; instead he
turned around motioning them to follow him.
He went down a corridor until reaching a room,
which turned out to be the library. He pointed to
a young girl with flaming-red hair sitting at a desk
near one of the bookshelves, bent over a note-
book.
“That’s Miss Crow there. But please do not bring
up the story of her disappearance. Th ese poor
children have enough sadness in their lives. The
victory, however, is a beautiful and joyous event.
It is something they get far too little of.”
Wiggins promised that they would be tactful,
while putting an arm around the monk’s shoul-
der to reassure him.
Approaching the girl they asked if they could talk
to her. At her assent, Wiggins sat down while
Henry stood behind him and pretended to be
taking pictures. Wiggins introduced them under
their aliases, asking about the girl’s homework
while Brother Matthew watched over them, all
the while casting a glance to the door.
After a few moments, the monk, who has been
fruitlessly searching his pockets for the tobacco
bag Wiggins had taken from him when he put an
arm around his shoulders, excused himself.
“Ashley,” Wiggins rushed to tell her, “I have to tell
you a secret. My name is not Hammond. It’s
Wiggins. And more importantly, I’m not a jour-
nalist, I’m a detective. I know where you were
and what you saw when you disappeared. I also
know you weren’t looking for new parents. I need
you to help me find your kidnappers.”
Ashley looked at Wiggins in fear.
“But they didn't do anything wrong. I mean…”
Her voice faltered.

“Who are these people?” Wiggins urged on again
“There were two of them, right?”
She nodded.
“One of them has a big scar across his face, and
the other one is shorter and limps. They’re both
well-dressed, wearing nice vests and ties. The tall
one smoked a pipe, and the short one walked
with a stick. The tall one was really scary. I could
hardly take my eyes off the big gash on his face. It
scared me too much.”
Ashley shook as if a shiver has run down her
spine.
“I was afraid at first that he was like that stranger
who used to take girls away who then disappear.
But he kept his word, I really wasn’t hurt. He told
me that nothing would happen to me, just that I
shouldn’t do anything he didn’t tell me to.
“He blindfolded me and took me somewhere. It
was warm there, and we were there for a while,
but he wouldn’t let me take off the blindfold. It
was scary, not seeing anything, but the short one
was there with me, and he was talking to me. He
had a rather pleasant voice.”
“What did he say?” Wiggins asked.
“Nothing of importance, children’s stories and
the like. He also kept on reassuring me that they
didn’t want to hurt me.
“Then they took me to another place, a boarding
house. They told me I was to go in and request a
room on the second floor. They gave me money,
too. The woman at the desk looked skeptical, but
she took the money and gave me the key. At that
point, the tall one joined me, and we went to-
gether to the room. He told me to wait there,
while he went out again. I fell asleep on the bed
and did not wake up until they shook me awake.
“What I saw when I woke up really scared me!
What really scared me was the creature I met in
the room. The way he looked at me. That buzzing
sound he made coming at me! But then the short
one killed him while repeating the name 'Mary.'
The tall one sped me out of the room then, and
put me in a coach. He told me not to tell anyone
about them, but what to say instead…”
-1-
At that moment, the door of the room burst
open, as Brother Matthew appeared in the frame,
his face flushed.
“And have you ever been able to practice with a
feather ball as used by the pros in the national
competition?” Wiggins switched quickly back
into the character of the journalist. Ashley caught
on just as rapidly and responded in a well-be-
haved manner that she had so far only played
with a goose-feather ball but that she hoped to
get a duck-feather ball at some point.
Wiggins thanked her for the interview and of-
fered her his hand. Th en he turned to Brother
Matthew.
“Thank you for your patience and help, Brother.
If the newsroom can get a proper ball for this lit-
tle ace, will you let her accept it in exchange for
your kindness in helpin’ us interview her?”
“Er…, yes, of course,” he stammered, surprised at
the offer. “All donations are welcome.”
Wiggins tried to make friendly conversation with
him, lest his haste and agitation reveal the true
content of the interview. Th ey were about to
leave the orphanage when Ashley hurried up be-
hind them, handing Wiggins a piece of folded-up
paper.
“I drew this for you about the tournament,” she
mentioned cheerily but her eyes had a knowing
look. Th e folded sheet was decorated with a
badminton picture. They thanked the girl and the
monk again for their kindness as Wiggins took
the note from her.
Having walking a few blocks from the orphan-
age, he unfolds the paper and shows us a very
curious drawing on it:

