::  The Maiden Tribute   ::

Chapter One

Dana Scully hurried down the narrow passageway; her boot heals clicking on the cobblestones. The fog had already begun to snatch at the flared hem of her skirt. Like all the inhabitants of this part of London, it was a grasping thing, hindering, clutching. Its breath dank with the smell of coal smoke and an ancient effluvium, one part life and a thousand parts death and refuse, from the streets, the sewers, the Thames itself. Her tight jacket afforded little comfort against the invading chill of this dark February evening. She had left her small clinic in this very marginal part of East London and she was later than even she liked to be. Her mother would begin to worry soon and Dana hated to listen to Maggie Scully fret. Besides, Mulder would be pacing on the corner of Tottingham Court waiting to take her to the meeting hall to hear Mrs. Virginia Woodhall speak on universal suffrage.

As she stepped out onto the street, Dana pulled her small collar up around her neck and looked up and down the street, hoping to find a hansom cab. When all she saw were horse carts and drays, she sighed and began to walk toward the main thoroughfare where she could board a horse-drawn omnibus heading toward her home in Bethany Circle.

She walked with her head down, keeping an eye on the edge of the curb and for the tell-tale lightening of the fog that was her only indication that a streetlight was ahead of her. She listened as the pattern of footsteps against cobblestones increased and the soft murky echoes of voices ebbed and flowed around her. Finally she came to the street corner and joined other apparitions waiting for the streetcar. After several long minutes she made out the clip-clop rumble of the car and wearily pulled herself up the high steps. As she sat back on the hard bench, she let the day’s events crowd in on her like the whispers of the working class people around her.

She had treated the crazy woman again today. The poor creature had been coming into the clinic for about six weeks now, her cough getting worse with each visit. Dana had known from the beginning that the woman was a whore, her age indeterminable and her appearance coarse. Her dirty blond hair tendrilled down from the bun on top of her head, and her manner was secretive and furtive. Dana hadn’t even learned her name until the third time she had shuffled in wanting more laudanum. "Just call me Cassandra, Miss." Scully found the woman’s diction to be quite intriguing. After two years, Dana was used to the harsh Cockney ‘haiches’ and words like perfect becoming ‘purfick’. The whore’s well-modulated syllables and syntax belied her origins. She made a mental note to ask Mulder about it.

Of course Fox William Mulder was every bit an anomaly as Dana’s mysterious whore. The Oxford educated son of a wealthy manufacturer; he had chucked all trappings of wealthy upper-crust life to take a job with the Pall Mall Gazette, one of the more notorious of London’s newspapers. He was an odd man with odder mannerisms, like always calling everyone by their last name, insisting that he was showing the charwoman, who cleaned his small set of rooms, and the Lord High Mayor himself the same respect that should be accorded to all God’s Creature – "If I indeed believed in God!"

Mulder shocked and thrilled her. Her mother, of course, had lost all interest in him the day his father had disinherited him over his byline in the Gazette story detailing shading dealings between several of the elder Mulder’s closest friends. "Dana, dear, he’s just not the sort of man I want courting my daughter," Maggie Scully had sighed.

Dana hid her smile. She never really considered the flamboyant reporter a suitor. And he certainly had shown no sign of romantic interest in her.

They had met by chance on the West End where she had been returning from a friend’s party and he had been covering a political rally. There was a nasty accident involving the Duke of Converse son’s carriage and a flower seller. Scully had tended the dying woman and Mulder had chased the carriage for two blocks before a constable had pulled him away from the carriage door. Mulder’s lead story the following day had caused a scandal that lasted until the next day when some skirmish in Khartoum pushed the story to the back pages. He had come by the clinic to tell her that nothing would be done to the Duke’s son and she had commiserated with him over a pint at the Lion and Lamb. Thus had begun their strange friendship. He would stop by at odd hours and regale her with tales and stories he could never print and she would listen when she could. Once she had even tended his bruised and battered head after he had gotten into a fight with an Earl over something he would not discuss, even with her.

For his part, he had taken an interest in her desire for suffrage and had gone out of his way to find stories and lectures that he thought would interest her. That was where they were going tonight. Mulder had learned that a program of several speakers was going to be held at a nearby meeting hall concerning several issues important to women and their rights. "Come with me Scully," he had urged. "There’s supposed to be a lot of important people there tonight." His grin had captured her. "I might even get a story out of it."

The conductor called out "Bethany Circle" and she jumped up and quickly exited. She walked quickly down the dark street, nodding to the few neighbors exiting or entering carriages in front of their homes. The fashionable neighborhood was the home of wealthy lawyers and doctors with the occasional retired army officer thrown in for good measure. She ran up the steps and was just reaching for the door when it swung open and Foster, their dour butler looked down his long elegant nose and sniffed. "Miss Dana?" In a tone that suggested that she might consider the servants entrance.

Foster had been with the family for only 10 years, since their old retainer had retired to Northumberland somewhere. Dana didn’t like Foster and while he was never overt about it Foster was profoundly ashamed that he worked for a family who’s oldest daughter tended the sick in one of the poor neighborhoods of the city. Dana, for her part, couldn’t stand the little prig and one of her more illicit pleasures was mimicking him for Mulder. Now, she pushed past the obstacle and ran to the stairs only to hear her mother’s tired, worried, voice call out, "Dana Katherine."

Under her breath she used a word that she hadn’t heard before she opened her clinic. She turned and walked quickly into the parlor. She stopped short when she saw her mother had company. It was quite late for callers and she eyed the gentleman with suspicion. Tall and lank with an air of disdain, he eyed her much like she would study a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. Her mother sat primly by the fireplace dressed in a fine silk dress of violet, the color of mourning, which she had worn for nearly three years since her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Maggie Scully eyed her youngest daughter with exasperation. She had not been pleased at all when Mr. Scully had indulged his favorite child in her dreams of an education. It had caused quite the scandal and her sons would have suffered for it had William, Jr. not already been posted to India. Charles of course had married so far above him that the scandals of his family were mere trifles to contend with. After all, when one played cards all night with the Prince of Wales, what did it matter if one’s sister puttered in poverty. At least Melissa’s taste in Mr. Conan Doyle’s more sensational theories could be hidden.

"Dana, you will need to hurry if you are to dress for dinner. I’ve asked Mr. Barrington to join us. You remember Mr. Barrington, do you not?" Maggie Scully’s tone left no doubt that Dana had better remember who Mr. Barrington was.

Dana racked her brain, but for the life of her she could not ever remember meeting this man before. "I’m sorry Mother, Mr. Barrington, but I can’t join you for dinner. I have an engagement that I am unable to break, so if you will excuse me." She smiled sweetly and turned and nearly made it to the stairs before Maggie Scully caught up to her and firmly gripped her daughter’s elbow.

