The Sheffield Case

by Narat

Not exactly a Sherlock Holmes story, but he does play a major part. This is a rough copy I've been working on for some time. No chapters yet, i know it's bit long, but bear with me. I would like some feedback on it, especially on historical authenticit

The Sheffield Case

"They look like butterfly eggs," was what I thought when I drove past them the first time. White, round, and slightly cylindrical, they dotted Mr. Aidan Sheffield's field like so many butterfly eggs on a leaf. Except that these were much bigger than butterfly eggs, of course. I figured that they were some sort of covering for haystacks and didn't give them a second thought. I was here on much more important business.

Gradually, the fields ended and my horse-drawn cab approached the rather large and narrow farmhouse of Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Sheffield. It was really quite a wonderful old house, with a fenced terrace and gabled roofs. But it wasn't the terrace and the gables that I noticed as I stepped up to the front door. It was how unbearably squeaky those steps leading to the door were. One would have to jump over them if he wanted to enter the house quietly.

I stood in front of the door and rang the bell. As I waited, I glanced anxiously at what reflection there was in the glass and quickly ran my fingers through my hair in an effort to straighten out the mess that I saw. After all, I had been driving a day and a night from London to get to this farm and I had been instructed not to even stop to set up residence at the inn in the local village, but to come straight here. Needless to say, I looked a bit travel-worn.

The door finally opened a little and a timid-looking face surrounded by lots of dark brown curls peeked out. "Can I help you, sir?" she said in an equally timid voice.

"I'm Police Detective Tristan Peterson of the Scotland Yard," I said. "I was told that Mr. Sheffield was expecting me."

The timid-looking face disappeared and I stood for a minute, wondering what I was supposed to do. The face came back and said, "Well, aren't you going to come in, sir?"

"Oh…yes," I said hurriedly and proceeded to do so. I stepped into a dimly lit corridor with many doors on both sides and a narrow staircase at the end. The servant girl (for that is what she appeared to be) turned to me as I followed her and remarked, "You look awful young for a police detective, sir."

I was still thinking of a way to respond to that when she stopped at one of the doors, opened it and said, "Police Detective Tristan Peterson of the Scotland Yard to see you, sir."

"Thank you, Beth, that will be all for now," said an extremely cracked and wheezy voice. "Just show him in and see to it that we're not disturbed."

"Yes, sir," replied Beth and was already closing the door behind me as I entered the room. The room turned out to be a fairly elaborate study. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books ranging from classic fiction to scientific studies, and I'm no expert, but much of the furniture looked very antique.

Seated at a large, wooden, intricately designed desk was a man who also looked rather antique. His face was lined with age and his hair was white with streaks of grey. "You seem very young to be a police detective," said Mr. Sheffield (for that is who it was) in that cracked voice that I had heard earlier. "How many years of experience have you had?"

I sighed. "Three years next Tuesday," I answered. "And I am 33 years old."

"Hmm," grunted the old man. "You don't look a day under 20."

I considered telling him how old he looked, but thought better of it and said instead, "I understand that there has been a murder, Mr. Sheffield."

"Indeed, indeed," he said. "But come and sit down over here. I can't shout at you like this all day. Would you care for some tea? It's about time for it, anyway."

"Tea would be fine, thank you," said I as it took the seat offered to me on the opposite side of the desk. Sheffield rang a bell and as if on cue, Beth entered the room and left it again as quickly as she had come in, after being told to bring tea. "I must confess that I'm a little surprised myself," I continued. "I expected to find someone much, how do I put this, younger, after all I had been told about you."

"What have you been told about me?" asked Sheffield sharply, stiffening suddenly, his eyes widening anxiously and his hands trembling.

I was a little surprised at his fright, but didn't show it. "Only that you are one of the best farmers in the country and that your farm has supplied the local market with vegetables and fruits for many years," I answered.

"Oh," said Sheffield, who relaxed again and then actually grinned. "I may supply the local markets, it's true, but my hired hands do all of the work. My father insisted on tilling the earth and planting the food with his own two hands and drove my mother to an early grave by forcing her to work in the fields with him. Being the oldest, I inherited the farm and took on as many workers as wanted to do all that. I find that production is higher that way. All I do is see to it that they get paid."

As he spoke, Beth had quietly entered bearing a tray laden with cups, a teapot, and a plate of pastries that she set out in front of us, and had left just as quietly after pouring the tea. As I added sugar and cream to mine, I asked, "So, who was murdered, one of your workers?"

"No, no, they're too unimportant to be killed by someone," said Sheffield, nonchalantly stirring his tea. "It was my son."

I nearly choked on my tea at the indifference in is voice.

"A couple of workers found his body under a pear tree in the orchard," he continued. "I was away at the time, so they called the police right away. I would've advised them not to. I don't like the police meddling in my affairs. The workers insisted that there was something not right about Roger's death. I think it was merely an accident."

"What makes you think that?" I inquired.

"Because Roger was always climbing trees and doing foolish things," snapped Sheffield. "Being the youngest, he always thought that he could be the most irresponsible and therefore acted like a child up into his twenties. It's obvious to me that he fell out of the tree and broke his neck, that's all."

"Surely there must've been something about his body that caused suspicion," I suggested. "They would not have called the police if there wasn't something."

"Of course there wasn't," insisted the old man. It was at this time that I noticed that he was sweating profusely. He began to speak very quickly. "The workers were merely frightened and acted stupidly in their fright. Now, that is really all I have to say to you. I wasn't here at the time, you know. I don't know why they sent you out here in the first place. Go now and leave an old man in peace. I'm too tired to talk."

I didn't move. "What was your son doing here when you were away?" I asked.

"Go, I said!" he shouted and actually stood up in his rage, his entire body trembling. I merely stared at him, the figure of calmness. "He merely showed up as a surprise for his father, an unannounced and unappreciated visit. I happened to be away on business. Now, get out." He said the last in what can only be explained as a growl.

I stood up and said calmly, "Very well, Mr. Sheffield, I will be on my way now. But be assured that you haven't seen the last of me yet."

"Don't you dare show your face here again!" he said, shouting again. "My son's death was an accident, nothing more! I don't like the police meddling in my affairs. What I do about deaths in my family is my own affair, not yours!" He was still shouting as I left his study and started down the hall.

Beth was already waiting at the front door. "I apologize for my master's bad temper, sir," she said as she opened it. "He hasn't been the same since Roger's death."

"No need to apologize," I assured her. "All this must have been very hard on your mistress as well."

Beth's face saddened. "Mrs. Sheffield has passed on," she said quietly. "She died last November of the pneumonia."

"Oh," I said and, thinking of nothing else to say, I asked, "Where can I find the workers' quarters?"

Beth answered, "If you mean the workers who found Roger, they live in town, although where exactly I'm unsure. Just ask around for William and James Bradley. They're well known in all of the pubs."

I thanked her and returned to my cab, whom I had paid to wait. I thought about all I had seen and heard as I drove back to town. There was certainly more to this case than met the eye. Sheffield was hiding something; that much was sure. I was determined to speak to William and James about the body before the day was finished.

This time as we drove by the fields, I noticed dozens of people digging and weeding amongst carrots, potatoes and who knows what else. Then I noticed that although the surrounding fields were covered with people, the field with the giant 'butterfly eggs' was empty. This too unusual to be left alone, and I decided to ask Sheffield about it when I saw him again.

I couldn't go in search of William and James until evening when the workers went home, so I booked a room at the local inn and spent the rest of the afternoon napping. Then, after a pleasant dinner at the inn's restaurant, I went browsing at the pubs. I didn't have to browse for very long.

The first pub I came to, called the 'Boar's Tusk' was a bit of a shady establishment, judging by the scantily clad prostitutes hanging around the front door, and probably didn't serve the village's wealthier clientele. This was confirmed upon entrance into a crowded, smoke-filled room filled with raucous laughter and the smell of cheap beer. I made my way to the bar, cautiously squeezing between tables filled with drunks and trying not to slip on the wet floor.

"What can I get you, sir," asked the bartender, eying me somewhat suspiciously. Apparently he wasn't used to seeing customers so well dressed.

"I'm looking for William and James Bradley," he said a little too loudly, trying to make myself heard above the racket.

"You mean Will and Jim? They're over at the poker table, and winning too, as likely as not." The bartender pointed to a table over in a corner that was so covered in cigar smoke, it was hardly visible. As I got close enough to see through the smoke, I could see that the game was at an end and that the winner, a large man with a black beard, was collecting money from the rest of the players, who were all scowling, except one.

"How do you do it, Jim?" asked the one who wasn't scowling, but who was shaking his head in either amusement or amazement. "Every time we play, you always win."

"That's obviously because I'm the smartest, Will," said Jim, pocketing his money.

"Well, that's certainly not true, considering you're as stupid as a bear," retorted Will.

Jim ignored him and asked, "Well, gentlemen, shall we play another round or have you guys had enough?" The consensus was that they'd had enough, as the other men stood up, reached for their coats, and still scowling, left the table empty save for Will, Jim and me. Jim chuckled and also stood up, then noticed me. "What do you want?" he asked, looking me up and down with the same look that I got from the bartender.

"I'm Tristan Peterson of Scotland Yard," I told him. "I've been looking for you two."

A look of understanding passed over Jim's face and he sat back down wordlessly. Will, who was much smaller than his brother and much less muscular, but with an intelligence that shone in his eyes, said, "If you are here about the recent death of Roger Sheffield, we will be more than happy to help you in any way that we can."

"Thank you," I said, and sat down. "If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions for the moment. First of all, how and when did you find the body?"

"It was four days ago," began Will. "It was almost evening and I was getting ready to go home. I don't work out in the fields, you see. I work in the office and keep track of how much is being spent. Jim works in the orchards, picking fruit. He came to me first because he's relatively new on the field and doesn't know anyone that well, except me. He said that he had something to show me. When I had seen the body, I advised that we call the police. By then, other workers had gathered to see what we were about."

"What condition was the body in?" I asked.

"I had been picking pears at the time I found the body," said Jim, taking up the story. "I was up in a tree when I noticed something like feet sticking out of the bushes on the other side. I climbed down to investigate and found the body. It was horrible." He shuddered, and continued. "The clothes were torn and everything was covered in blood. What's more, the boy's face was mauled."

I looked at him in surprise. "Mauled, you say?" I repeated.