 52 EC
P orky has no idea what tip he could give us
on the Prince’s case.
“I’ve only heard rumours that the Prince was
rather debauched, and that he was more interest-
ed in women, cards, and theatres than anything a
position of dominance can offer.”
83 EC
A t the offices of the Cunard Lane Steamship
Company, a bored-faced cashier greets us.
“We don’t do returns,” he says when we show
him the tickets.
“We don’t wish to return ‘em to you,” we say.
“Only, we’s found this bundle and want to know
who bought ‘em to return it the them. We reckon
it’s quite expensive to travel over the ocean.
Some guv’nor with that kind of money may give
a reward to an ‘onest set of blokes, right mate?”
“Let me check,” says the cashier and flips through
the purchase book, looking up the ticket num-
bers. “Ah yes, there it is: Sherry Vernet bought
the tickets. How curious…he also paid a premi-
um to be able to use them at any time in the com-
ing six months. Not very typical.”
86 EC
M r. Niblick stares in front of him, a heart-
broken expression on his face, a clear
response to our question.
“Emily was a good student at her school. A fine
school for young ladies, she attended, too. As a
reward, she and some other good students were
invited the Royal Palace for a tour. She seems to
have met this architect there, who said she knew
something about my daughter’s disappearance.
“I’m not surprised she disappeared. Everything
my wife and I touch seems to just vanish be-
tween our fi ngers. But Emily was not supposed
to be one of those things.
"No one’s willing to tell us anything, as if they’re
just waiting for us to give it up.”
-2-
He sighs, resignation in his voice.
“When and where did she disappear?” we ask.
“During the visit to the Palace, they had tea
served to them, and then they visited the gardens
and Her Majesty’s personal library in small
groups, followed by an attendant, a Mr. Hornby,
who also teaches at the school. He was also the
one who took the children to the Thames Delta
to spend some time in nature after spending so
much time in the dusty rooms.”
Mr. Niblick runs his hand through his greying
hair.
“They went by the riverbank in small groups,
played, picked flowers — the things children are
wont to do. It wasn’t until dusk, when their
teacher started to gather them up, when it was
noticed Emily was nowhere to be found.
“Of course, the police were notified immediately,
and they searched all night and the following day,
but there was no sign of her. Not one sign at all
since that day. If you ask me, that woman, Miss
Osborn, would have led us to our daughter, if she
too had not disappeared.
“But that is the reality of our family. Fate is always
playing tricks on us. It puts our desires right be-
fore us, and then right before we can touch it, it
dissipates. There’s a curse on this family.”
101 EC
T he Imperial Club appears sleepy during the
day. Asking the doorman about Prince
Drago, he tells us — after a coin passes hands —
that the prince had been there last Sunday,
played, won — as usual — and then confronted
someone at the table. Th e doorman did not
know who the other gentleman was, only that he
was not a member of the club.
“Everyone turned their faces away, thinking that
the prince was going to hit the other gentleman
— and you never want to be a witness when roy-
alty makes a mistake — but instead, he just
jumped up from the table and stormed out with
a swear word on his lips. It's a load off our minds.
No one wants to host an incident like this.”

 at
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ry Lane by
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take this I write th by now.
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think of Holmes
Sherlock
~
The detective solved the case in 11 leads: The crime scene (2 EC), including the room of the
two doctors, Room 3 & 4 (each 1 lead), Murray (36 SW) the Drury Lane Theatre (31 WC),
George Thomas’ butcher shop (57 NW), Sidley's brothel (32 SE), the orphanage (51 EC),
Vernet’s hideout (69 NW), the Royal Military Asylum (47 SW), and the Westminster
Chapel (88 SW). Visiting the Royal Bethlehem Asylum (28 SE), Dickers’ Tobacconist (86
SW), and the Little Newspaper Shop (93 WC) count as free leads.

