The Diaries of Inspector Cyril Avery

7 minutes past 9 of the Morning of Saturday, 1st October, 1887

I placed the aetherceiver down and massaged the bridge of my nose between forefinger and thumb, and sighed. Alison would be visiting, and this in and of itself was a good thing, though the circumstances could stand to be a good deal better.

Unfortunate that we should be forced to meet for purely professional reasons, but it was a sad necessity. The child beneath by bed needed to be calmed, and ideally questioned. I needed to ascertain the identity of the individual who had broken into my house and left Lester unconscious on the floor. Perhaps more importantly, I needed to identify why exactly they had performed the act.

As I walked down the hallway towards the small kitchen where I took most of my meals, I contemplated possible motives, doing my best to block out the smell of bacon lingering in the air. My capability to smell emotion is undoubtedly useful, but I have found that strong, mundane scents can sometimes make concentration difficult. The bacon could wait. I had scenarios and possibilities to consider.

Until other evidence suggested otherwise, it would seem the attack was little more than a threat or a warning. Who would have reason to threaten me?

Alison’s father Horatio disapproves of our courting quite forcefully, but he is a former military man of good standing, known for his stringent code of personal honour. He is also rather well known for deeming his aforementioned to be more flexible when dealing with colonial natives, an attitude that both his daughter and myself despise. To act in such an underhanded and brutish manner was both unlikely and unbecoming of even a man such as him. Unless, of course, I vastly underestimated his disapproval of me. Sir Horatio Archibald Harlington was a possibility, but a most unlikely one.

It was possible that the attack was the work of Grigor Karloff. He have clashed metaphorical blades on numerous occasions, and literal blades only slightly less often. A disgraced Russian aristocrat, Karloff moved to London with the last specks of his his substantial fortune and cemented a position within the city’s criminal upper class. Hired muscle carved him a notable portion of the opium trade, and from there he moved his dealings to the elite of British society, providing the rich and the powerful with the objects of vices. For a price. Karloff was a much more likely suspect, but the attack felt too crude to be one of the Russian’s schemes. He had long graduated from using street muscle to make his displeasure known, now preferring to utilise his expansive influence, blackmail and professional killers as weapons. An assault as blatant as this would likely offend Karloff’s sensibilities.

Which would left only one obvious possibility: an unknown assailant. This could have been pure chance, a burglary gone wrong. But why then take nothing?

Perhaps…

Perhaps this was linked to the current case? Again, this seemed unlikely, but the ring at the crime scene at the very least would possibly suggest some sort of organisation. Perhaps they were trying to silence the investigating detective? Or the man who had found evidence of their existence in the ring?

Very unlikely, and unsubstantiated. Also, if this scenario were true, they would require a member within the Metropolitan Police Force, or be able to access their reports and communications with breathtaking ease.

That thought gave me pause.

I shook my head and returned from my musings to the land of the living. All my theories lacked evidence, and it was no use speculating further. At least, not until I had questioned Lester and the child, and had Alison’s father examine the ring.

With a deep inhalation of bacon-scented air, I put the theories to the back of my mind for now, and entered the kitchen.

25 minutes past 12 of the Morning of Saturday, 1st October, 1887

I stepped out of the cab, tipping the driver before walking over smooth pavement to the door of my house. I fished the key from a pocket and slid it into the lock. To my surprise, the key caught in the lock. My eyebrows raised in concern, and I tried the door. It swung open, the irritating squeaking hinge now echoing ominously down the unlit hall.

Something was very wrong. Even if I was out my manservant, Anthony Lester, would have kept the hall lamps on for my return. I quickly pulled the glove off my synthetic hand and rolled my sleeve up, pressing a slight indention just below my wrist. Slowly, the thumb rolled back out of position, revealing an integrated cigarette lighter. Not for the first time, I was glad Bachman had talked me into allowing him to include this “gentleman’s necessity” in the augment.

I quickly lit the closest gas lamp, but stopped short of the next one when I saw Lester’s body lying prone on the floor. I stood stock still for a moment, overcome by shock, when my investigative instincts rose up to take over. I crouched to check Lester for a pulse, sighed inwardly when I found one. Unconscious, then, not dead.