"Dana!" The voice held all the reproach and anger as it had when Dana was 10 and had come in muddy and happy instead of prim and bored. "How can you be so rude? I asked Mr. Barrington to stay so you could talk with him again."

Dana eyed her mother and hissed. "But I don’t remember ever meeting him before, Mother. Besides I have to go…"

"Dana! Enough! Mr. Barrington is Mrs. Edgerton’s nephew and quite rich, I understand, and you met him at Marie Edgerton’s soiree last month." Dana was very familiar with the accompanying sigh. "However are you to get married unless you meet ACCEPTABLE young men?"

Dana kept her sigh to herself. She, of course, hadn’t broken the news to her mother that she had no intention of accepting the offers of any of the, now, not-quite-so-young men that Captain Scully’s widow insisted upon inviting to meet her daughters. She was happy with her choices and her one disastrous liaison with Professor Jack Willis had left her with a sour outlook on romantic love in general and ‘connubial bliss’ in particular. Jack Willis had taken her idealistic love and maidenhead and even offered to set her up in a small apartment. When she had discovered that Mrs. Willis and their three small boys lived in Battersea she had fled the relationship and vowed to never let any other man touch her in that way again. But even the disaster with Willis had not kept her from her adamant pursuit of an independent career. She steadfastly continued to sit in the back of classrooms and surgeries, gaining as much knowledge as she could soak up. Often, she had been the only woman in the classes, but her innate sense of humor and her reserved nature had buffered her from the coarser comments and several of the other students had actually taken her under their wing, escorting her to and from the classrooms. She had allowed the courtesy because it suited her but after Jack Willis, she had always declined their offers of dinner.

Dana knew she would never get a position in any of the hospitals so when her studies were over, she found a shop in Red Lion Court, near the far end, and set up a small surgery and clinic. It was slow going for the first two years but eventually the neighborhood women came to her with their ailments and even some of the men would let her set their broken bones. Occasionally, a midwife would call her when there was a particularly difficult birth. All in all it was a life she preferred to the pampered existence that her mother seemed to expect and desire for her.

She gently touched her mother’s shoulder. "I’m sorry, dearest. But I cannot join you for dinner tonight. Please make my apologies to Mr. … Mr." Her slight smile conveyed her embarrassment, as she turned and fled up to her room. Her mother sighed deeply and turned to make her excuses for her incredibly strong-willed and rude daughter.

::  Chapter 2  ::

Chief Superintendent Walter Skinner stared out of his high dingy window overlooking the courtyard below. The gaslights had just been lit and their stark yellow glow cast flickering shadows through the encroaching fog. He should have left for home hours ago, but he hadn’t hurried home for a long time now.

He gazed back into the gloom of his spacious office. He had risen far in the ranks of Scotland Yard. He had made a real name for himself, handling the most delicate of cases with discretion and tact - not bad for the third son of a minor governmental functionary. The leather furniture smelled of good soap and the top of his desk was large and plush with the ingrain leather insert. There were landscape prints on the walls and he suddenly realized that this was the room where he felt most comfortable in. Certainly not the small suite of rooms he had on Royal Street. Certainly not since Sharon left.

Sharon. He had married her because their mothers had wanted it and he had tried his best to provide and care for her. Eventually he found that he had not only grown fond of her but had actually fallen in love with his tall, thin, regal wife. Unfortunately, she had never really reciprocated his feelings. She had been a dutiful wife and she had welcomed him into her bed for regular, if uninspiring sex. That is until she decided to have her portrait painted for him for their 10^th anniversary.

Gastone Fumeaux was all the rage of their circle. Dark, moody, and continuous, he had a real flair for portraiture. And, it seemed a real flair for seducing his subjects. It could have been glossed over when the Honorable Mrs. Avery had suddenly, at 42, become pregnant, supposedly by her husband, who everyone knew, could barely stand to be seen in the same room with her. Only a few very close friends ever saw the hideous blackened eye of Lady Jane Denver after her husband had found her in a less than modest pose, nowhere near the posing platform. But the entire Bethel Court had been thrown into an uproar when it was discovered that Mrs. Sharon Skinner had suddenly decamped from the fashionable neighborhood, along with the painter.

Skinner had endured the stares and snickers for only so long and had finally sold the house and most of it’s furnishings and moved his library and personal belongings into a small set of rooms off of Piccadilly. He had been there nearly a year before the inquiry from the Paris constabulary had caused him to make his one and only trip to France to identify the body of his once beautiful wife, whose corpse was more emaciated than he had ever imagined. "Absinthe poisoning." Intoned the grave officer of the Sûreté

. Skinner had tracked Fumeaux down and would have beaten the man to death but he had found him in the small squalid room where the artist and Sharon had spent their final months. Neither Sharon nor Gastone had profited much from the escapade – Skinner doubted if Gastone had even picked up a brush in all their time together. He had left the inconsolable man, drunk, weeping, and clutching a small canvas of Sharon.

The soft knock on the door interrupted his musings and he snapped out of his reverie. "Enter."

Detective Sergeant John Doggett tentatively stuck his head around the door. "Uhm…Chief?"

Skinner sighed. "What is it Sergeant?"

Skinner considered his dour sergeant. Clinched jaw, close-cropped, sandy hair that made his large ears even more prominent. Doggett’s taciturn nature suited Skinner's stern emotion. They got on well together. Skinner moved with ease among the upper crust of society having observed their mores for most of his life and Doggett had a strange affinity for the parlor maids and housekeepers of the elegant houses they often found themselves in while investigating delicate matters.

"Sir, Beyers is downstairs." Skinner raised an eyebrow. Constable John Beyers was a strange one. Neat and trim to the point of fussiness, he moved among the dregs of society with an ease that amused and impressed the Chief Superintendent.

"And?"

Doggett shrugged. "Says he has a lead on the missing governess of Lord Cavender."

Skinner’s eyebrow rose high on his brow. "Indeed? Well then, why isn’t he up here himself?"

Doggett grinned. "Because Byers’ little troll won’t come within three streets of the building."

Understanding dawned. "Aw. The fence." Skinner grimaced as he recounted his last encounter with the rag and junk dealer whose real business was in stolen goods and bartering information. Skinner sighed and grabbed his coat from the tree. "Let’s go. I supposed I shall have to stand him to several drinks."

Doggett coughed into his hand. "Would you like me to handle it, sir?" He already knew the answer. He would never dream of broaching the subject of his superior’s wife, but he had been aware of the circumstances. He also realized that Skinner had thrown himself into the seemingly endless reports that came across his desk. Reports that in the early days he would have initialed and passed on to the commissioner with no more than a cursory glance.

Skinner studied Doggett for a moment, knowing too well what the other man was thinking. "Come on Sergeant, I haven’t eaten and I’m sure you haven’t either."