They both nodded and Will said, "Mr. Sheffield wasn't very pleased to come home that night to find his property crawling with policemen. He gave us a good shouting to when he learned it was me who called them and even threatened to fire us. He didn't, though. He acted a bit strange. He kept saying that the whole thing was an accident."

"Could it have been?" I suggested. "Sheffield insisted that Roger had merely fallen from the tree and broke his neck."

Jim shook his head. "Not possible," he said. "There's no way he would've been that covered in blood and with a mauled face and all."

"I have just one more question. Why didn't I see any workers this afternoon in the field covered in white cylinders?" I asked as I stood up.

They shrugged. "We aren't allowed into that field," Jim said. "Mr. Sheffield doesn't allow it. He doesn't say why and we don't ask. We do as we're told, most of the time. There is something odd about that field, though. People have seen things."

He didn't volunteer any more information and they had given me enough to think about. "I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help," I said as I shook their hands.

"It was nothing," they assured me. "If you need any more help, you know where to find us." I bade them good-night and went back to my hotel. This case was becoming, in the words of Lewis Carroll, curiouser and curiouser. The field with the cylinders was especially intriguing and was in my last thoughts as I got ready for bed and in my dreams as I slept.

The next morning, I woke up not feeling very well and with a terrible headache. I ordered up a breakfast of coffee, kippers and eggs, and after eating, I went in search of the local police station. From there, I phoned Scotland Yard to inform them of my arrival and to give an update of the case. Interestingly enough, the only response from Georges, my boss, was, "You sound like you're coming down with a cold, Tristan."

I couldn't argue with that, so I hung up and turned to speak to the police chief. The local police were only too happy to turn the case over to me. They freely admitted that they were in over their heads, which is why they had called the Yard in. Police Chief Quinn said that they would willingly give me any help or information I needed. So, casually, I asked him if anyone had ever filed a complaint about Mr. Aidan Sheffield in the past few years.

Quinn looked somewhat surprised at the request, but answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact some people have. I believe we put them in here." He opened a file cabinet and after rummaging in it for a minute, pulled out a thin folder. "You can take it and have a look at it, if you'd like," he said as he handed it to me. "Don't know what good it'll do you. It might be best to go speak to these people yourself."

"Thank you. These will be very useful," I assured him as I tucked the folder into my briefcase. "Now, where can I find the coroner's report on Roger Sheffield?"

"It hasn't been turned in yet," Quinn told me. "It's supposed to come in today, but if you want, I can give you the name of the coroner and you can speak to him yourself." This pleased me very much indeed, as I much preferred to speak to people face to face instead of reading reports, so I took down the name and address and, as it was not far, walked there directly.

The coroner, a man by the name of Manfred Thorndike, was a tall, thin, pale man who lived in a tall, thin, dark building. His laboratory was on the first floor and he and his wife lived on the second. He was in his lab when I arrived and wasn't in the least surprised to see me.

"I suppose you're here about Sheffield," he said after I had introduced myself. "Would you like to see the body? I still have it, you know. Or would you prefer to read my report that I have just finished?"

"Well, both, if you don't mind," I replied.

"This way, then," and with that, Thorndike led me into the back of the room. "It was a difficult case, you know," he said as he turned on various lights to reveal a table with a figure covered on a tarp on it. "I know it's been three days since the body turned up, but I've had to do tests and have samples sent out. That's why it's still here. Now, prepare yourself, young man," and he pulled the tarp off.

It's lucky that I'm used to seeing grisly bodies, or else I probably would've turned and ran. Lying on the table was the naked corpse of a boy in his late 20s, at least, what was left of it. The face had been horribly mashed in and the torso was covered in various lacerations and wounds, including one that looked like a puncture wound. What's more, the left arm was completely gone.

"I wasn't told anything about one of the arms being amputated," I said.

Thorndike looked rather guilty. "That was my doing," he admitted. "I had to send in a large enough sample to the London Zoo to make it worth their while. Of course, they sent back a report right away, but they didn't send back the arm."

I nodded with understanding. "So, the arm was mauled too, then. What did the zoo say in their reports?" In reply, he handed me a pile of papers. I scanned through them rather quickly. Essentially, they said that the lacerations on the left arm were claw marks made by a strange animal. The closest they could come was some sort of bear, as the claw pattern was similar. But it was certainly no bear that they had ever seen, they added.

I frowned, as I studied their report and then the marks on the boy's torso. Those wounds certainly looked like they could've been made by a large carnivore, but the wounds on the face didn't. Rather it looked like it had been smashed with a rock. Also, the puncture wound just above the navel looked rather unusual. I asked Thorndike about it.

The coroner's face turned graver than it was, if possible. "That is the strangest thing of all," he said in a voice just above a whisper. "It was almost as though he had been stabbed by a long needle. The autopsy revealed that the stomach, intestines, heart and throat had been punctured; all the way up into the brain cavity. And that's not the half of it. When I opened up the head, the brain was gone!"

I looked at him rather incredulously. "Are you sure?" I asked. "There is no sign that the back of his head may have been cut open and the brain removed that way?"

Thorndike looked insulted. "I am a professional," he said, drawing himself up. "I know how to do my job. Don't you think I have gone through every possible solution? I can come to no other conclusion, except that the brain was sucked out through some sort of needle."

I glanced at the body again and this time, a strange wave of revulsion and nausea swept over me. I had a sudden urge to breathe the fresh air again. I thanked Thorndike for his time and left the building as quickly as possible. Finding a bench in a nearby park, I sat down and gathered my thoughts. What sort of case had they gotten me into?

After sitting for a while, I suddenly became ravenously hungry. I went over to a small café, ordered a sandwich and a coffee and sat down to review the case while I ate. It seemed obvious that Aidan Sheffield was hiding something and although he probably wasn't directly responsible for his son's death, he clearly knew that there were strange goings-on around his house and property.

I considered his reaction when I had mentioned that I had expected someone younger after all I had heard about him. He had seemed almost paranoid, as if he had a secret and he knew that his neighbors suspected him of hiding something. While else did he stress the point that he didn't like police meddling in his business? But what was his business? Was he involved in some genetic experiment in which a strange new species of bears went about killing people with large needles? The idea was laughable, but the condition of the body had unnerved me and I was forced to admit that anything was possible in this case.

Upon finished my sandwich, I looked over the filed complaints given to me by Quinn as I drank my coffee. There were three of them. The first one had been filed a year ago by several workers, who had complained about their boss keeping them on the fields at ungodly hours. Apparently, the police had had words with Sheffield and he had shortened their work days. This was of no importance to the case whatsoever, so I disregarded it.

The second one was filed by a Mrs. Basilton six months ago, who owned a small house just outside of the Sheffield apple orchards. She complained of strange noises in the orchards at night and eerie flashing lights. She insisted that Sheffield keep his workers from going around and scaring the wits out of harmless old ladies. An investigation had been carried out, revealing that no workers had been anywhere near the Sheffield grounds at the time. Aidan himself denied knowing anything about it, laid off a few workers to make Mrs. Basilton happy, and apparently the noises had stopped. Or at least, no further complaints had been filed. I decided to have a word with Basilton and set that paper aside

The third report, however, was the most interesting. It had been filed only a month ago by the Eccleston family who lived just north of Sheffield. The story was that one night Mr. Eccleston had heard a noise in the backyard and the dog has started barking. He had gone to investigate and seen what appeared to be an old man running across the yard with the dog close at his heels. Eccleston had stood for a minute in surprise, when the next thing he knew, the old man was gone and the dog was standing at the front gate, barking. Eccleston had looked out of the gate and watched a distant figure running off in the direction of the Sheffield orchard.

That was only the first incident, however. Shortly thereafter, another complaint had been filed, claiming that the youngest Eccleston daughter had been frightened by what they took to be a worker, who had been dressed as a large animal and had been prowling around the Eccleston property. No other details were given. Both cases had been investigated, with Sheffield denying knowing anything about it and nothing further had been done.

I glanced at my watch. It was about 2 in the afternoon. I decided to go and visit Mrs. Basilton, since she was slightly closer to town than the Ecclestons. However, halfway out of town, the cab's horse threw his shoe and it took about an hour to fix that. So, it was about 3:30 when I got to Mrs. Basilton's house.

Mrs. Basilton lived in a pleasant little cottage directly on the northern border of Sheffield's apple orchards. As I later found out, the cottage actually belonged to Sheffield and she rented it from him. Mrs. Basilton herself was a kind old woman with hair that was just beginning to grey. When I arrived, I found her in her garden, poking around at chrysanthemums. She welcomed me gladly, as she rarely got visitors, and invited me in for a cup of tea.

As soon as we had been settled with cups of Darjeeling and plates of biscuits, I attempted to make pleasant conversation by asking, "So, do you have any grandchildren, Mrs. Basilton?", as I didn't think it very polite to come directly to the point. Apparently, I wasn't very good at it.

Mrs. Basilton smiled at me and answered, "As a matter of fact, I've never been married, so I can't say that I have very many grandchildren. However, I doubt very seriously that you came all this way to discuss my relatives, Mr. Peterson. Why don't we come to the point? What do you want to know the noises in the Sheffield orchard?"

"You do like to get down to business, don't you?" I said, smiling back. "It is true that I came to ask you about those very noises. As I understand it, after the police carried out their investigation, Sheffield laid off a few workers and the noises stopped."

"Yes, it is true that the noises stopped for several weeks and when the police inquired, that is what I told them," agreed Basilton. "But what the police haven't been told is about what happened about a month after the incident. Aidan Sheffield himself appeared at my front door late one Friday evening."

I sat up straighter in my chair. "What did he want?" I asked.

"He told me that within a short time, the noises would begin again, but that they would have nothing to do with workers," she answered. "He admitted to knowing what the noises were for a long time, but that they couldn't possibly be revealed to anyone yet, which was why he had lied about it. He positively threatened me with some horrible fate if I so much as whispered to the police again. I'm old and I no longer fear horrible fates, so once the noises began again, I seriously contemplated going to the police."

"Why didn't you?" I blurted out, rather rudely. "It would've reopened the investigation, with much more focus on Sheffield. Already, many of my suspicions have been confirmed by your story."

"I would've, but I was taken seriously ill," she explained. "Being old, it took me the next four months to recover fully at the hospital. I've only just returned last week. My house-sitter has told me that the noises have continued at various intervals. I hadn't heard anything since my return until last night. Luckily for me, you showed up and saved me a trip to the police station."