-V-
the murderers’ hideout. Unfortunately, they were no longer staying there, but they still left
some valuable information behind.
“The tickets to the cruise ship!” exclaims the doctor.
“Not quite, my dear fellow,” the detective says. “They’re important information, but no. The
more important clue was the the psychiatrist’s calling card, Dr. Jonathan Angel, by the fire-
place, among the things to be burned. Given that our suspects wanted to destroy the infor-
mation, I found it worthy to investigate further.
“I found him at the Royal Military Asylum. He was walking with a stick, and I got suspicious.
The patient he was dealing with, based on his gestures, was someone he was intimate with,
his mistress — or his wife. The wedding pictures in his office only depicted the doctor, so I
had to check the records of Westminster Chapel, which was in all the pictures. There I finally
found out everything I was missing!
"The doctor’s real name is Dr. John Watson, and his wife Mary was the woman he was treat-
ing. He had her admitted at the Royal Military Asylum under her maiden name, Mary
Morstan, where he took a position under a false name to keep an eye on her. The date en-
graved on the ring found at the scene of the murder was their wedding date and could easily
identify the murderer of Prince Drago.
“Which is all why Dr. Watson decided to take revenge. He showed the ring to the Prince be-
fore he died, so that he would know why he was now going to hell. But that is why he lost it
as well. In the rush to get out of the boarding house, it must have fallen out of his pocket. He
had his best friend, Sherry Vernet, or better Sherlock Holmes, the greatest criminal master-
mind I’ve ever met help him look for it. Only Holmes didn’t realise that the ring was not lost
on the way out but already at the crime scene.”
“And that is why you think the doctor — or better said, Holmes — will come for the ring
again?” the doctor asks.
“Yes,” answers the detective. “The man has quite the psychopathic and narcissistic tenden-
cies. His friendships with some of the greatest military names has protected him for many
years from suffering the consequences of that condition. But he is a loyal friend. And having
fooled us once, he will try again. He is indeed one of the smartest criminal mastermind I’ve
ever met. But, as you can see, even he makes mistakes and walks into our trap,” said the de-
tective.
A noise from the window alerts us to the movement on the street. As we look outside, we see
two constables dragging a kicking figure across the street towards us. We hear his shouts and
proclamations of innocence all the way up the stairs. When the constables enter with their
capture, we realise immediately that something is wrong: the “culprit” is a young boy, waving
a letter in his hand while yelling angrily.
“Geroffme,” he cries. “I’m jus’ droppin’ off a letter. A tall man gave me six-pence to deliver it
to some ‘constulting' detective bloke. He says there’s another six-pence in it for me if I does
that.”
The detective reaches for the letter, motioning to the bobbies to let the young boy go and to
the doctor to give him the money. Meanwhile, he rips the envelope and reads out loud:

- IV -
the beginning.”
“How did you determine one was a doctor?” Lestrade asks.
“Simple,” the detective answers. “As I said, the cuts revealed that they had been done by some-
one with medical knowledge. And in the boarding house, there were two persons who could
be thought to have that kind of skill. I knew the murderers must be using pseudonyms, but in
my experience, any doctor who goes through the difficulties attaining that title will be unwill-
ing to part with it, no matter the circumstance. Th e examination of the two rooms made it
clear that the person in question waited in Room 4. That was the room of an alleged doctor.”
“But how could you tell he was involved and not the other guest, that Medical Officer?” the
doctor inquires.
“Because Room 4 was the room the two accomplices used to prepare their actions. The white
powder on the table and the small fragment of skin torn from a fake, rubber-made wound
found on the bottom of the chair — that was the hint that one of them had changed his ap-
pearance. The tall man was said to have a scar. It also hinted at the man’s profession, as those
things are the tools of the trade an actor.
“Also, there were small round marks on the floor in the doctor’s room — the same kind found
in the victim’s room and on the backdoor that the two broke down to exit the boarding house.
It was the imprint of a walking stick — something the good doctor possessed according to our
witness, little Miss Ashley.”
“But how did you know to look for Sherry Vernet?"
“I did not at first. But since Prince Drago was a big fan of theatre, I visited the performance
published in the newspaper, which could arouse the Crown Prince’s interest. I met Sherry Ver-
net in his dressing room, who first attracted my attention because of his height. It was when I
saw the tramp costume in his dressing room that I knew that I had met him before and that he
was one of the murderers we were looking for. Lestrade, do you remember the drunk on Hox-
ton-street?”
“I remember,” Lestrade says. “He wandered up and down there, and then I ordered one of the
men to make him go away. Was that Vernet? Oh, if only we had known that then!”
“Yes, if only. But that is why we will catch him today,” exclaims the consulting detective. “The
reason he was running up and down the street was that he realized they’d lost something —
the ring. The doctor’s wedding ring. The doctor could hardly go back without suspicion, so his
friend went instead.
“But let us continue on the story of what happened the night of the murder. The doctor’s story
is yet to come, for all things lead to him.
“The owner told me that a brothel owner often brought customers to her pension until her son
had a few choice words with him, so I tracked down her son, who unwittingly told me that
Sam Sidley, the carpet store owner, was running a brothel. I found out in the neighborhood
that Sidley also serves high-end clients with young, Northern-born orphans. From here on
out, all I needed was to look at the newspaper to find out about the disappearances of young
orphaned girls. The disappearance and reappearance of the Scottish National Church orphan-
age’s captain of the badminton team, was another clue to the mystery.
“Little Ashley was the girl Vernet ‘bought’ to help lure the Prince into the pension. She was
blindfolded, but she was able to follow along the path of the route Vernet and the doctor took
from his hideout to the Hoxton Pension. Following the route in reverse allowed me to locate

- III -
 Solution
e are gathered once again at 221B Baker Street. Lestrade stands by the
door with two grim bobbies at his side. Holmes and Watson stand by the
window and watch the house entrance carefully.
“Come in, friends,” says the detective. “You may yet witness the murderers
of Prince Drago walking into our trap”
W
“Murderers? Plural?” the doctor asks.
“Yes, my dear friend. The evidence clearly indicated that there were two of them: a tall one,
as evident from the position of the writing in the victim’s room at the Hoxton Pension —
typically, any man writes at his own eye level, and the word ‘RACHE’, a German word mean-
ing revenge, was written quite high up — and a crippled shorter person, a doctor. The traces
of his cane and the expertly made cuts on the body immediately betrayed him.”
The detective turns to us.
“Did you see my ad in the paper about the jewellery you found? I gave you a wrong address,
where I had one of Lestrade’s informants waiting for the culprit, who would not be able to
resist the opportunity. When I saw the wedding ring with the date on it, I knew it was a per-
sonal matter, even though all the evidence pointed to the Restorers and a planned political
murder.”
“Now wait here,” Lestrade interjects. “A personal matter? Why then did they write this word
‘RACHE’?”
“Just to fool the investigating officers,” comes the reply. “The phrase was written in German
to misdirect us towards the recently arrested German anarchists – Th e Restorers. I’m not
sure if the murderers knew that there was a known restorer in the boarding house at the time,
Jerrold Mason, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the location was consciously chosen precisely
for that fact. We’re dealing with two very cunning criminals. That was obvious to me from

- II -
 Questions
First series
1. Who killed Prince Franz Drago?
2. Why was he killed?
3. Where did the murderer hide?
4. When did we first meet the culprit?
5. Where is Mary Morstan?
second series
6. What is the role of Brother Matthew?
7. What happened to Dr. Ambrecht?
8. What happened to Emily Niblick?
9. Who are the known Restorers?
-I-
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