They descended to the large, open ground floor, now quiet. Bow Street and Whitechapel stations would be bustling, but here at headquarters, all but a few of the men had gone home to their families.

John Beyers, his beard almost quivering with excitement put his weight first on one foot, then on the other. When he spotted Skinner he straightened to attention. "Sir."

"What have you got, Constable?"

Beyers held the door open and then followed the two other men down the front steps onto the sidewalk fronting Great Scotland Yard. He nervously cleared his throat. "Uhm…sir…Mr. Doggett…uhm, Mr. Frohike is waiting for us down at The Headless Goat, in Highgate."

Skinner was familiar with the place and sighed. "Well I hadn’t expected to meet him at Westminster, but before we get there, tell me what the man has to say."

Beyers hemmed and hawed. "Uhm…sir…I would just as soon you hear what he has to say firsthand." The constable blushed. "It is rather outrageous."

Skinner breathed in a deep gulp of the chilled fog and stomped off down the street. "When is it not?"

A ten-minute walk took them out of the mostly commercial and mercantile area where the Yard was situated into the out and out slums of London. The public house was crowded at this time of evening. The charwomen and chimney sweeps sat to one side sharing a pint and perhaps some bangers and mash before going home to their cheap rooms. The lamplighters were taking a break in their nightly vigil, most of them having just finished their task along the more fashionable streets just a few blocks and lifetimes away. The nighttime denizens were off to the other side of the room staring sullenly into their drinks before going out to find money by whatever means that presented itself. However, everyone fell silent as the three policemen entered and scanned the room.

Constable Beyers spotted their prey and started for the partially hidden table in the corner. Skinner and Doggett followed close behind, both of them eyeing the more notorious diners. They stopped and watched as one bedraggled man scuttled along the edge of the crowd and then out the door. Doggett started to go after the creature, but Skinner stopped him. "Leave Jimmy be, Sergeant. We know where to find him. I want to hear what Mr. Frohike has to say more than I want to arrest a cutpurse.

Doggett argued, "but word has it that Jimmy pushed that charwoman under the wheels of that dray wagon last week!"

"And how many witnesses are willing to come forward and testify?" Skinner rebuked mildly before continuing his journey to the dark corner of the bar.

They stood in front of the fence and Beyers. If possible, Melvin Frohike looked more disreputable than usual. His scraggy, gray, beard and flyaway hair went well with his mismatched trousers and vest. His third-hand collarless shirt had suspicious spots on his breast and sleeves.

Doggett took the chair next to Frohike and Skinner sat across from the odious little man. Almost immediately Tillie, the barmaid came up and ignoring Frohike entirely cooed, "Wot yer gents be wantin?"

Skinner ordered ale all around and then looked sternly at the fence. "Bring us all roast beef sandwiches."

Tillie eyed Frohike with new respect. It was seldom that he ate that good and never had she known anyone to stand him to a meal. "Sure, ducks, be a mo’." She offered a gaped tooth smile to Doggett before she turned and sashayed back to the bar.

Skinner waited patiently for Melvin Frohike to tell his tale. Frohike for his part had been around too long to be needlessly intimidated by the police, but he respected the surly, impeccably dressed bald man before him. Skinner had a reputation of being a fair man, but his temper was such that you didn’t want to awaken it if you could avoid it. The little man cleared his phlegm-filled throat and thought to spit, but the hard looks of both Skinner and Doggett stopped him "Well goven’r, guess I got summick a bit tasty like for yer." Frohike stopped expectantly, but Skinner merely stared, working his jaw. " ‘Ear tell the lass wot taught that lord’s brats got ‘erself in ter trouble?"

"No one has said anything against Miss Wells." Doggett interrupted but then sighed deeply.

Lord Cavender had called the yard almost two weeks ago and much to Doggett’s chagrin, Skinner had been busy with the Commissioner when the call came in forcing Doggett to go to Rutledge Crescent and take the report from the aloof lord. Doggett had been surprised at the time because usually the rich hated any hint of scandal and avoided involvement with the police, but Cavender had insisted that something must have happened to his children’s governess. "Philydia is a most studious and modest young woman, Sergeant. She visits her invalid mother every Sunday afternoon and returns promptly at 8:00. Last night when she did not return, Hobbs, our butler, went out to look for her. He traced her route all the way to her mother’s in Red Lion Court. Hobbs reports that Mrs. Wells insisted that her daughter left promptly at 7:00." Doggett remembered the stricken look on the lord’s face. "When Hobbs returned, he and the footman went back out and made inquiries all along her route to no avail. That’s why I’ve called you people in. I want her found. The children are devastated."

Doggett had asked all the necessary and embarrassing questions. He had talked to the maids and the footmen, not only in the Cavender household but also the servants of the neighbors on either side and across the street from the mansion. The picture of Philydia was clear and honest. Pious and sweet with no airs above her station, she was genuinely well liked by everyone he talked to. She had no suitors and the Cavender’s housekeeper, Mrs. Morris made sure that Doggett understood. " ‘Ere now. Yer don’t go talkin’ about Miss Wells. She’s a good girl, she is. Don’t take no brook with any of the trade men or such. An’ she din’ put on no airs or nuffin’. Always with a kind word, I jus’ know summin’ bad ‘appened to the poor thing and you best be findin’ wot fer."

What ‘fer' had yielded nothing for nearly two weeks. This was the first hint that anyone had so much as heard of the missing governess, as the papers had been more interested with the events unfolding in the Sudan than in Lord Cavender’s missing help.

Doggett glared at the smirking little man and started to say something, but Skinner gripped his arm. "Say your piece Frohike." The food and drink were delivered and Frohike started to concentrate on his sandwich, but Skinner’s hand whipped out and grabbed the little man by the neck. With deadly calm he ground out. "Talk first, then eat."

Frohike sputtered and Skinner found that his hand was suddenly covered in spittle, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

Clutching Skinner’s arm, he gasped out. " ‘Old on goven’r. I’ll tell yer. Jus’ leave up." Skinner let go and wiped his hand on the man’s filthy vest. "Man come in ta the shop wif this lit’ think." He reached into his pocket and threw a small broach on the table. "Ask ‘im where he got it an’ ‘e said ‘don’ the sewers." The little man winked. "Only ‘e wern no tosher." He tapped his nose. "Yer cen tell." Skinner involuntary looked over at the group of men sitting together by the coal stove. Few people chose to sit near them as they made their money by going down to the sewers to scavenge for lost jewelry and the odd bits of silver lost down the sewer drains in the finer houses of London. Skinner knew that the men paid for the privilege of mucking about the detritus of London. But, he also knew the very existence of the profession allowed men like Frohike to buy and sell stolen goods and have the ready-made excuse of "well, if ‘e were a thief, I din’ know and it had nuffink ter do wif me, tole me ‘e got in the sewers."