The doctor arrived far less hastily than I would have liked, but the man could hardly have been expecting a call out at this hour. He roused Lester and helped me move the man to his bed, saying he would be fine with some rest, but asked that I leave the questioning until the morning at the very least.

After showing the doctor out and hearing for the twenty seventh time that yes, Lester was feeling fine, I retired to my own chamber. I sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, and flung my jacket and my gloves over towards the wardrobe. They didn’t make the distance.

My teeth clenched slightly at the minor annoyance when I heard a second set of breathing. Quick, shallow. Someone panicked, trying not to be heard. A quick search of my wardrobe and behind my curtains revealed nothing. There was nowhere else in the room to hide… except under the bed.

I peeked under and was met by the sight of a terrified child, no more than twelve years of age, in such a state that their gender was indeterminable. My attempts to coerce them out of their spot met with no avail. I was out of my league here. Assistance was required.

I slept on the chaise longue in the louge for the rest of the night, and slept badly, waking up well before dawn. Once the hour was reasonable, I called Alison Harlington.

The aetherline is a wonderful invention, capable of transmitting one’s voice untold miles to another aetherceiver. Much quicker than a telegram, and inexpensive enough to afforded by anyone earning a decent wage. One does have to deal with the occasional incompetence of the line operators, but overall, it is a vast improvement.

“Hello? Miss Alison Harlington speaking.”

“Alison. It’s Cyril.”

“Cyril! Most unlike you to call this early. What can I do for you?”

A great many images rushed through my mind right then, but I banished them, focused on the issue of the moment.

“I desperately require your expertise, Alison. Whilst I was away at the crime scene last night, someone broke into my house and left Lester unconscious in the hallway. Also, I found a child under my bed, positively petrified, whom I have been unable to convince to come out or even talk to.”

Alison sighed on the other end of the line.

“And promise that once this is done, I shall take you to lunch or dinner wherever you desire.”

“Wherever I desire?”

I could almost hear the grin on her face.

“Let me clarify: anywhere that would be considered viable for a day trip.”

“So that’s a no to Paris then, Cyril?”

“Yes for now, unfortunately. When can I expect to see you?”

“I shall endeavour to be there for eleven o’clock. Early enough to spare you the agony of preparing lunch.”

I smiled. We both knew full well that she was merely attempting to avoid my abominable cooking.

“Very well Alison. I shall see you then.”

She responded likewise, and then the line went dead.

ariadnebellevoire asked: Absolutely. I will see you then.

Excellent. Please bring any evidence you possess.

ariadnebellevoire asked: Of course, Mr. Avery. I would not be coming to you otherwise.

Very well then. Could you meet me at the Hastings’ tea room tomorrow at 3 o’clock?

ariadnebellevoire asked: My Uncle was found dead a few hours ago and it looks as if it will be ruled a suicide. However, I have reason to believe he was murdered. But, I can't discuss the details here.

I get many cases brought to me like this one. Please tell me you have significant evidence to back up your suspicion.

ariadnebellevoire asked: Mr. Avery, are you taking on any new cases?

Currently, yes. How may I assist you?

5 minutes past 11 of the Evening of Friday, 30th September, 1887

The cuff-link’s broad face was engraved finely with, as far as I could tell, two different symbols. In the centre of the ring was a tree, bare of leaves, the thin lines of its naked branches etched deeply into the metal. Around it coiled a serpent, its head meeting its tail, which is grasped between its jaws.

I gazed intently at the design. This… this…

This meant absolutely nothing to me.

I had been damned sure this cuff-link might show something important - the insignia of a gentleman’s club, a coat of arms, something. This was useless to me.

Suddenly, footsteps behind me, close. Any earlier footfalls must have been lost in the fog. Acting on instinct, I leapt up and turned in the direction of the steps. Without thinking, I slipped the cuff-link into my jacket pocket and then raised my arms, ready to defend myself.

“Inspector?”