"Describe these noises to me," I said, as I pulled out a notebook and prepared to write.

She thought for a minute or two and then said, "They are very strange noises. Now that I think about it, they couldn't possibly be human. I don't know why I ever thought that they were. They are very animal, like a bear and a wolf mixed together, but with a hint of sadness and anger to them. They are always accompanied by eerie, flashing lights, like someone is playing with a switch very quickly, or like brief flashes of lightning."

I considered what she had told me in relation to what I already knew. I opened my mouth to say something, when the head cold, which had actually left me alone for most of the day with nothing but a few sniffles, suddenly came on in the form of another pounding headache and an extreme weariness. Seeing that Mrs. Basilton was still watching me concernedly, I said, "Mrs. Basilton, you have been extremely helpful. I've taken enough of your time, and I have a splitting headache, so if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave now."

I stood up, surprised at how achy my body suddenly was. Mrs. Basilton had pottered off and by the time I had opened the front door, she had reappeared with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Take two of these," she said. "It'll help clear your head."

Without question, I took two pills and the water and gulped them both down. "Again, I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help," I said, but she would have none of it and instead ran off again, this time returning with a jar of blackberry jam. So, I found myself driving back into town laden with preserves and information. As it happened, the pills worked wonders and I managed to sleep rather well, dreaming all the while of animal noises and flashing lights.

The next morning, I awoke refreshed and feeling much better. However, as I was eating breakfast, a boy came with a message for me from Police Chief Quinn, requesting my immediate presence at the police office. My heart sank. This meant that he had gotten a call from Scotland Yard and that meant that either I was being taken off the case or they had decided to send an assistant for me. As I left the inn at 10:30, I prayed that it was the former. If there is one thing that I can't stand, it's not being able to work by myself.

My heart sank even further when I entered the police office and saw Quinn standing there, chatting with a young man in his mid twenties with dark brown hair, keen, intelligent eyes and Oxford shoes. Quinn noticed me and shook my hand warmly. "Allow me to introduce you to Frederick Trembles. He arrived late last night with orders from Scotland Yard to join you. Freddy, this is Police Detective Tristan Peters."

Freddy?! The two of them were buddies already! Inwardly, I was seething, although I tried not to show it as I shook Trembles' hand. Then I excused myself as politely as possible and went to call Georges. The moment he answered, I started shouting at him. "See here, Georges!" I said. "What is the meaning of all this? I don't need a bloody assistant!"

"What on earth are you blabbering about?" replied Georges, calmly. "Oh, you mean Freddy, of course. Well, we thought that you might need a little bit of help down there. From what you told me last time, it sounded like the case might become dangerous. So, I sent Freddy. He's a bit new around here, but he's handy with a gun and very clever."

"And I'm not?" Before he could answer, I continued, "I'm doing perfectly fine by myself. The case is becoming increasingly interesting, and I have several interesting leads that I am looking into. I don't need someone to come along and mess everything up for me."

"He won't mess anything up," said Georges, beginning to sound slightly annoyed. "Look, he's there already, so you might as well take him with you. That's my last say on the matter and don't you dare try to send him back to London." With that, he hung up, before I could say anything. Cursing the telephone for no apparent reason, I hung up too. As I went back to find Quinn, I could only hope that Trembles didn't live up to his name, for although I hadn't admitted it, the case was likely to become as dangerous and frightening as ever.

Quinn and Trembles were still chattering away like old friends. When he saw me reenter the room, Quinn grinned cheerfully and said, "Well, I'm sure you two have lots of work to do now, so I'll get back to work and let you guys go. Before I do, however, I think I should tell you that there is a big party tonight at Sheffield's. It's his birthday and all of the family will be there. You might want to be there as well."

I thanked him curtly, although this news pleased me greatly (I had been looking for an excuse to go and bother Sheffield again), and then I left with Trembles. As we climbed into a waiting cab, Trembles inquired as to where we were planning to go. I sighed and figured I should update him, so I told him everything that had happened so far and that this morning, I was planning on visiting the Ecclestons.

Trembles considered this for a minute. "Shouldn't we give them a call first?" he asked.

"Why should we bother doing that, Trembles?" I snapped, rather unpleasantly. "That's not how detectives work."

"You can call me Freddy," he said, nonplussed. "I was just thinking that they have two young children and therefore it would b prudent to call and make sure it's alright to pop in, since kids can make parents rather busy."

I grudgingly had to admit that he had a point, although I was irritated that I hadn't thought of this myself. "Very well, Freddy," I said with an unkindness that surprised even me. "We'll call them first." I asked the cabby to pull over at a grocery store and I called the Ecclestons, who said that they would only be too glad to talk with me and said to come by at 12:00 in time for lunch. I glanced at my watch. This gave us an hour to get there. So, I got back in the cab and we set off.

For most of the drive, we didn't say very much. Trembles seemed to sense that I wasn't in a very good mood and kept quiet and I was only too glad to be left to my own thoughts. However, as we neared the Eccleston house, I suddenly said, "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you seem very young to be a police detective."

I glared fireballs at him and growled, "So it would seem." We lapsed back into silence, and I was still sulking as we drove into the driveway and as we knocked on the front door and waited for someone to answer. Eventually, the door was opened by a small girl of about 8 years old, with blondish hair and big blue eyes that stared up at us with curiosity. I introduced myself and Freddy and said, "I believe that we are expected."

The little girl, whose name was Helena, said, "Mum says that I'm to take you into the backyard. She's made roast chicken for lunch and you get to be our guests."

"I'm sure it will be wonderful," I said, rather impatiently, as we followed Helena through the house. I don't have much tolerance of children and therefore was trying to avoid saying anything that wasn't necessary.

But Helena wasn't about to be silenced. "Are you really detectives?" she asked.

Before I could answer, Freddy, who was grinning down at the girl as though she was the cutest little kid he had ever met, answered, "Sure, we are. He's just like Sherlock Holmes and I'm his Dr. Watson."

Helena considered this for a moment as she opened the door to the backyard. "Watson was smarter than Sherlock Holmes," she concluded.

Freddy's grin grew wider. "Why do you think that?"

"Because he knew how to write and Sherlock Holmes didn't," she answered. "That's why all the stories are written by Watson. Didn't you ever notice that?"

"I never did!" said Freddy, sounding shocked, even though he was still grinning like an idiot. For some reason, I only scowled and with great difficulty wiped that scowl from my face as we met the Eccleston family. I truly was in a bad mood. Mr. Eccleston was a tall, fair man with blond hair. One could clearly see him in Helena. In contrast, Mrs. Eccleston was short, with dark wavy hair. Their son, 12-year-old David, had her hair and brown eyes.

Mr. and Mrs. Eccleston greeted us warmly and offered us some wine with our lunch. Soon, we were seated around the table, sipping sweet red wine and munching on roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. I'm notoriously bad at making small talk and even more so when I'm in a bad mood, so I let Freddy do most of the talking. This may have not been such a good idea, since Freddy seemed to know something about everything and seemed able to carry on for hours about fishing with Mr. Eccleston, gardens with Mrs. Eccleston, and comic books with David.

After an hour and a half of conversation, I suddenly became ridiculously annoyed with him and interrupted him mid-sentence. "Look, I hate to cut things short, but I do have many things to do today and I'm sure that you do as well, so come to the point about why we came to visit you in the first place?"

They turned to me as though noticing me for the first time and I was rather irritated to see that my outburst had completely unfazed Freddy. "Certainly, Mr. Peterson," said Eccleston, pleasantly. "I believe that you wanted to ask me about the old man that I saw a month ago."

"Yes, indeed," I said. "You don't suppose that you could describe this man in greater detail than what you reported?"

"To be sure, it was dark that night, but I have excellent night vision," answered Eccleston, thoughtfully. "He wasn't a very tall man, but he had long legs and he was very quick on his feet. His hair was very white and messy, as though he had been electrocuted. I never saw his face clearly, so I can't tell you anything about that, although he was wearing a long white robe, like a doctor's."

I frowned. This description didn't match Sheffield very much, but then I hadn't expected Sheffield to be the sort who would be able to run at all. I asked, "What about this worker, dressed as an animal, which scared your daughter? What can you say about that?"

Before he could answer, Freddy cut in. "What if we asked Helena herself? After all, it was she who saw this animal, not her parents." Before I could protest, Freddy had gotten up and walked over to where Helena and David were playing on their swing-set. Helena was sitting on the swings. She looked up and grinned when she saw Freddy approaching. Freddy asked her, "Helena, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Mr. Detective," she said, clambering off the swings.

"Do you remember the strange animal that you saw about a month ago?"

"I sure do," she said, shuddering. "It wasn't a very pleasant animal."

"Can you tell me exactly what happened that night? Only tell me what you want to, because if the memory is too scary, you don't have to tell me anything."

"Well, you see, mum sent me outside to pick up my toys that I had left out there," Helena explained. "I told her that I didn't want to, because it was dark outside, but she said not to worry and that there wasn't anything to be scared of. So, I went out and picked up my toys, when this big animal jumps right over our fence and stands there and growls at me. I screamed at it and it turned and flew away."

Freddy, who already had his notebook out and was writing things down, asked, "Can you tell me what it looked like?"

Helena stuck out her tongue a little bit as children are apt to do when they are thinking hard. "I can't say very clearly, because it was too dark. But it had teeth and really big wings, like a giant butterfly."

Freddy looked puzzled, obviously trying to connect butterflies with teeth, but before he could comment, David, who had been listening in, said, "It wasn't that dark outside. You were just so scared that you didn't notice anything and instead ran off blubbering. If I'd seen the animal, I would've punched his face in."

"You would not!" protested Helena. "You'd have run off, crying too, if you'd have seen him. He was a real monster, I think, not someone in a costume, and you'd have probably wet your pants as well."

You mean like this," said David and chucked the cup of water than he had been holding down his sister's shirt.

Helena squealed and ran off after the laughing David. Freddy stood up and returned to the table, knowing that he wouldn't get anything more out of them. I had been listening to the interview as closely as possible and asked the parents, "What do you think of her accusation that you are wrong about the monster and that she is right in that it is real?"