Skinner picked up the broach and showed it to Doggett. It was a mourning broach, woven in human hair and not at all uncommon. Looking up at the fence he inquired, "The reports said nothing about Miss Wells wearing any jewelry. What has this got to do with the case?" He voice was without rancor, only curiosity.

Frohike grinned evilly. "Well now, that’s the story now, in’it. Tole the silly sod to ‘garn. Summick like that don’ last down in the sewers and ter not be daft. Tole him I’d ‘ave me good friend Mr. Beyers ‘ere of the ‘yard to come visit ‘im iffen ‘e din tell me quick like. He finally tole me some young gel down in Whitechapel threw it out a window and told ‘im ter go get help. Said her name were Wells. The man ‘e ran orff an said he found him a copper an’ tole ‘im bout it afore ‘e brung me the bit." Frohike sat back in his chair and grinned. "Tole yer it ‘ere summick."

Skinner looked at Doggett whose eyes had gotten large as saucers. Then Skinner looked over at Beyers and cocked one eye at him. Beyers leaned over to the little man. "You’re sure, Mr. Frohike?"

Frohike snorted. "Sure as rain."

Skinner snarled. "When did the man say he received the broach?"

Frohike shrugged. "Din’. I tried to ask but ‘e got real nervous like an’ runned out wiff out ‘is money – not that I’da giv’em much fer it." The little man winked. "When Mr. Beyers ‘ere stopped by, askin bout this ‘n that, I figured why not tell ‘im. Let yer blokes natter bot it."

Skinner stood and stared down at the little man. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins and tossed them onto the table. He then turned and paid Tillie and motioned for Beyers and Dogget to follow. When they reached the street Skinner rounded on Beyers and growled. "How much of that is lies, Mr. Beyers?"

Beyers quaked but stood his ground. "S-s-sir. I know Mr. Frohike exaggerates but the tale is so far-fetched. Why would he make it up?"

Skinner sighed and checked his pocket watch. "That will be all Beyers. Good job."

Dogget and Skinner watched the dapper constable saunter down the street. Doggett looked over at his boss and raised one eyebrow. "Whitechapel Station, Mr. Skinner?"

Taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly, Skinner nodded. "Whitechapel Station, Mr. Doggett."

::  Chapter 3  ::

Scully rushed up to her bedroom. As soon as the door was closed behind her she sagged against it. She hated to quarrel with her mother though she was too independent to let her mother’s disapproval dictate her life.

She dearly wanted to take a bath, but didn’t have time for the maid to fill the tin hip bath. Instead she stripped down to her undergarments and filled the basin at the oak washstand with fresh water from the huge ornate pitcher. Sponging the dirt and grime of London from her skin, she yawned and realized just how tired she was. For a moment she thought to send their groom down to Tottingham to tell Mulder she couldn’t make it, but she realized that he would only come to the house. That was something she could do without tonight. Tossing the sponge into the basin she then turned to the large wardrobe. She flung open the doors to the cabinet and quickly chose a deep blue dress of satin and tulle that was mercifully easy to get into. Scully refused to wear more than the most comfortable corset she could find. Fortunately, her work and the hours she kept left her little time to indulge in the rich foods that Martha, their cook, prepared for the Scully women. Her figure was quiet good, though her mother bemoaned the size of her bust.

Over the dress she chose a black snug-fitting coat. She was glad she had convinced the dressmaker to forgo the bustle, her natural curves were all she really needed. She pulled a small bonnet of blue over her flaming red hair and looked back into the mirror. "Blast!" She muttered and tossed the bonnet onto the bed and firmly yanked several flyaway locks back into place, jamming several more hairpins into her bun. Her hair, thick and luxurious, was the bane of her existence. She longed to chop it off, but even she didn’t have the courage to do that. With the bonnet firmly into place again, she tied the satin ribbons under her chin, grabbed her small bag and hurried to the door.

She paused at the landing hearing her mother’s forced laugh coming from the dining room. She was halfway down the stairs when a male voice chimed in. She prayed that no one would remark on her leaving, so as to avoid another confrontation. Just as her hand touched the doorknob she heard Foster sniff. "When may we expect you home, miss?"

Dana stared at the officious little snob and retorted, "When I get home, Foster. Leave the door unbolted, I will lock up when I return." Foster stared at her like she had suddenly turned a vivid shade of green, "I will, of course, wait up for your return," he sneered as she yanked open the door and ran down the steps.

The fog was thicker now and her progress was slowed but Mulder was waiting for her, pacing back and forth, humming a dance hall ditty. She was almost upon him before he called out pitifully, "Sculleeeee. We are going to have to stand for the entire meeting. We will never find a seat."

She breathed deeply. "Sorry, Mulder." He took her arm and turned toward the street. Raising his fingers to his lips he let out a loud whistle and a cabbie yelled back "hoy!" Mulder shouted until the tall wheels stopped in front of them and he helped Scully into the cab. He yelled up the address and as they rode Scully let Mulder’s latest theories on government corruption drive the last thoughts of her mother’s displeasure from her mind.

The hall was already nearly full when they finally got there, but Mulder pushed his way over several sturdy-looking matrons and found two seats together in the middle of the crowd. Dana looked around and noted that there was a wide spectrum of the social order here tonight. Maids, dressed in gray muslin, sat next to high born ladies, dressed in the latest fashion. Mulder was not the only man in the room either. Dana was very much surprised to see the number of men that had accompanied their wives. Mulder whispered in her ear, "Do you see Lord and Lady Edwards? He’s the MP for Highgate and was instrumental in getting the Married Woman’s Rights Act matron passed three years ago." Mulder went on identifying the other couples and pointing out some of the wealthier ladies sitting alone.

Finally, a stern looking female approached the make shift podium and called for attention. They sat through several speeches, all of them expounding the need for Parliament to act quickly on their varied issues. In the middle of one stirring speech exhorting the need for a reduced workweek for children under the age of 10, a robust woman suddenly stood and huffed at the young lady sitting next to her. "Come Artemus, I’ve heard all the nonsense that I care to tonight." Scully felt pity for the poor dear who slunk out after her obviously irate mother. After several heckles and a few cat-calls directed toward the retreating pair, the speaker, rapping on the podium with the handle of her parasol, called for order.

"Our next speaker has something very serious to talk to us about. It is a delicate subject and one that a few of you will be shocked and horrified by. Well ladies and gentlemen, it is my opinion that we should all be shocked and horrified."