At the sound of Lewisham’s voice, I lowered my guard. The sergeant stepped closer to me, then abruptly stopped.

“Sir?”

The hint of steel that typically indicated Lewisham’s resentment entered his voice, but this time it was tinged with nerves, something I didn’t normally associate with the man. I followed his gaze down to my - Oh Lord - my hand. I quickly pulled on my missing glove.

“Did you find anything Lewisham?”

The sergeant eyed me with a new hint of wariness whilst he answered.

“Nothing yet sir. Any luck here?”

“Some interesting information from the body, and this,” I said, holding out the cuff-link so he could see, “but the insignia means nothing to me.”

“Me neither, sir.”

“I can’t help but shake the feeling it’s important somehow, given the state of the victim. Her killer smelt of conviction, Lewisham - faith, even. This killing was done for a reason, but I cannot begin to fathom what.”

“Far be it from a lowly sergeant to suggest what an inspector ought to be doing, sir, but have you considered showing that evidence to Miss Harlington’s father?”

It was a brilliant idea, really. Lewisham usually had brilliant ideas. However, the possibility had refused to dawn on me. Whilst Alison Harlington and I are courting, her father is not happy with the situation. He calls me too crude, too poor, too dangerous. Fortunately for me, Alison by and large ignores him, by and large without consequence, having already come into a notable inheritance left by her grandmother.

Her father might not like me, and I might find the man arrogant and conceited, but he was a collector of antiquities, and rumour had it he was once a member of the Masons.

“Lewisham, could you please desist in being right quite so often?”

“I’ll look into doing so, sir.”

A quick sniff told me he intended to do nothing of the sort. With that, I sighed.

“Very well. Clean up the scene, follow usual protocol et cetera. Bag all the evidence,” I said, handing him the cuff-link, “including this. I’ll check it out when I go to see Mr Harlington. But now, I believe I may need a stiff drink and a hot bath.”

I tipped my hat to Lewisham, and then walked to the main street and hailed a cab. Within a few moments, the sound of metallic hooves on cobblestones sounded and I was on my way back to my abode.

4 minutes past 11 of the Evening of Friday, 30th September, 1887

Slowly, the emotions come through, taking time to overpower the mundane scents that come of being a human corpse. The resulting odours are a peculiar collection. The dead woman is dominated by the scent of anticipation, of expectation. The scent is older than the terror layered above it, slightly more faded, but it seems it was much more potent when it was being experienced. I glance at the woman’s face, twisted by fears and voided of sight. It was hard for me to believe anything could eclipse such fright in emotional potency. I breathe in the air around the woman again, and notice another scent. Faint, very faint. It takes me a moment to realise that it does not belong to her. Her attacker, perhaps? I stand up and pace around the crime scene, inhaling deeply at regular intervals. Eventually, I locate the source of the scent: a spot roughly a foot behind where the woman would have been standing. The position located, I crouched to examine it more closely.

The odour of conviction is so strong as to be overpowering. Harsh, somewhere between rubbing alcohol and rust, the smell makes me gag. It is a vile experience, but I push on, looking for the intricacies and undertones, the subtleties that will clarify the killer’s state of mind. My perseverance is rewarded as the harshness of conviction gives way to the sickly sweetness of faith.

My purpose fulfilled, I stand up again, pondering the implications of my discovery. The emotions present at the scene, the mutilation of the body… I was now even more sure that this was a symbolic or ritual killing. This would require research. But on what? What faith put symbolic stock on the thumbs, the eyes, the ears and the tongue? I needed something else to go on.

It is then that I catch a glance of something gleaming from between the cobblestones roughly five feet from the cadaver. Muttering a quick thanks to Lady Serendipity, I walk over to examine it.

A cuff-link, caught face down between two cobbles. I reach down with my right hand to pick it up, but stop myself. It would do me no good to place my fingerprints on this. With a quick glance around to ensure that neither Lewisham nor any of the constables were returning prematurely, I removed the glove from my left hand.

