“I’m not going to worry about things I can’t control. Can we focus on this poor soul?”
“Sure, what are you thinking?”
“Are you familiar with the Whitechapel case from a decade ago?”
“I think the world of law enforcement is familiar with that case, why?”
“This look familiar to the case?”
“Only superficially, the missing organs. There are many differences, the missing hair, the total lack of blood among others.”
“Are the other victims Dance Hall Girls?”
“I’ve not been able to identify them; do you think this woman was a Pretty Waiter Girl?”
“I am not sure, I think we may have a copycat of Jack, but without knowing who the victims are will make it harder. What if we run sketches of the women in the paper, maybe we can find someone to come forward?”
“I can get on that, we will need to bury the bodies of the first two victims soon.”
“You ever thought about a few photographs of the bodies to keep as evidence?”
“That’s not a bad idea, it might even work for crime scenes.”
“But who would pay for it?”
“I’ve an idea we can approach the city to pay for it. I will pay for these first victims.”
“Here is something I have never seen.” Doyle motioned for the Coroner to come inspect the lower half of the body, “How could a person split a sacrum like that?”
“I’m not sure. It wasn’t chopped or rough sawn. I’ve never seen bone cut like that, outside of an operating room.”
“Obliviously not the Highbinders, I have seen their dismemberments, nothing like this. They are more like hacking, or a butcher. Now I am going to ask this, please don’t laugh. What do you think of magic or supernatural creatures causing the dismemberment?”
“I’ve someone I consult with from time to time. I will ask her.”
“Once I have a picture, I have an inventor I can ask if he knows anything mechanical that might do this.”
“Just think we only have a week to the full moon, it is only going to get crazier,” the doctor stood and waved to the orderlies to collect the body parts and cover them with a wool blanket.
Doyle stood as well, started slowly walking through the haze to the street and said, “You understand there is no scientific evidence the moon has any effect on a person’s mental state or actions.”
Doctor Carlyle raised his right eyebrow. “Really? Tell that to a lycanthrope.”
Light Music:
A few hundred feet higher in elevation on the slopes of Pacific Heights stood a rather substantial estate that looked over the grounds, then a Cemetery, the Presidio and finally the Golden Gate and the bay. The fog cleared at this elevation, allowing a clear indication of where the sound of someone dreadfully trying to learn a violin version of ragtime. It came from the manor house.
Helena, half dressed in fencing gear, worked hard at perfecting her fingering technique and failed, along with bowing and hitting the correct notes. Lane the driver, whom some might describe as a long tall drink of water, set out some late morning snacks, ignoring the painful notes as they crashed into his ears.
Helena began talking to herself as if reading or writing a script, “Morning-room in Helena’s estate on the north slope of Pacific Heights overlooking the Presidio. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a Violin is heard in the adjoining room,” at which she stops playing; before the dead down the hill began leaving their graves.
“Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music ceases, the petite Lady Helena gracefully enters.”
“Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?” Helena begins with a fake British accent.
“I didn’t think it polite to listen, Miss,” his Texas drawl evident.
Helena continues, “I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately—anyone can play accurately—but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the Violin is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science for Life,” Helena waits for some recognition of her wit. She is disappointed when none comes, “Lane, do you even know what that is from?”
Lane thinks for a moment before answering, “I am sure I don’t Miss. Should I learn the song?”
“Not the song, the words! You don’t know, do you? Only the best writer of all time!”
“I believe that ragtime should be played on a piano, Young Miss,” with a perfect upper-class British accent, Sigmund commented as he entered the room. Attired in a fencing jacket which barely covered his barrel chest and his street clothing below, he carried the morning post.
“Sigmund, you’re British, do you know the words?” Helena asked.
“I am sorry I do not, should I?” Sigmund answered.
“Of course, you should! It is from Oscar Wilde, he is your countryman after all.”
“Oh no Miss I am sorry, but you are mistaken, he is Irish, not British.”
Lane couldn’t help but snicker a bit as he continued setting the snacks.
“Why my stepfather left me with you two is beyond the pale!” Helena in a fake furry stormed toward the exit.
“Of course, if you don’t want to read the post,” Sigmund stopped her with the magic words, that represented news from the outside world.
“What did I get?” her seventeen-year-old face beamed like a school girl’s.
“You have the usual papers, from New York, London and Paris. A package from Professor Merryall and a telegram from the General.”
Before Sigmund finished, Helena grabbed the package and started tearing at the knotted string, while speaking, “What did my stepfather say, is he coming home soon?”
“I have not read it yet if you like you can read it after you investigate your new toy from the Professor,” Sigmund said, stalling the inevitable.
She shook her shaggy bob cut strawberry blond hair, the paper had been thrown asunder, to reveal the metal case contained inside. “You read it, I almost have this opened.”
“Certainly,” Sigmund slowly opening the telegram reading it in its entirety before looking at the smiling Helena. Her eyes expanded by the adjustable magnifying goggles she found