With no further fan fair a striking brunette came to stand in front of them. Dressed in a fine linen suit of grey, with white lace at the bodice, she eyed the crowd, now silent in anticipation. She cleared her throat several times before starting, a bit haltingly at first but her voice rose and gained timbre as she got deeper into the subject matter. "Good evening. My name is Melissa Ephesian and I have a tale to tell you. In ancient Greece, every seven years the people of Athens would sacrifice seven virgins to the Minotaur, a frightful beast, half man, half bull, to appease the monster’s foul unnatural lust. I look out upon you and I see the confusion on your face. The smug contention that we have progressed so much farther further than our long dead ancestors." She paused, noting the bewilderment and the nodding heads. In a stronger voice she continued righteously, "You would be wrong! For right here, tonight and every night, seven times countless sevens such maidens are cruelly selected and flung not into the Cretan labyrinth, but the London labyrinth of Whitechapel and Limehouse and other such vile places." Her voice rose in emotion. "And, who, you may ask, is the monster? Why has no one ever done anything about this vile practice? Why? Because, the monster has many faces and many friends in high places. The police know what is going on! But they turn a blind eye to the houses that cater to these evil practices. Innocent women, some maids just in from the country, some even from middle class families – stolen from the streets! Forced to perform hideous and sadistic deeds for the rich and power Minotaur." Her voice fell to a frightened hush; the audience leaned forward as her voice broke. "And the most horrible thing of all? Children! Children, my friends are stolen too, so that these men may enjoy the luxury of reveling in the cries of these poor innocents!" With this last incredible indictment, Melissa Ephesian quickly stepped back and took her seat, several of the other women forming a protective barrier between her and her audience.

The stunned assembly sat back in their seats. Women looked at each other, their faces flushed red and their eyes bright with unshed tears. Scully noticed that Lord Edwards had an almost embarrassed look about him, but she was more attune to the strange feeling gripping her insides. Vague whispers niggled at her memory, ‘she wer’ born poor’ ‘she din’ start like us’. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the memory, trying to place a face with the whispers. Suddenly, she felt a sharp jab on her arm and she looked over at Mulder "Come on, Scully, I want to talk to her." Before she could even stand, he was pushing his way through to the women at the front of the hall.

He had practice in barreling through to places that he wasn’t wanted and finally he came face to face with the flushed woman. He started to say something but the look in her eyes froze him. She stared at him for a long moment before closing her deep brown eyes and swooning. Before anyone could stop him he was next to her cradling her in his lap. Scully finally pushed her way to the fore and went to her knees next to the prostrate woman. Reaching into her small purse she pulled forth a capped vial and opened it before shoving the smelling salts under the woman’s nose.

After several coughs and gasps she opened her eyes, looked around wildly and tried to get out of Mulder’s grasp until she looked at him again and instantly calmed. Scully had never heard Mulder speak so gently. "Can you stand?" The woman nodded and he helped her to her feet and a stout matron firmly pushed one of the chairs under her. Another woman held out a small glass of water, which Mulder tenderly held to her lips.

After drinking the woman sighed and shuddered. "Thank you." She dropped her eyes to her lap. "Mr…uhm…"

"Mulder." He supplied eagerly. "Fox Mulder. At your service, Miss Ephesian." Scully stared at the reporter in amazement. He never willingly gave his first name – to anyone.

Melissa raised her eyes back to his. "Thank you, Mr. Mulder."

The stern faced woman who had introduced Melissa to the crowd finally huffed. "I warned you not to exert yourself."

"I know Lydia. I’m sorry," Melissa apologized.

The woman sniffed. "Well there’s nothing to be done about it now. I will get you home."

Melissa struggled to her feet. "Oh! No. You had wanted to stay tonight and talk to the other women about next week’s rally. Really, Lydia, I’m quite better now. I’ll just sit in the corner and wait for you."

Mulder stood and faced the dragon. "Uhm…Miss?" Scully eyebrow twitched upward. She had never seen Mulder stammer in the face of anyone one before either.

The woman eyed the reporter. "Mrs. Stanhope."

Mulder blushed. "Your pardon, Mrs. Stanhope. Dr. Scully and I will be happy to see Miss Ephesian home."

Mrs. Stanhope whirled and faced the stunned redhead. "Doctor!"

Scully glared at Mulder before answering the woman. "Yes, Mrs. Stanhope. I run a small clinic in Red Lion Court."

Mrs. Stanhope sniffed. "I’ve heard of it. I hadn’t heard the "doctor" was such a young woman. You will get into trouble though, dear, calling yourself that."

Scully bristled. "And why is that, Mrs. Stanhope? I have the schooling. I have the right?"

Lydia Stanhope eyed the petite woman from bonnet to leather boot before dismissing her and turning back to Melissa. "Are you amenable to Mr. Mulder and ‘Doctor’ Scully seeing you home, Melissa."

Smiling shyly at Mulder she nodded. "Yes, Lydia. And, that way you can stay as long as you need to."

Promptly ignoring the three of them, the suffragette turned to the other women and as a group they walked to the far end of the room and took up seats around a small rickety table.

Mulder gently helped Melissa down the stairs, assuming that Scully would follow. Scully eyed the pair and thought evilly. <<<She doesn’t seem all that delicate to me.>>>

Mulder flagged down another cab, gave the driver the elite address in Regency Court and got them settled. With Scully sitting across from the two of them, he began gently questioning Melissa. "How did you find out about this…uhm…this…perversion?"

Melissa shuddered and closed her eyes tightly. Scully thought for a moment that the woman might have fainted again, but finally Melissa stirred and began speaking. "Lydia and I met at the small church over on Bishops’ Gate. The Reverend Mr. Taylor is a wonderful man, so stirring and so comforting. He would always have a kind word for everyone and Mrs. Taylor was such a good woman, tending the sick and organizing knitting bees to make mufflers for the needier families in the district. They had a daughter, Georgina who was very tiny, very pretty and very, very modest and shy. Georgina seldom left the house, and when she did it was always in the company of her mother or father." Even in the enclosed carriage Scully could see the light from the gas lamps reflect off the tears on her cheeks. "One day one of the parishioners came to the door looking for Rev. Taylor because his cousin was very sick. Mrs. Taylor was in the middle of canning some preserves and so Georgina offered to run down the street to the church. She relayed the information to her father and since the invalid was in the other direction she convinced him not to waste time walking her back home. When the Reverend returned home late that night he found out that Georgina had never made it back."

Small sobs racked Melissa’s body and Scully watched as her aloof and caustic friend floundered trying to comfort the distressed woman. Somewhat sharply Scully asked, "did her mother not worry earlier?"

Melissa sniffled and daubed her eyes with a small lace square that she had taken from her sleeve. "Her-her-her mo-mother th-thought she had gone with her father to the cousin’s house," she stuttered out.

Scully glared back at Mulder who appeared angered by her tone. "There, there," he cautioned as he patted her dainty hand, which was clutched in his own newsprint stained and callused one. "How did this come to your attention?"