Mrs. Eccleston shrugged. "Whatever it was left nothing behind to prove that it was a real animal," she said. "I think it's safe to assume that it was one of Sheffield's workers in a costume or a figment of Helena's imagination because she was afraid of the dark."

I nodded and then both Freddy and I stood. I shook both of their hands and said, "Thank you so much for your time and for the lunch, but we really must be going." They said that it was no problem at all and showed us through the house and to the front door. Just as we were getting into our cab, a voice called for us to wait and Helena ran up, looking even wetter than before.

"I have something for you," she said breathlessly to Freddy and handed him what looked like a large scale from a snake's skin, except that it was soft and feathery. "I found it on the ground the morning after I saw the monster," she explained. "I never told mum and dad because I didn't want to worry them. You can have it now."

Freddy looked at her, gravely. "Helena," he said. "You are, without a doubt, the single most helpful person that I have met yet on this case. I thank you sincerely."

Helena blushed and grinned simultaneously and ran off, laughing. As I started up the engine and we pulled out of the driveway, I turned to Freddy and said wryly, "You seem to have found a fan in that house."

Freddy shrugged. "I've always worked well with kids," he said. "Or so people have always told me." I glanced at my watch. Somehow we had been in that house for 2 hours. That gave me three hours before the party at Sheffield's began. I suggested that we go back to the hotel and catch a nap. Freddy agreed and we returned to the inn. Although Freddy napped for three hours straight, my sleep was troubled.

I regretted telling Freddy my eventual decision. Not that I didn't want to disappoint him, it's just that I have a continual problem of making my assistants angry, even violently so, when I tell them that they can't go with me somewhere. I suppose it has something to do with how I tell them. What I did was not bother to wake him, but left a note by his bed saying, "I've decided that you should stay here this time and that I'd better handle this one by myself," and nothing more. Then, I simply left.

The Sheffield house was a lit up for the party. Seriously, it seemed like every light in the house was on. There seemed to be a fair amount of people there, and fairly wealthy people too, judging by the number of fine-looking cars parked around the building, many of them with chauffeurs sitting and smoking or reading while they waited for their masters.

I walked up those creaky first steps and rang the bell. After a minute or so of waiting, Beth opened the door. When she saw me, she beamed and said, "I almost expected you to show up, sir. I must say that your presence is badly needed in this dull crowd." Not knowing exactly what to say to that, I handed her my jacket and entered a large sitting room which was behind one of the doors along the dark hallway.

I must admit that I was somewhat surprised to find so many people there. I hadn't expected Sheffield to be that popular. But Beth was right about the dull crowd. I hadn't seen so many bored-looking people in one room in a long time and the tediously monotonous classical music being played in the background didn't help much either. The only people who looked remotely interested were the servants and that's only because they were too busy running back and forth to be bored.

Unexpectedly, I heard a loud guffaw. I looked in the direction of the laugh and was even more surprised to see that it came from Sheffield himself. He was seated at a long table that had been set up near the left wall of the room and seemed to be talking to another man. The man said something and they both laughed again. Now that I could hear them better, I noticed that Sheffield's laugh seemed strained and almost forced.

Suddenly, Beth ran into me, carrying a tray with drinks on it, and just about spilled them all on me. "Sorry, sir," she said, sounding frazzled. "Will you have a cocktail, sir?"

Taking one of the proffered drinks, I asked her, "Who is that man talking to Sheffield?"

"Oh, him, sir?" she answered. "I don't rightly know. He seems to be a close friend of Mr. Sheffield's. He shows up every so often and has been doing so for many years now. I recall that Mrs. Sheffield never approved of him, but I can't say why. Then again, I don't really know anything about him. If you'll excuse me, sir, I have to get to the kitchen," and she was off again.

I walked over to the table. Sheffield became aware of me for the first time and his smile abruptly disappeared. "What do you want?" he growled, almost inaudibly.

I simply smiled at him politely and said, "Why, Mr. Sheffield, how good to see you again. I was merely passing by to have a few more words with you about you-know-what. If I had had any idea that there was a party going on, I wouldn't have come. I tried to leave, but your servants insisted that I stay."

Sheffield opened his mouth and seemed about to say something unkind, when his friend interrupted him. "I don't remember seeing you around here before, young man. Come now, Aidan, you must introduce me to your friend," and he laughed cheerfully.

Aidan didn't laugh. "This is Police Detective Tristan Peterson of Scotland Yard," he said at last, grudgingly. "He's been poking around here about the death of my son."

The other man looked at me with renewed interest and shook my hand. "I'm Dr. Alfred Lowe. I'm an old friend of Aidan here, you might say." As I shook his hand in turn, I was able to observe him up close for the first time. He seemed to be probably 10 years younger than Sheffield, as his face wasn't very lined, but his hair was very white and what's more, it stuck out all over the place, rather like a white bird's nest. He had a deep, but pleasant voice.

"So, you're here about Roger's death, are you?" asked Lowe. "A bad business, that. Have you found out anything about it so far?"

I noticed Sheffield was suddenly listening intently, so I said, "As of yet, nothing that we go by, but we are certain that it was definitely not an accidental death."

Sheffield snorted derisively and pretended not to pay any more attention, but a strange gleam came into Lowe's eyes and he grinned. "So, it is murder, is it?" he whispered conspiratorially. "That is absolutely fascinating! Any suspects yet?"

I started to answer, but Sheffield interrupted. "Now, Alfred, you don't need to hear any of this detective's crackpot theories. Let's talk about something else. Dinner is being served and I don't want your appetite to be ruined. The chef's preparing some fine lobster."

"Very well, old bean," Lowe assured him, clapping him on the back. "Let's have a seat, then." Sheffield was already seated at the head of the table and Lowe sat to the left of him. I started to sit to the right, but Sheffield whispered something to a nearby servant and I found myself shoved down a seat. Once sitting, I took the time to observe the other dinner guests.

To my right sat a lovely young lady of about my age who turned out to be Alicia, Sheffield's oldest daughter. To my left sat an elderly woman with a small mustache who walked with a cane and slurped her soup noisily. She was Sheffield's old aunt, a Mrs. Donahue. Directly across from me sat a fat man who was constantly perspiring (Sheffield's master of finance, Mr. Treadstone), and a tall bony man who laughed little, smiled even less and paid no attention to what his neighbor was saying (I can't recall his name). Then, to Sheffield's right sat a woman of stature, who sat with a stern expression on her thin face through much of the meal, occasionally adding something to the conversation. She was Mrs. Treadstone.

There were many other people down to the other end of the table, but I was unable to speak with them or to find out who they were. All of these people were constantly talking at the same time and I found it difficult to follow any of the conversations, especially since I kept trying to hear that Lowe and Sheffield were talking about. Being generally unsuccessful at that, I found myself talking to Alicia. Actually, it was she who first asked me, "So, Mr. Peterson, if I heard your name right, I gather that you're hear about Roger's death. Have you had any success yet in finding out anything?"

I realized that I would have to give some account of myself, since the people around me were listening now too and I didn't want to sound like I was being lazy. "Well," I began; wiping my mouth with my napkin (the lobster was heavenly, by the way). "I wouldn't want to jump to any hasty conclusions, but we have definitely confirmed that Roger was murdered or at least his death certainly wasn't accidental."

My audience seemed unfazed. "Not surprising," remarked Mrs. Donahue. "The boy never was very popular around here. He was always much too reckless and poking his nose into other peoples' business."

Treadstone nodded in agreement. "Not only that," he added. "The boy was notoriously bad at borrowing money from his father and never returning it. He never worked, and was always hanging around here and bothering people."

Only Alicia seemed moved. "I don't deny that Roger had his faults," she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly. "But after all, he was my brother, and I loved him. If he was indeed murdered, I implore you to find his murderer and bring him to justice, Mr. Peterson."

Strangely touched by her devotion, I took her hand and held it. "Rest assured that I am doing all I can in my power to do just that," I told her. "Not only that, I believe that I have a trail that I will follow to conclusion and I can only hope that it will lead to the murderer." Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that Lowe was talking to Sheffield with his mouth, but listening to me with his ears.

This seemed to please Alicia to no end and we began to talk about other things. Indeed, I was having such a good time talking about something else other than the case that I was rather disappointed when 30 minutes later, Sheffield's voice boomed out above all others, "I am not having money problems, God damn it!!"

Silence reigned supreme and all eyes turned to that end of the table. Sheffield was standing, his eyes blazing, and his hands trembling with rage. Lowe was looking at him with a half-shocked, half-amused face, but Mrs. Treadstone looked adamant. "Of course, you're having money problems," she said, indignantly, and it became clear who had enraged Sheffield in the first place. "My husband knows this quite well. Indeed, you are spending more than you are making. I'm surprised you're even able to afford this lobster dinner."

Sheffield was looking more and more enraged every minute. His eyes were bulging out of his sockets and he seemed about to lunge at Mrs. Treadstone and strangle her, when Lowe firmly grasped his arm and said quietly, "Keep calm, Aidan. It means nothing."

Aidan shrugged his arm free, but didn't attack Mrs. Treadstone outright. Instead, he snarled, "If I ever hear you say such things about me at this party or in public again, I swear I will fire your husband on the spot!"

Mrs. Treadstone seemed to be prepared to say something else, but Mr. Treadstone said, "Please, my dear, let's not argue about such things at the man's own birthday party. I came to have a good time, not to discuss business. We'll talk about it afterwards, hmm?"

His wife's face softened. "Very well, John, but if you'll excuse me, I'm going outside for a breath of fresh air," she said instead and promptly stood up and left. Her husband looked relieved and conversation returned as normal.

I was just beginning to eat my pudding again when Beth was suddenly whispering in my ear, scaring me out of my skin for half a second. "Excuse me, sir, bit there's a man here to see you." Wordlessly I stood up, excused myself, and followed her out into the hallway. To my complete and utter surprise, there stood before me…

"Freddy Trembles!" I exclaimed, probably looking just as enraged as Sheffield had just been. "What in the blue blazes are you doing here?!"

"Well, Tristan," Freddy said, undaunted. "I woke up and you were gone, so I was sitting around, wondering what I should do, when Georges gave me a call. He asked where you were, so I told him and he asked what the hell I thought I was doing and told me to haul myself down here. So, here I am."

I sighed. "Now that you're here, you might as well come in," I said, resignedly.