Human augmentation is possibly the most difficult of the many issues of our time. Parliament often debates the morality and legality of it. Many people see it as abhorrent. Once I was, at best, ambivalent about the subject. Now, I would a prime example of it, were anyone to learn the truth.

A year ago, I had been attempting to apprehend the prime suspect of a murder case. The pursuit was going well, until the man turned a corner and waited for me. As I came round after him, he brought raised his axe. Acting on instinct, I raised my left arm. He severed it at the elbow, and then made good his escape.

I was able to staunch the bleeding roughly and make it to an old acquaintance of my father’s, Doctor Jeremiah Bachman. He stopped the bleeding, saved my life and, after much argument, installed a synthetic replacement for my forearm.

Steel had replaced the missing bones. Nerves had been replaced with fine wires of a copper/ether alloy that Bachman had pioneered himself. Musculature was replaced with pistons, and my joints were now exceedingly fine brass and silver clockwork. In an effort to maintain as authentic a profile for the arm, he had encased the workings in silk-smooth plates of a new ceramic created by the gunsmithing industry for their latest weapons. Each plate was a glossy black, each edge enhanced with brass filigree of exceptional precision and beauty. The forearm was a work of art. Bachman knew his trade well. He still does. He has made modifications to it on several occasions, at my request. They have proved useful in my work a number of times. However, he is the only person I wish to know about my synthetic. It might see strange that I confide in others about my ability, but not my arm. Perhaps. Still, I have no wish to be subject to any prejudice that may come from knowledge of my arm.

Now freed from the glove that hid it from the sight of others, the hand of that same arm now reached down for the cuff-link that lay before me. I brought it up to my face and gazed intently at the design that adorned it.

2 minutes past 11 of the Evening of Friday, 30th September, 1887

Lewisham took a few steps towards the body and pulled back the canvas. I followed, and listened to what the sergeant had to say. The dead woman looked up at us with a face filled with terror.

“As you can see, rope-pattern bruising around the neck,” Lewisham began, “And both her thumbs have been removed, as have her eyes, her ears and her tongue.”

“Hmm. Unsettling, perturbing. Symbolic, perhaps?”

“I don’t know about such things, sir. I do believe that is your job.”

Lewisham’s voice is tinted with steel. I catch the briefest scent of resentment before it vanishes. Good, Lewisham. Keep your innermost thoughts regarding me suppressed. It wouldn’t do for your to contaminate the crime scene. He might not like me, but he was a professional, and held the bonds our of profession as sacred.

“Anything else, sergeant?”

“Not at this stage, sir. No likely weapons in the immediate area, but our later sweeps might pick something up. We may yet get fingerprints off her.”

“Possible. The killer knew enough to take their weapon with them, which means they possess at least some intelligence. Perhaps they also possessed enough to wear gloves, if this was premeditated.”

“Possibly, sir.”

Another slight hint of resentment in the air. Time to be quick.

“All right, Lewisham, you know what I need to do. Tell the constables to broaden their perimeter. I need some time alone with her.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lewisham moved to execute my orders, his careful voice sounding clear and precise orders, before the mist engulfed me and blocked out the outside world. Excellent. Just myself and our unfortunate victim. Reaching inside my jacket, I retrieved a small vial filled with silvery grey liquid. I lifted the catch that kept the vial shut, and breathed in deeply the resulting dull silver fumes.

I possess a rather unique talent. Few people know about it: my parents, my superiors, Lewisham and Alison Harlington are the only ones in whom I have confided my ability.

Since my fourth birthday, I have been able to smell emotions, both ones currently being experienced in my presence and the residue they leave behind. It is not an easy process to discern one emotion’s scent from another, but I have found that inhaling ether vapours can greatly enhance my capabilities in that regard. Doctors have been saying that ether vapours are dangerous for years. I believe any risk they pose to my well being is worth the number of men and women they have helped me lock away from the people of London.

And so, I lean down close to the woman’s body and begin inhaling and exhaling, every breath an exercise in total control and focus. And eventually, the scents begin to make themselves known.

Update Tomorrow

Entry #2 will be written and posted tomorrow. Keep the suggestions coming!