"My father was a very good friend of the Rev. Taylor and MP for our district. Rev Taylor came to my father and asked for his help. Papa went to the police, all the way up to a Mr. Skinner who said he would investigate it. Mr. Skinner came to our house and went to Rev. Taylor’s house and talked to several people in the neighborhood. He told us about a week later that he could find nothing to suggest that she hadn’t just wandered off. Then he started asking about men that had called upon Georgina." From across the cab, Dana could see Melissa shake in revulsion. "Finally it all died down and we never heard anything until about 3 weeks ago. Papa wasn’t home but a man came to the back door. He seemed like such a nice man." She looked at Mulder and gasped slightly when she realized how close he was to her. Scully didn’t know whether to smirk or feel sorry for her friend as Miss Ephesian pulled away slightly, put her hands firmly in her lap before continuing. "He said his name was Mr. Krycek and that he had some information for Papa about Georgina. Well, I told him to tell me and I would tell Papa." Her voice dropped. "I could tell he didn’t want to tell me, but I became rather firm with him and called the groom to make sure that he wouldn’t slip away." Melissa took a deep shuddering breath. "He finally told me that he had it on very good authority that Georgina was being held at house on Cable Street. He gave me the address and then before Billy, the groom, could stop him, he ran away." She settled deeper into the cushioned seat, suddenly unwilling to go on.

Mulder looked at Scully anxiously until Scully sighed. "What did you do Miss Ephesian?"

Dana had to lean forward to hear the whispered response. "Papa had already told us that he was going to be late that night. I couldn’t wait, could I?" Melissa looked entreatingly at Mulder. "I called upon Mrs. Stanhope and asked her what we should do. Lydia is quite forceful and…and…she insisted that we go down there. We took her driver with us to the address. It was a horrid place. Quite filthy and it smelled and…." Melissa buried her head in her hands and sobbed. By now, even Dana was upset. She was used to the horror stories of the East End. Half her patients made most of their money by selling their bodies on the streets or in small fetid rooms with little more than a foul pallet on the floor. She gazed steadily at the crying woman until finally, Melissa got a hold of her emotions and continued. "Lydia’s driver demanded entrance and we found the woman in charge of the house, a blond blowzy woman, who shrieked at us in some horrid foreign language. She tried to stop us, but the driver was very large and carried a hickory cudgel. We searched every room and it was the worst horror I have ever seen. We were ready to give up when we heard a loud shriek coming from the garret at the very top of the building. We ran up there and found her, screaming and pulling at her hair." Melissa gulped and looked at Mulder again. "Did I tell you she had very pretty hair?"

Mulder gently shook his head. "No. No you didn’t."

"Well she did." Melissa whispered. "We found a robe to put around her and the driver carried her downstairs. We took her home, but it was too late. She was quite mad. She tried to tell us what had happened and the only thing we could figure out was that a man grabbed her right down the block from the church. She told us about a dark room and being stripped naked and then…" Melissa’s voice finally ran out.

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances. Mulder whispered, "what did you do?"

"I spent the next two weeks every day down in Whitechapel. Papa was quite furious when he found out, but before then I talked to as many of the fallen women that I could find and many of them told the same story. That they had been forced into prostitution and…." Melissa suddenly glared at Dana Scully. "Surely you know! You said you had a clinic in Red Lion Court. Surely you’ve heard the whispers."

Dana paused and considered the woman before answering. "Yes, Miss Ephesian, I’ve heard the women I treat tell me their sad stories. And, they are sad, but circumstances, more than some evil monster, forced most of them into selling their bodies. All of them are very poor and have no other way…." Dana suddenly fell silent; remembering the strange whore that had recently began coming to the clinic for laudanum – Cassandra.

It was Mulder’s turn to look at his friend strangely. Scully blushed and quickly asked. "What became of Georgina? Is she doing better?"

The cab stopped outside a beautiful mansion on Regency Street. Melissa pulled herself up and pushed the door open, not waiting for Mulder to help her down. As she stepped down to the cobblestones she turned back to face them "Her mother found her three days ago. She had hung herself from the beams in the garret. When I heard I was distraught, but more, I was incensed. I will not rest until this monster is brought to justice." With that last outburst, she turned and stumbled up the stairs, where the butler stood holding the tall oak door open.

::  Chapter 4  ::

Skinner and Doggett stepped out of the cab at the entrance of Leman Street in Whitechapel and quickly walked to the red brick building housing H Division. They introduced themselves to the officer behind the high desk and waited patiently until a blustering man, about Skinner’s height but twice the girth appeared. The man’s most prominent features were his bushy porkchop sideburns and bulbous nose. "Ah, Chief Superintendent Skinner. Inspector Thomas Colton. How can I help you?"

Skinner looked around at the crowded room; the noise level ebbing and flowing as several denizens of the area alternately whined and shouted abuse at the arresting bobbies. "Why don’t we find someplace a bit more quiet?" Skinner suggested.

Colton harrumphed. "Uhm…well…yes…of course." He turned away quickly. "One moment, gentlemen, I’ll see if I can find a quite room," he tossed over his shoulder as he lumbered to the back of the station.

Skinner and Doggett exchanged bemused looks and then in one accord followed the nervous man. They mounted the stairs and when they reached the top they heard a stern rasp, "Now stay there an’ keep yer yap shut!" followed by a very feminine giggle, "Or’right, gov’ner."

Just then Colton came out of what appeared to be a small closet. Skinner held the door for him and wryly asked, "do you think there is room in there for all of us?"

Colton turned beet red and as a half-dressed slattern, her hair flying every which way wriggled out of the closet and cooed to Skinner. "Oooo yer a biggin’ ain’cha. Betch yer big in or’the right places?"

Skinner sighed. "That will be all for you tonight, miss. Go on home."

Clutching several loose articles of clothing, the woman ran giggling all the way down the stairs. Skinner turned to Colton. "Now, I assume you have an office, Inspector?"

Colton gulped and led the way to a small room that barely contained a worn desk and three ancient chairs. Colton scuttled behind the desk and started to sit, when he suddenly remembered his etiquette. "Uhm…here, Chief Superintendent, sit here."

Skinner shook his head. "No Inspector, sit. I insist." His hard tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Sergeant Doggett and I are here to investigation a missing person."

Colton looked at his superior as if he were daft. "On’a Friday night? A missing person? Who?"

Doggett pulled a daguerreotype from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk. "This person - Philydia Wells, the governess of Lord Cavender’s children."

Colton leaned over and looked at the picture. "Her," he groaned. "Constable Spender reported that some crazy man reported a woman by the name of Wells had yelled at him from one of the whorehouses to get help. But when Spender went to the house the next morning he couldn’t find anyone or anything."

Skinner snapped. "The next morning? Why didn’t you send someone at once?"

"The house is on South Grove, man," Colton growled. "I don’t expect my men to go down there on a report of some crazy fella."