"Thank you," he said, happily following me into the sitting room and helping himself to a glass of wine and a bowl of ice cream. He then went and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible in an armchair in a dark corner of the room. I noticed that Mrs. Treadstone hadn't yet returned. I glanced out a window and saw her standing on a balcony, smoking a cigarette.

Just then, Dr. Lowe stood up a little unsteadily and said, "I don't feel so good. I must've had too much to drink. I'll be in the restroom if anyone needs me." A few people chuckled as he staggered off and Sheffield smiled, but looked after Lowe rather nervously. I frowned and wondered what was wrong here. Then it came to me as I looked at Lowe's empty seat. He wasn't drinking wine, he had a coffee!

I hurried over to Freddy and said, "Quickly, now, go and follow Dr. Lowe, if you want to make yourself useful." Before he could ask any questions, I covered his mouth and shoved him in the general direction of the door. Satisfied that he was away, I returned to my seat and waited for a result. Twenty minutes later, Lowe ran into the room. His face was whiter than his hair, if possible. Freddy followed closely behind.

"Come, quickly!" said Lowe, hoarsely. "There's been a murder." Everyone gasped and I leapt out of my seat and was out the door and behind Freddy and Lowe in a flash. They led me outside and onto the balcony, where there lay the body of Mrs. Treadstone. A cloth had been tied around her mouth and her throat had been cut with a clean slice that left her lying in a pool of blood. Her eyes were open, but surprisingly, they seemed to express a great sadness, rather than fear or surprise.

At that moment, Mr. Treadstone pushed his way through us, shouting that he wanted to see what was going on. When he saw his wife lying there, his eyes widened and his face paled. His legs visibly collapsed underneath him and he knelt at her side. "Oh, my poor Agatha! My poor wife, who has done this terrible thing," he cried as he held her still-warm body close to him, heedless of the blood that stained his clothes. His body racked with sobs.

Dr. Lowe went down on one knee and laid a gentle hand on Treadstone's shoulder. "My friend," he said, his voice filled with tenderness. "A terrible thing has been done indeed, but you cannot amend that. You can only let her go. That is the only thing you can do for her now. Come away, now, and we'll get you a stiff drink. Let the good detective take care of her. He won't be needed her any more, I assume?" This last question was to me.

I shook my head. Mr. Treadstone carefully lay his wife back down on the floor and quietly reached over and closed her eyes with a light brush of his fingers. Tears continued to streak down his face as he allowed himself to be led back into the house by Dr. Lowe. I tried not to be annoyed that he had touched the body, because now it would be hard to find fingerprints. Then I reminded myself that I was thinking too much like a detective and less like a human.

I turned to Freddy, who had remained silent up to that point, and asked him, "Did you follow Dr. Lowe as I commanded?"

"Yes, I did," he answered. "The truth is that he did indeed to go the restroom and was in there for a good eighteen minutes. When he came out, he looked a bit unwell, so he went out onto the balcony. A second later, he ran back in and I followed him back to the sitting room."

At that minute, Lowe came back. "Poor fellow," he said, sympathetically. "He shouldn't have seen her like that. It's a horrible thing to see a loved one go like that, a horrible thing. One should never have to experience it."

I looked at him strangely. "I was in the room from the moment you left to the moment you ran back in," I told him. "You and Freddy, my assistant here, are the only two people who left the room between the time Mrs. Treadstone went out for a smoke and the time you found the murder. Freddy confirms the fact that you were in the restroom for a full 18 minutes and then you found the body. So, the murderer must've been someone from outside."

"Could it be connected to Roger Sheffield's murder, do you think?" asked Freddy.

"There is no connection that I can see clearly," he said, pacing back and forth as I thought. At least, I said to myself, no connection that I was going to comment on out loud in front of Lowe. "The two murders seem completely unrelated, the obvious way being the way of the killing itself. A cut throat is quite different from a mauled body. No, this was done by a man, not a beast. But why?"

Just then, we heard sirens wailing as an ambulance and the police arrived. Police Chief Quinn was there and after his men had red-taped the place, and drawn chalk marks everywhere, he ordered that the body be taken away. As the body was wrapped in a white sheet and lifted carefully into the ambulance, I caught Quinn's ear. "Let me know the moment you get an autopsy report from the coroner," I told him and he nodded.

Once the police had gone, it was clear that the party was over. Treadstone, as he was helped into his car by Lowe, still looked quite shaken and surprisingly, Sheffield looked little better, despite the fact that just before he had had harsh words with Treadstone's wife. Lowe looked grim and silent. I still didn't trust him, but it appeared that nothing could be done about him at the moment, so I decided it was safe to let him be for the moment. Suddenly, I was very tired and all I wanted to do was get back to my hotel and sleep.

However, as we rode back into town, I filled Freddy in on all that had been said before he had arrived. In the end, I concluded that the only thing that connected Treadstone with the Sheffield case was Aidan Sheffield's money problems. Clearly they had known something about Sheffield and his dealings with his money and Treadstone had mentioned something about Roger taking money and being generally nosy. Yet Sheffield had been in the room the whole time and didn't seem to be capable of killing anyone anyway.

Then there was also Lowe. Something about him worried me. I couldn't quite place my finger on it. It seemed that his friendship with Sheffield was strained at best. Lowe seemed too cheerful in his presence, and I remembered the strange expressions that had played on his face at the mention of Roger's murder and of the money. Sheffield had also seemed less than comfortable with him. But he had seemed genuinely worried about Treadstone and horrified at the murder. All of these things I wondered about as I fell into another troubled sleep that night.

The funeral was held the following afternoon. Freddy and I were present at the burial ceremony, as were Sheffield, Lowe and the other guests at the party. Treadstone had aged visibly about 10 years, although he stoically looked straight ahead and never cried once. He did flinch every time a shovelful of dirt hit the casket with a hollow thud. Once the ceremony was finished, the coroner approached me and handed me his autopsy report.

I poured over it with Freddy that evening. It appeared that Agatha Treadstone's throat had been cut with a thin knife, although this we already knew. No other marks had been found on her, except for a bruise where she had fallen. There were no mauls or puncture wounds as had been on Roger. Fallen leaves from vines showed that someone had climbed up onto the balcony and gagged her from behind, then thrown her onto the ground and killed her there. There had apparently been no scuffle. No footprints had been found and neither had the knife, but I hadn't expected there to be any. We were dealing with someone who knew what he was doing, because he had done the whole thing without causing any sound at all.

None of this told us anything new, however, and I went to bed that night feeling discouraged and knowing that we really were nowhere closer to finding this murderer than we had been when I had first arrived.

On the morning after the funeral, John Treadstone awoke after a fitful and restless night. In truth, he hadn't been able to sleep at all. Every time he almost fell asleep, he would reach over to the other side of the bed and find no one and then he would lie there awake again. Now, he knew he must get up, but he didn't feel like it. He wanted to go back to sleep forever.

The maid knocked quietly and he said that she could come in. She entered carrying a tray with tea and toast laid out on it. She smiled bravely at him, then she glanced at the empty space on the bed, and her smile slipped. Treadstone reached out and took the tray from her before she dropped it. "Don't cry, my girl," he said, not unkindly. "If you cry, then I'll cry, and then I'll never get through this day. Agatha wouldn't want us to carry on so." The maid dried her eyes, apologized, and left the room.

John Treadstone sighed and ate his breakfast quickly. He tasted none of it. Afterwards, he got dressed, put on his jacket and hat and went out for his morning walk. Agatha had talked him into morning walks because she said it would be good for his weight. It hadn't made much difference, but he liked doing it anyway. This morning was dank and foggy, but he walked all the way around the block anyway.

On the way back, he passed an old woman selling roses. He stopped and admired them. They were fat and ripe and smelled wonderful. She had yellow and pink and red ones. Agatha would've liked theses roses, he said to himself. He purchased one of each color. He came home to find his driver with the carriage already waiting for him. "Are you ready to go now, sir?" his driver asked. "You don't need to be at your office for another hour if you'd rather wait a bit."

"No, let's go now," said Treadstone, smiling. "But let's stop at the cemetery on the way. I'd like to set these flowers at Agatha's grave." So, after he had gotten a vase, they rode off. Since Treadstone had worked for him, Sheffield had allowed his wife to be buried at the Sheffield Family Cemetery. The private cemetery was gated and walled and filled with the gravestones of Sheffield family members of a long past.

Treadstone got out of his carriage and showed the guard at the gate his identification. The guard nodded at him sympathetically and opened the gates. Treadstone walked slowly towards the newest grave in the cemetery. He had chosen a cross made of marble. The ground around it still looked freshly lain. He knelt down, heedless of the wet grass on his trousers, and laid the vase with roses gently at the base of the cross. A single tear rolled silently down his cheek. "Good-bye, my Agatha," he murmured.

So engrossed was he that he didn't hear it approaching him from behind until he felt hot breath on the back of his neck and his hair stood on end. He turned around bit by bit until he found himself staring at a terrifying apparition. His eyes were still blurred with unshed tears, so he couldn't see it very well.

What he could see were magnificent wings looming in the fog and yellow eyes gleaming, so close, he could see inside them. What he saw there comforted him in spite of the terror and the foul stench and the glimmering teeth. He saw a strange sense of understanding, of pity even. He stood up, brushed himself off, and said calmly, "I am ready now. I am ready to see Agatha again. Take me now." He didn't even feel any pain as something like a needle came at him.

On the morning of John Treadstone's murder, I had woken up feeling refreshed and ready to start the day anew. I'm not so sure why I felt so optimistic. It could've been because I had had a good night's sleep and it's amazing what that can do for your emotions, or it could've been because they had finally moved Freddy out of my room and into his own. Whatever the reason, I felt so agreeable that I decided to go for an early morning walk, something that I hadn't done for many years.

So, I walked out of the hotel and into a crisp, fine morning. The slightest hint of fog lingered in the air and all around me, the city was already waking up. As I walked in the general direction of a small roll shop I'd heard of, I noticed for the first time that the streets were cobblestone and that they had a strange massaging effect on my feet. I walked past people who were busy about their daily business. Farmers were carting fresh vegetables in to the markets. Milkmen bicycled to different houses and newspaper boys stood on every corner, shouting the most recent news.