"That’s what they are paid to do, Inspector." Skinner’s tone alerted Doggett, who studied the Inspector, so obviously clueless as to how angry Skinner was getting.

Colton sniffed. "They don’t get paid enough to go and hold the hand of some drunken whore who takes a mind to bemoan her lot in life or to…." His speech was suddenly cut off as Skinner reached over and grabbed the fat man by his collar and nearly dragged him across the desk.

"Where is Constable Spender now?" he demanded.

Colton was having difficulty breathing, but Doggett leaned back and watched his boss cower the officious prig. "Let up and I’ll tell you," he gasped.

Skinner  threw the man back in to his seat. "Spender. Where is he?"

Colton straightened his tie and tried to regain his composure. "I’m not sure, but Smith at the front desk will know. I do know he’s on duty."

Skinner stomped out of the office. Doggett pushed away from the wall, picked up the picture and followed him.

The constable at the desk scratched his head in wonderment. "Everyone knows Spender patrols by Whitechapel Workhouse on South Grove. He’s on duty all night. You able to find your way?" This last question fell on Skinner’s back as the big man made his way out of the station house.

On some level Skinner could understand any decent man’s revulsion at walking into the labyrinth that was Whitechapel. In the last 50 year the slum had turned into a graphic illustration of Dante’s vision of hell. Streets led to nowhere or to death. Most streets were no more than alleys that had never seen a wagon or a cart. The dilapidated buildings leaned so precariously that some nearly arched each other across the narrow alleys. Sewage was everywhere and privies were overflowing. The new sewer system, begun a decade before, hadn’t reached this vile spot. The fog only lent a smoky covering over everything, melding with the stench so that it clung to one's skin. Doggett muttered. "I suspect a ranging fire would be kindest thing that could happen down here."

Skinner peered through the wisps of fog and asked coldly, "And what of the people here, Sergeant Doggett?"

Doggett had the courtesy to blush. "Sorry, Sir."

They edged their way along Leman until they came to the cross road that would lead them to Grove Street. Skinner pondered at the name and wondered if at some point in ancient history any trees had actually grown in this place.

They finally arrived at the workhouse and Doggett called out. "Hoy! Constable Spender!" They heard no answering shout, only the sound of footsteps suddenly scuffling off in several directions.

"Let’s check inside," Skinner ordered

The front lobby of the cold stone structure housed a small cubicle with a tiny coal stove. A shabby man crouched before it. Standing behind him a bedraggled girl of no more than 10 was trying to remain inconspicuous as she reached toward the small warmth. Leaning against the wall a bobby holding a cup of steaming liquid looked toward the child, an expression of guilt upon his face. Skinner approached the door silently, surveying the scene. The bobby saw him first and eyed the well-dressed stranger in the warm looking great coat warily. "You need somethin’, Sir?"

The crouching man looked up indolently. "We got nuffick for you taday’."

Skinner, keeping his eye on the small girl growled, "and what do you suppose I’d be wanting, today?"

Suddenly realizing this man wasn’t here to buy the services of a pretty young wife forced by unrelenting poverty to seek the shelter of the workhouse, the man stood and faced Skinner. "Wha’ ya wan’ gov’ner?"

Skinner looked at the bobby. "Constable Spender, may I speak with you a moment?"

Doggett, who had been staring at the tiny little girl with a sense of depressing pity, noticed the wide-eyed look of surprise when Skinner addressed the carrot-topped bobby. Shifting his gaze to his fellow officer Doggett watched as the young man stammered and hemmed and hawed before demanding in a petulant tone. "And who might you be, Sir?"

Skinner arched his eyebrow but before he could answer Doggett spoke up. "This is Chief Superintendent Skinner, Constable Spender?" He paused and nailed the man with a harsh stare, "You are Constable Spender?"

The young man went stark white under his freckles. Skinner's eyebrow arched even further and he tensed and waited. The bobby stuttered. "Uhm….w-w-well…ac-ac-actually I’m n-n-not S-s-spender, s-s-sir." He came to attention staring straight ahead. "Constable Daniel Pendrell, Sir."

Skinner’s tone was mild. "Is this your normal post, Pendrell?"

"N-n-no, Sir."

"Then why are you here?"

Daniel looked at the highest official he would probably ever see in his career and gulped. "I told Spender I would take his watch, Sir."

"So, you aren’t scheduled for duty tonight? he asked knowing full well that on Friday nights all policemen in these rough neighborhoods were required to put in a shift.

"Y-yes, Sir. I have the watch along Coventry Court." Pendrell was doing his best to not shake.

"Then who is taking your watch?" Skinner asked.

"I’m walking both, Sir."

"Then what the BLOODY HELL are you doing in here?" Skinner bellowed.

The small child whimpered and fell to her knees, shaking and crying. Instantly remorseful, Skinner crouched down and patted the small child on the back. "There, now. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled." Doggett, who couldn’t ever remember hearing such a kind tone from the big man watched in awe as Skinner took out a very clean handkerchief and wiped the girl’s eyes. "There, I shan’t hurt you. I’m just going to talk to Mr. Pendrell here. If that’s all right with you, miss?"

The little girl grabbed a hold of Skinner’s blunt finger and whispered. "Mr. Pen’rl ‘es alroight, not like that Mr. Spender."

Skinner stared at the child and as he took back his handkerchief he moved around so that his actions were hidden from view and slipped a half-crown into the pocket of her tattered apron. He then stood and making a show of it, handed the child a florin, which she and he both knew the watchman would take from her as soon as he could. Glaring at Pendrell he jerked his head toward the outside.

Once they were out on the street Skinner looked around and sighed. "Alright, Pendrell where is Constable Spender?"

Pendrell blushed and admitted', "I don’t know, Sir. He just told me he had important business to attend to and gave me a sovereign to take his watch."

Skinner ground out. "Do you do that very often Constable?"

Pendrell thought to lie but Skinner’s look, even softened by the fog, changed his mind. "About once a week, Sir." Pendrell hastened to add, "I don’ mind, really I don’, Sir."

Skinner turned to Doggett, "So now we know why Spender didn’t go to the whorehouse until the next morning."

Pendrell looked confused. "Sir?"

Skinner looked the young constable up and down. "What do you know about a man who reported a woman called out for help and said her name was Philydia Wells?"

Pendrell suddenly relaxed. "Oh, ya mean Crazy Dickie."

Doggett stepped up next to the constable. "You know this man?"

Pendrell jerked around. "Course. Ever’one knows Crazy Dickie. ‘e’ll talk yer ear off."

Skinner stared hard at Pendrell. "Did you go to the house with Spender?"

Pendrell looked at Skinner as if he was insane. "Go down there? ‘ell no! Beggin’ your pardon, Sir. But, Spender never did neither."

"He told Inspector Colton he did," Skinner ground out.