Eventually, I got to the shop and purchased two cinnamon rolls and a cup of coffee. I walked through the city's small park while I ate and enjoyed the pleasant greenery of the area. I laughed with boy who was throwing a ball with his dog and even scratched the dog behind the ears. It felt nice to simply amble along and free my mind of the case. Before I realized where I was, I had walked all the way to the gates of a cemetery. I could see that it was private, but not feeling quite like going back yet, I decided to ask if I could walk through the cemetery. The guard was agreeable and let me in.

As I walked in, I noticed a black carriage parked just a bit to the left of the gate, with a very worried looking drive standing next to his horse. The driver noticed me and ran over. "Excuse me, sir, but are you Detective Peterson, sir?" he asked.

"I am," I answered, surprised that he was looking for me.

"Well, if you're walking through the cemetery, sir, please be so good as to look for my master," he said, his voice trembling from anxiety. "He's been in there much longer than normal, sir, and I'm a mite worried for him, but I daren't leave the horse by itself."

"I'll be glad to keep an eye open," I assured him. "What's his name?"

"John Treadstone, sir, but you know him, sir?"

My smile slipped and a sudden fear gripped my heart. "Treadstone," I whispered and without another word, ran into the cemetery. Luckily for me, the gravestones were marked in alphabetical order, and as I neared the sections starting with T, a sharp scent caught my nose and my heart began beating fast. Before I got to Mrs. Treadstone's grave, I saw his body.

There he lay, at the foot of his wife's tombstone. I took his hand and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing. His body was still quite warm, and I looked about for any sign of the murderer, but there was none. I noticed that his body wasn't mauled in anyway, but I didn't dare search his body for any other signs. I had to get the police right away.

A half hour later, police were swarming the area. The distraught driver was taken back home and soon after he left, Freddy appeared. The body was carted off to the coroner's and I was most anxious for his report, for it would confirm if this was an attack by the monster or the murderer, which I suspected it was. No matter how long they searched, the police could find no sign of man or beast anywhere in the vicinity. I returned to the hotel with a heavy heart.

As I paced back and forth in my room, waiting for news, someone came to my door and knocked. I opened the door and was surprised to see the white hair of Dr. Lowe. After I got over my initial shock, I said, "Good afternoon, Doctor. What can I do for you?"

"I understand that John Treadstone has been murdered," he said, entering and shaking his head mournfully. "Quite a nasty business, to be sure, quite nasty. Have gotten an autopsy done yet?" Here, his eyes gleamed for one half a second.

"I'm afraid not," I answered. "That's what I'm waiting around for."

"Well, I have some information that might be of help to you," he said. "Do you mind if I take a seat?" In reply, I pulled up a chair, he sat down and continued. "As you know, I am a close friend and associate of Aidan Sheffield. That being considered, I feel that I am a pretty good judge of his feelings and behavior. So, this morning, approximately 30 minutes ago, he began acting very strange. He was muttering in his porridge at breakfast something about having to go to London. Then I spy him in his office gathering and counting all his money. I then overhear him saying to his maid that he needs his travel clothes prepared. This all sounds very suspicious to me, indeed."

"Indeed," I agreed. "In relationship to these murders, it does sound very suspicious." Of course, I didn't think Sheffield was a murderer, but I was certain he had something to do with it. "It sounds like he's going to try and run off. I think I'll head over there and see if I can't watch him before he does."

"A capital idea, sir," said Lowe, enthusiastically. "As it happens, I took the honor of telling my cab to wait and to take you instantly back to the Sheffield home. I shall wait here, since you'll be much more efficient without you."

I didn't have time to argue with him, so I grabbed my coat and ran out of the hotel as fast as I could and practically jumped into the cab. The drive flicked his whip and the horse set off at a fast trot. We made record time to the Sheffield's and I literally flew out and to the door. My impatient ringing was answered by Elizabeth, who looked a bit affronted when I ran past here with only a fleeting hello and ran up the stairs two at a time. I was all out of breath by the time I burst open the door to Sheffield's office and nearly gave the old man a heart attack as he pulled papers out of drawers and stuffed them in a briefcase.

Sheffield started at me with wide eyes. "How did you get here?" he gasped.

"Your friend, Lowe, told me that you were going to London," I said, after I had gotten by wind back. "I decided I should pop in and find out why you were leaving in such a hurry."

"Lowe," he said, in a whisper, and then louder. "So, he's gotten to you already. Then you must get back, or he'll escape. You can't let him escape. I cannot stay here. If I do, he'll be sure to kill me." He turned back and started scrabbling for papers again, but I grabbed him by his shoulders and turned him around.

"What are you talking about?" I said, shaking him back to his senses. "Why should Lowe escape? Who is going to kill you? Tell me, what is going on around here, man!"

Sheffield looked slightly stunned and then sat down hard in his chair. I sat down in another chair and waited for him to speak. Finally he said, in a clear voice, "Lowe is no more my friend than he is to anyone else. He has been blackmailing me for many years. He threatened to reveal to the public some family secrets about this farm if I didn't sponsor one of his scientific experiments. He insisted that I fund the entire project and give him a place in my orchards to conduct them. Backed into a corner, I had no choice but to agree."

"What were these family secrets?" I asked.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I haven't the foggiest. Lowe claimed to know some and it's entirely possible that he does. My father was very open about all of his affairs, but there were some things he was secretive about. At any rate, I don't want to know about it. Lowe has been taking much of my money for years now and had managed to make it look like it was my son taking it. It wasn't so hard, since my son was well-known for his spending habits."

I kept quiet. It was all coming out now, I thought. Sheffield continued, "Naturally, my son was curious about what Lowe was doing and had heard reports of strange doings from the workers. He began to poke around and then he wound up dead. Lowe approached me the day before you came and threatened me with death if I didn't make up some sort of story to match my son's death. Now it seems that his experiment has gone awry and he's escaping to London."

I frowned at him. I had already suspected that Sheffield was lying to me about many things, so that didn't surprise me. "I take it, then, that these experiments have something to do with that untouched field?" I asked.

He nodded. "If you want, you can go and have a look at it," he said. "There's nothing there any more, though. I've been informed that Lowe had some workers burn everything in that field last night. But I can tell you that those giant white cylinders were eggs of some sort. Lowe used them in his experiments, although I can't be sure for what exactly. He never gave me the details and I didn't ask." He shuddered.

I stood up. "It's vital that I call Scotland Yard as soon as possible, before the trail goes cold," I said. "Do you have a phone?" Wordlessly, Sheffield gestured and I dialed London faster than I had ever done before. Georges answered and I explained everything as quickly as possible. "Post officer as every station from here to London," I said. "He could get off anywhere as well as London. Do it quickly too!" Considering the urgency of my tone, Georges took it all rater calmly and assured me that it would all be taken care of.

I hung up agitatedly and said, "I must get to London myself. I suggest that you come with me for your own safety."

Sheffield shrugged. "I was planning on leaving anyway," he said. "I figured I'd be safer out of this place than in it." As we rode away from the Sheffield house, I looked and saw that what Aidan had said was true and I had been in too much of a hurry earlier to notice. The fields where the white cylinders had once stood were black with burnt grass and what looked like the remains of charred shells.

When we got to the hotel, Freddy was there to meet me. "I've a message here from the coroner," he said, waving it in my face.

I took it from him. "Get your things together," I said to him curtly. "We're going back to London."

"To London?" he said, astonishment written all over his face.

"Just go and get ready!" he said impatiently. "And stuff my things in my bag for me while you're at it. I'll explain on the way." He ran off and I scanned the coroner's report. It was as I expected. The base of the back of the neck of John Treadstone had a similar puncture wound and the brain had gone missing, but the rest of the body was completely unharmed, which is quite strange in relation to the other monster's killings. I folded the report up and stuffed it into my pocket.

Within 15 minutes, Freddy had gathered our entire luggage and we were on our way to the train station. We purchased tickets and were away. During the whole trip, I left it to Sheffield to explain things to Freddy, while I sat there, twiddling my fingers and feeling very anxious about matters. At every station, I looked for Scotland Yard officers, but only began to see those about 10 stations away from London. This was discomfiting, to say the least.

We had barely pulled in to London Central Station, before I had jumped off the train and ran to the nearest police officer to ask for a progress report. Unfortunately, there wasn't any progress to report and I was sick at heart all the way from the hotel where I dropped off Sheffield to Scotland Yard. Once we got there, I went directly to Georges. "What the hell is going on around here?" I shouted at him without preamble. "I told you to work quickly and it takes you two hours to get anyone anywhere?!"

Georges looked at me with that bland facial expression of his and said, "Now don't get yourself in such a huff, Peterson. Everything is being taken care of, just like I said. It just took them a while to get to their posts, is all. As for me, I'm pretty certain the bloke is in London anyways, so I've people on the eye out for him."

While I was fighting the urge to punch his face in, he continued a bit more seriously, "This is a bad turn of events, to be sure. This man must be caught at all costs. You are certain that Lowe is responsible for the murders of Roger Sheffield and Mr. and Mrs. Treadstone?"

"Indirectly, no doubt," I said. "I have no doubt that it is his monsters who killed Sheffield and John Treadstone, although I am unsure about Mrs. Treadstone."

"I'm sure he played his hand directly in that," Georges said with certainty. "No fear, my friend. You needn't worry about it any more. I know you're not the best at tracking people on the run, so you might as well leave it to someone else with the gift. Our information sources tell us that Sherlock Holmes will be on his trail soon enough."

I stared at him as though he had just turned into a rabbit. "Who hired him?" I finally managed to stutter.

Georges shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Neither do our sources. It certainly wasn't us. We only call him in if necessary. He's too much of a smart-aleck for us. But words on the street that he accepted the case only yesterday and now he's on the trail."

"Do you know what that means?" I yelled, almost shaking the man. "This means that someone already knew Lowe was going to leave before he left and called Holmes ahead of time. I must talk to that man."

"Perhaps you didn't hear my correctly," said Georges, more than a hint of annoyance in his voice. "You and Freddy can go home now. You're off the case, Peterson."

"Like hell, I am!" I shouted and turning on my heel, I left the building without another word. Once outside, I loudly cursed Georges, Holmes, Scotland Yard and pretty much everything else, causing several heads to turn. Freddy came out at that moment and commented on the fact that at least he hadn't been cursed too. I glared at him and hailed a cab. When the cabby asked me where to go, I told him, "21 Baker Street, if you please."