Even in the muddy lamplight Skinner made out the deep blush. "Well ‘e had’ta dinn’ ‘e. Dickie were talkin’ bout it over at the Dog ‘n Duck."

Skinner marveled at how Pendrell's East End roots broadened as he became more agitated.

Doggett asked, "Where’s the Dog and Duck?"

"Jus’ a bit that way." Pendrell pointed to the east.

Skinner sighed in exasperation. "Show us."

The sign above the shabby tavern was barely visible or legible. Skinner suspected that few people who hadn’t know this place for all their lives would ever consider entering. He looked over at Doggett. "Do you have your billy?" Doggett nodded and patted his pocket. Skinner checked his Webley revolver. "Wait out here Sergeant Doggett."

"You think he’ll run then?"

"Don’t you?"

Skinner and Pendrell entered the alehouse. If the silence at The Headless Goat had been complete, here in this even rougher, more hopeless part of town, it was nearly deafening. Hard men glowered at the two policemen. Pendrell would never have come in here alone, but standing next to Skinner he felt a bit better about their chances. He scanned the crowd and then pointed out, "There! Dickie Langley! Man here wants…"

Skinner stifled a groan. <<<Dear Lord, man! You are an idiot!>>> He watched as a tall, skinny man with ridiculously long, stringy blond hair shoved away from the bar. Dickie Langley looked around him wildly and suddenly the bar erupted into hoot and howls of ‘Run, Dickie!’ and ‘Don’ let the coppers take you in!’ Skinner waited patiently as the man careened off of several of his mates trying to get through the crowd. Pendrell had said he didn’t think there was a back door to the firetrap and sure enough Langley pushed his way to the front and with a panic-fueled strength pushed Pendrell to the ground. Keeping his eyes on Langley Skinner stooped down and jerked the constable back to his feet. Langley finally shot through the doors and into the waiting arms of John Doggett.

They found a dark recessed doorway and the three men pushed Langley into it effectively blocking any avenue of escape. Skinner waited until the frightened man calmed down before shoving the mourning broach under his nose. "Where did you get this?" he growled.

Langley squinted in the dim light and reached for the bauble but Skinner held it tight. "Look, don’t touch. Tell me where you got this."

Langley sniffled. "Look, gov’ner. I foun’hit, I did. Swear ta’ god."

Skinner asked again, his voice very soft and yet very frightening. "Where…did…you…find…it?"

Langley gulped and straightened his shoulders. "Wat’s inna’t fer me?"

Skinner bit his upper lip as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shilling. "Enough to get you drunk tonight. After you take us to where you saw the girl."

Langley paled. "Wat gel. I’din see…oof!"

Langley doubled over, clutching his gut as Skinner unclenched and flexed his fist. Skinner pulled the man up by the collar of his thin shirt. "Take us now."

Langley doubled over again and began to retch. The foul stench rose and Skinner was surprised that his nose could pick out the smell. Langley gasped, "Or’ght, I’ll take ye there. Jus’ don’ ‘it me agen."

The building was three treacherous blocks away, down a rabbit warren of passages that only Skinner, with his innate sense of direction, had any hope of finding his way back out of. They finally came to an ancient brick building, the mortar crumbling, but, surprisingly, glass in every window. Skinner looked at the doorway and then back at Doggett. "I wish you had…good man!" He exclaimed as Dogget held up a very heavy looking long piece of wood. Skinner rapped on the door and could hear the scuttling of feet of various creatures, both human and rodent.

Pendrell squeaked and Skinner looked in time to see a huge rat, as big as the small hideous dog Sharon had loved at one time, streak across the constable’s boot. Skinner turned back to find himself looking down on an evil looking woman barely 5 feet tall but who filled the doorway completely. Skinner growled. "I’m here to search the premises. We have word that a woman is being held against her will."

The woman shrugged and stared hard at Dickie Langley. Langley pulled away from Skinner and ran down the street, not even waiting to get his shilling. In twenty years on the force, Skinner had never fired his gun, but now he took it out and held it, barrel down, by his side. The woman snorted but never said a word, just stepped aside and let the three policemen into the foul smelling hallway.

They searched each room together, knocking on each door before throwing it open on the girl and her customer. Each time Skinner locked eyes with the prostitute and spat out, "Are you Philydia Wells?" and waited until the woman answered one way or the other. He knew what the Wells woman looked like from the picture, but he wanted to gauge each woman’s reaction. As he received a negative response each time, he took a moment to check out the customer. The men were hardly better than the whores servicing them. One or two actually had suits of brown wool, and one room contained a whore and two drunken men, their evening clothes and cloaks carefully laid across the one chair in the room.

They reached the top of the five-story building and here they found rooms a good sight nicer than those below. These rooms had nice furnishings and several pieces of furniture that Doggett had never seen before. He looked over at Skinner in shock. Skinner’s face was a mask and his voice cut like a knife. When they opened the door to the first room the whore was bent over a padded arched frame, her customer was flogging her until he heard the door open and Pendrell’s gasp. The man met Skinner’s eyes and flinched, but Skinner walked over to the whore and lifted up her head and ground out. "Do you know Philydia Wells?"

The woman smiled up at him in a dreamy way. "Sure, ducks she were in blue room, ain’t that roight yer lordship." Skinner glared at the man who only offered back the impudent stare of someone who knew that the police could and would do nothing to him. Skinner spat. "Which one is the blue room?"

The Earl of Dover replied nonchalantly, "The third door, old man. But the girl that is in there now is with someone…"

Skinner turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, but not before he heard the leather hit bare skin again. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. He stood back up and started for the door. Doggett pulled at his arm. "Sir, they aren’t going to like…" His voice trailed off before he began again. "Let me handle it."

Before Skinner could answer a blood curdling scream rent the air. Pendrell spun at the sound coming from the stairway and they ran back down two flights to the third floor. In a back room that had been empty when they had checked it not 30 minutes ago, they found a naked woman hanging by her neck from the cheap chandelier, the noose of the rope tied in a perfect hangman’s knot.

Skinner looked at Doggett and Doggett pulled the daguerreotype from his pocket and stared at it for a long time before whispering. "Yes, sir it looks like Miss Wells."

Pendrell gasped out. "How did she get here so fast and kill herself."

Dogget ground out, "How did a governess with a gentile upbringing manage to tie a perfect hangman’s knot."

Skinner reached out and touched the corpse before sighing. "More importantly, gentleman, how did a woman, already in the last stages of rigor mortis, manage to hoist herself up and hang herself?"

Pendrell gagged and put his hand to his mouth. Skinner looked at the man with pity. "Can you find your way back to the main road and call for help?"

"Yes, Sir." Pendrell managed and pulled out his long silver whistle. Less than a minute later, Skinner and Doggett could hear the shrill whistle echoing through the hall and down the passageways of the labyrinth.

Part 5 - 6

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