Freddy stared at me incredulously. "But that's where…" he started, and then realization came over his face. "We're going to enlist the aid of the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

"No, we're not going to enlist the aid of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," I snapped, irritated. "The fools in the Yard are letting him track Lowe, because they think he's a better tracker than me. They've officially kicked us off the case, but I'm not giving in. Someone got to Holmes before Lowe left for London and I'm going to get that information from him, if I have to strangle it out of him to do it."

Freddy said nothing for a minute, then asked, "Have you given any thought to the monster lately?"

"Why should I?" I said. "Obviously, the monster is in the control of Lowe, and once we get our hands on Lowe, we should be able to get him to hand over the monster to us."

"But that's just the thing, sir," continued Freddy. "I don't think Lowe has control over the monster at all. As Sheffield said, something in the experiment has gone wrong, and that is why Lowe had run away at all. I think he lost control of the monster somehow and it is running loose in England."

I frowned. "Then, why would Lowe run away? I would think then that his first priority would be to capture the monster and contain it."

"I don't think Lowe knows what to do," explained Freddy. "I think that he's come to London to seek the advice of someone higher up than him. Someone else who is in charge of this entire thing, that not being Lowe himself."

I considered this. "Not a bad theory," I conceded. "Still, we must speak to Holmes, for I'm sure that he can add to this idea of yours." Eventually, we came to that infamous house on Baker Street where the greatest private detective in London lived. We could only hope that he was at home and not out on the trail of Lowe. His housekeeper greeted us and showed us up to his apartments, where she said he was just getting ready to leave. We had come just in time.

We were shown into a room where we found Holmes just putting on his hat and coat. He was a tall, thin man with a hawk-like nose, piercing eyes, and always with a pipe in mouth. Seated in a large armchair was his associate, Dr. Watson, a large man with a walrus mustache. Watson looked surprised to see us, but Holmes stepped forward and said, "If it isn't Police Detective Tristan Peterson from Scotland Yard. What a pleasure," and shook my hand.

I stared. "How in heaven's name do you know me?" I asked. "I've certainly never had the honor of meeting you before."

"Don't be so modest, detective," Holmes said. "Your photo was all over the newspapers after that terrible case of the Jackson murders last year. I can't say that I wasn't disappointed to not have a chance at that case myself, but you did a job of it. Now, as I'm sure you know from your vast array of intelligence, I must be leaving. I have a train to catch, or Lowe will get away. If you'll excuse me."

"No, I won't excuse you," I snapped. "I want information from you, Holmes. I have no intention of handing this case over to you on a silver platter. I intend to find Lowe myself and finish this business. Now, what can you tell me that I don't know already?"

Holmes said calmly, "Come now, I have no intention of solving anything. I was merely hired to help track this man and then turn him over to the Yard. It's your business what you do with him afterwards. As to what I can tell you, I have it on good authority that this Lowe will be in Sussex at this very moment until 6 this evening, which is why I must leave at once."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "How do you know that?" I asked.

He smiled thinly. "I have my sources," was his answer. "Now, is there anything else?"

"Yes," I blurted. "Who hired you?"

"I really don't know if I should give you the names of my clients or that it's any of your business who hired me," said Holmes, the slightest hint of anger in his voice. "But since I'm sure you will give me no end of grief if I don't, her name was Alicia Sheffield and she can be contacted at this number, if you must know." He handed me a card and glanced at his clock. "Now, I really must be going, so good day to you both. Watson, you may stay here, if you like and take lunch."

"Very well, Holmes," said Watson, the first thing the man had said during the entire conversation. With that, the famous sleuth was out the door and away before anyone could stop him. I was shocked. Freddy and I wasted no time in leaving Baker Street and hailing another cab. "Where are we going now, sir?" asked Freddy.

I looked at the card Holmes had given to me and said to the cabby, "Take us to this hotel," and handed it to him. "We're going to find Alicia," I said. "Something about this doesn't seem right. Alicia seemed too sincere in her grief to be in league with Lowe. I must talk with her personally, for I think she is hiding something from Holmes."

Freddy didn't say anything and we remained silent until we got to the hotel. We discovered from the receptionist that she was in a suite on the 4th floor and without bothering to take the elevator; we took the stairs two at a time. At the door to her suite, we stopped and listened carefully. Then we knocked.

The door opened and the face of Alicia Sheffield peered out. When she saw it was us, she opened the door even wider and gestured us inside. She didn't seem to be very surprised to see us. "Greetings, Detective," she said, shaking my hand, warmly and nodding to Freddy. "I've been expecting you."

"I'm afraid that I haven't got much time, so I must get to the point," I said, suddenly rather reluctant to leave so quickly, noticing how nice she looked on that night. "Was it you who hired Sherlock Holmes to track Lowe, only doing so before Lowe had actually left for London?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid that there are many things I haven't told you, Detective, and I've decided that they must all come out in the open."

"Please, just call me Tristan," I urged.

Her eyes brightened slightly. "Very well, Tristan," she continued. "It would seem that Alfred Lowe and I were once lovers. It is true that he is considerably older than me, but we were very…fond of each other. When Alfred approached me about a new project of his that required much money and space, it was I who recommended Aidan to him. I had no idea that this project would involve blackmail, murder and genetic experimentation. These I found out later from Aidan and Alfred himself, who couldn't resist bragging about his work, although he was usually very careful about what he said.

"Shortly before he left for London, he called me and told me that the experiment had gone wrong and that he was making for Sussex, which is where he is originally from and where his laboratory is located. By then, I had become thoroughly annoyed with him. Our relationship is at a stalemate. He is usually too busy to notice me and when he does, it is purely for physical reasons. Besides, I did not like what he was doing to Aidan. So, I visited Holmes and told him the story, asking him to track down Alfred. Later I tipped off a few of his spies about Alfred being in Sussex."

"Why didn't you call me?" I couldn't help asking.

"I was going to, but I decided you would be better off staying with Aidan. I hadn't known at the time that he had told you everything and that you were coming here," Alicia explained. "However, Alfred must no doubt know Aidan has ratted on him. Therefore, Aidan's life may be in danger. Alfred has many thugs in his employ, such as whoever killed Mrs. Treadstone, and his creation is still at large."

"Do you know anything about his creation?" asked Freddy suddenly.

She shrugged. "I know no more than you, no doubt," she said. "Occasionally, Alfred would boast about making a breakthrough in genetic engineering, but he would usually clam up after that and say nothing more."

I stood. "Miss Sheffield, you have been more than helpful," I said. "I am sincerely grateful that you have opened up to us. Now, if what you say is true, we must get back to the hotel and see that Sheffield is alright."

She showed us to the door. "Good luck, detective," she said. "I can only hope that Holmes, renowned as he is, will be able to find some trace of Alfred in Sussex. If not, please take this as a warning: Alfred is not a man to be trifled with. He has a fiery temper when roused, so if you confront him, be cautious."

For some reason, her concern touched me. "Miss Sheffield…" I began.

"You may call me Alicia," she said, demurely.

"Alicia," I continued. "We will use the utmost caution when we confront Lowe, and confront him we will, whether Holmes catches him or not." Then we left, as we stood along the sidewalk and Freddy hailed yet another cab, I looked up and saw her watching us from her window. I raised my hand, but she did not answer me. Instead, she smiled almost sadly and turned and shut the curtain.

As we rode back to the hotel, I asked Freddy what he thought. He frowned. "It seems to me that she wasn't saying everything," he said. "I didn't trust everything she said and I think there is more going on than what she revealed that she knew." I didn't comment on this, for where Alicia was concerned, I found myself rather biased.

Back at the hotel, we found Aidan Sheffield no worse off than before and in fact, seeming in a much better emotional state than he had been at his house. That noted, we realized it was already 4:30 and that we hadn't yet lunched even. We retired for an early dinner, than, and went to bed. I, for one, felt the need for rest and decided that there was nothing more to be done until word was heard about Lowe's whereabouts. So far, no news had come about the monster, so he must also be lying low. But before Sheffield had turned in, I stationed Freddy as a guard outside his door, just in case.

That night, Aidan Sheffield was feeling relieved. It had been such a burden, keeping the entire Alfred Lowe thing a secret for such a long time. It had been wearing on his conscious. He had hated Lowe deeply, hated him for forcing him to keep the true nature of his son's death hidden, for making him pay for his ridiculous experiments. Aidan shuddered at the very though, as he prepared his evening bath. Who knows what hideous creatures of darkness had been bred in those cylinders, he thought to himself, and who wants to know?

Thus, when he crawled into bed and turned off the light, it was with a profound sense of calm, such that he had not felt for many years. He understood now that the affair with Lowe had turned him into a grouchy and paranoid old man. He was looking forward to seeing the man behind bars and wished Holmes the best of luck in capturing him.

As he lay his head back on the pillow, a whisper came from across the room. "Aidan," it said, softly yet audibly.

Aidan gasped. "Who's there?" he said. "Whoever it is, show yourself."

"Surely you recognize this voice, my old friend," said Lowe, turning on the table lamp and revealing his tall, white form, half hidden in the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" Aidan's eyes widened with terror. "You're supposed to be in Sussex. Sherlock Holmes is on your tail this very minute."

"Is he, now?" mused Lowe. "I wonder how that happened. No matter, he won't find anything of use there anymore. But I do know why everyone seems to be looking for me now, including our infamous Detective Peterson, now in London. They all know I'm the bad guy, because you told them, Aidan."

"I couldn't keep it a secret forever," said the old man. "People were dying, Alfred. Surely you never intended for that to happen. It was all going to come out anyway, once your creation had made itself known. Be reasonable and turn yourself in. They're bound to be lenient with you, this being your first offense and all." He was babbling now, not knowing what he was talking about.

Alfred shook his head, calmly. "I'm afraid I can't do that now," he said. "You've spilled the beans on me, Aidan, pulled the rug out from under my feet. I've nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. But you, at least, must be taken care of. I cannot tolerate traitors, ever."

Aidan's face turned pale, as he realized what Lowe was saying. "Come now, surely we can work something out," he said, sweating now. "I'll do anything, I swear, just don't kill me. What would it do to my family?"

"What do you care about them?" shouted Lowe, his voice full of contempt. "You've only ever thought of yourself. You're a coward! You were a coward then when you accepted my blackmail, you're a coward now. No doubt you'll die a coward still."

Aidan fell to his knees. "I never denied it," he said, somewhat calmly. "God knows I've been selfish and cowardly, not worthy to be called a man." His voice became whiny. "But spare me! There must be some spark of human decency left in you to spare me," and, bursting into tears of sorrow and remorse, he clung to Lowe's trouser legs. "Forgive me," he whispered. "Forgive me, my son."

Lowe dealt him a brutal blow with a glass bottle that sent him sprawling. "You're beyond forgiveness, Sheffield!" he hissed. "Come out and let's finish this." Aidan moaned and tried to raise his head. His eyes blurred slightly, but he clearly saw a second figure step out from behind the curtain.

Aidan looked up into eyes as cold as stone and he recognized them. "You!" he said, in a voice that trembled from something more than just shock. "But you're…you're…" Thus were the last words of Aidan Sheffield as the figure bore down at him with a knife as sharp and fierce as a flame.

The next morning, I woke up, stretched wearily, and then suddenly remembered all the events of the previous day. Hurriedly, I dressed and ran to Sheffield's room. The sight that met me at his door stopped me in my tracks. There lay Freddy, bound at the legs and hands and gagged. Hastily, I ran to the staircase, called loudly for help, and ran back. I managed to take off the gag. One small sniff gave away the scent of chloroform. I slapped Freddy's drugged face anxiously, then seeing a vase, poured all the water, flowers and all, onto him, which woke him up successfully.

He stared at me, blinking in the sunlight. "What happened?" he said, his voice weak and groggy. "One minute I was sitting there next to the door, the next someone had thrown a wet cloth over my face from behind, and that's all I remember."

"Lay still, for a minute," I said, grimly. "Help is coming." Then I went to the bedroom door. It was locked. I shook it roughly, but it wouldn't open. At that moment, servants came and began to attend Freddy. I told one to run for key. As he ran off, I suddenly noticed something red and sticky beginning to flow under the door. I panicked. When the servant came after what seemed like hours, I grabbed the key, nearly taking his hand with it, and unlocked the door, my fingers shaking.

There lay the body of Aidan Sheffield, beside his bed. He lay in an enormous pool of blood, that coated the rug around him and had begun to exit the room. His throat had been horribly slashed. I knelt beside him and closed his eyes. His last expression was one of extreme shock and fear.

I slowly raised myself from the ground. If Lowe had been standing before me at that time, he would've run a hundred miles from the sight of the anger in my eyes. "Come, Freddy," I said. "We are going to Sussex. I can only hope that Holmes has been successful, because if he hasn't, I shall become very angry indeed."

At that very moment, or rather a couple of hours after it, Holmes had just stepped off the train at Sussex. Although if you were a common bystander at the train station, you would never had known it was him. He was disguised as an old man with a long beard, and dressed like an average college professor. This way, if anyone questioned him, he could say he was visiting Lowe's laboratory on a professional basis. But deep in the pocket coat, he carried his pistol.

He hailed a cab, gave them the address of the laboratory, and settled back for the ride. The ride was rather long and took him a bit farther out of the city than he was comfortable with. They drove out of city and passed many fields in which shepherds could be seen tending their flocks. Holmes was surprised when one of the shepherds hailed the cab and jumped over his fence to speak with him. "Sir, are you heading in the direction of yonder buildings?" he asked.

"I am," answered Holmes.

"Then allow me to give you some friendly advice, sir," continued the shepherd, his eyes darting to the left and right nervously. "Be careful. There's some foul creature that lives up there. He's been stealing our sheep for the past few days and leaves the whole body for us to find, but with the brains gone missing." He shuddered. "It ain't natural. So, watch yourself."

"Indeed," said Holmes, stroking his fake beard thoughtfully. "Carry on, driver."

And off they went, leaving the shepherd to tend his sheep. Eventually, the cab stopped at a large, ominous building. To all outward appearances, it looked deserted. The brick was drab and gray and the overall look of the building was dirty. Most of the windows were broken and the door swung on its hinges. The cab driver looked anxious and his horse whinnied. "Look, guv," he said. "I don't see the use of coming 'ere. It looks empty. Perhaps we should just go back. I'd only charge ye half a fare."

"Looks can be deceiving," said Holmes, grimly, stepping out of the carriage. "Be so kind as to wait for me. I should only be a few minutes." The cabby nodded reluctantly and Holmes walked towards the building. As soon as he was out of sight of the cab, he took out his pistol and loaded it. In his other hand was a lantern. Cautiously, he approached the broken door and opened it, cringing as it creaked.

Stepping inside, Holmes found the interior dark and dingy. There were no hallways or doors, just a huge hall wide space filled with cobwebs and dust that shone in the pale beams of light that barely penetrated the gloom through the windows. Holmes listened intently before advancing further, but could hear nothing other than the flapping of wings. He assumed it was pigeons or bats among the rafters. He went on, after lighting his lantern, leaving the door open behind him so he could see the way out.

Further inspection revealed tables coated with dust and glass bottles, many of them broken. He took another step and heard a crunch beneath his feet that didn't sound like lass. The knelt down and found that the floor was covered with large, dry scales like those on a butterfly wing. Holmes picked one up and frowned. It crumbled in his hands. He picked up another and then dropped it in surprise. It was surprisingly soft and wet. That meant it was freshly fallen.

He stood up, alert, with his gun ready. Then he heard a noise behind him. It was the door closing and he know the wind hadn't done it, for he'd felt no draft. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up on end. He heard the flapping of wings again, this time very loud and he heard a thud behind him as though something had hit the floor. Dust rose up behind him and billowed around him. He turned around slowly and cautiously.

There it stood, like some ancient monstrosity, shrouded in dust. It was the beast. It's wings spread out around it like an angel. Even in the dim light of the lantern, Holmes could see that the wings were very beautiful, with orange and black stripes like those of a monarch butterfly. It's body, however, was not similar to a butterfly at all. Rather it was a large grizzly bear, standing on its hind legs, it's teeth bared. A low growl issued from his throat. His eyes were a strange yellow-orange color and they glowed.

Then the beast opened its mouth and roared. A foul stench like rotten meat hit Holmes in the face and caused him to stumble backwards. He fired his gun wildly, blowing a hole in one of the wings. The beast roared again, this time in pain and fury. It dropped down on all fours, it's front paws hitting the ground, shaking the floor as it did so. It folded its wings in around its body. It walked forward slowly, its eyes glinting, the muscles in its back and shoulders rippling beneath its fur. The eyes glinted.

Holmes shook the sweat out of his eyes and tried to steady his shaking hands. He fired the gun again, but the shot was off. The beast didn't even blink. Instead, it reached out with its front paw and knocked Holmes to the ground with a blow to the chest. Holmes lay there panting, for the blow had knocked the wind out of him, then tried to stand up, but the monster stepped down on his right leg. There was a crunch and Holmes cried out in pain. The beast loomed over him and prepared to deliver the killing blow.

Just then, the door to the building burst open, as though someone had kicked it in. The force of the kick knocked the door clean off its hinge. There stood Detective Peterson and in his arms was a large hunting rifle. "Holmes, don't move!" shouted Peterson, just as the beast took his leg off of Holmes' and turned with a roar to greet this new intruder. But it hardly had time to react, for at that moment Peterson fired his rifle and a tranquilizer dart struck the beast squarely in his left shoulder.

The beast roared, infuriated and charged at Peterson, then suddenly its eyes rolled up in the back of its head as the tranquilizer quickly took effect and with an earth-shattering crash it collapsed in a heap, just inches in front of Peterson, its wings sticking out at awkward angles. Peterson stepped gingerly around the creature and knelt in front of Holmes. His beard had been torn off and his glasses had been broken, but his face still bore the hint of a slight smile. "At least I now know where Lowe is," he managed to say before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Cleaning up after the incident in the laboratory was a messy business. After I had found Holmes' body and checked him over to make sure that none of his injuries were fatal (other than an extremely shattered leg, the rest of him was surprisingly whole), I went out to call in the stretcher, who came in and prepared Holmes for his journey to the hospital. Then I called in the animal management people, who had a large cage pulled by horses to haul our beast away with.

They were a bit unprepared to deal with an animal of this magnitude, but they managed to load the beast into his cage after a lot of grunting and maneuvering. Then they had to calm the horses, who slightly panicked at the carnivorous smell of the beast. Finally, they got under away and left me to inspect the building on my own.

It was clear to me that it was in this laboratory the creature had first been created, for I could find no other reason why he should come to this place. This would prove that the monster could remember from where he had come. But this did not explain where Lowe was. Thus I spent the next hour searching through the dust for any evidence that could've led Holmes to know what he claimed he knew.

I did not have to search for very long. Eventually, I found what I was looking for in the form of a piece of paper lying on the ground in approximately the same place Holmes' head had been laying. Thus, he, being the extraordinarily observant person that he is, had been able to read what the paper said in the midst of his panic, and before he had passed out. The paper was torn in half and looked like it had been burned. So, there was only one sentence readable: Should the worst happen, I shall retreat to HQ in Colorado Springs.

I reread the sentence again. It seemed clear enough that Lowe had gone on to the United States. This was logical enough, I supposed. After all, where else would he go? If he had a place to retreat to outside of Britain, then all the better for him. Something bothered me, however. I studied the note again. I noticed how the paper seemed recently burned, how the ink was still dark and fresh. This note had been left there for a purpose. I didn't like the thought of that.

Tucking the note into my jacket pocket, I surveyed the room one last time before leaving the building permanently and taking my cab back into town. The first thing I did was go and visit Holmes in the hospital. Considering his reputation, Holmes had been placed in his own room. His leg was covered in a large cast, but the rest of him looked fairly well, if not a bit pale.

Holmes greeted me with somewhat less enthusiasm than I expected. I had saved his life, after all. Instead, he gave me a look of almost dull annoyance and said, "I guess I ought to thank you for saving my life. So, allow me to express my gratitude. But allow me also to ask, how in the blazes did you know where I was?"

I allowed myself a grim smile. "It was elementary, my dear Holmes," I said, which produced a glower from the detective. "Actually, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Aidan Sheffield has been murdered. By whom, I do not know, but I am sure that it was at Lowe's orders. I have realized that I must get on Lowe's track myself, if we are not to lose him. So, on a whim, I came to Sussex in hopes that you had gotten wind of him. Once I got here, I learned quickly enough where Lowe's lab was supposed to be. Then, along the way here, I was stopped by a shepherd who was kind enough to tell me about a mysterious monster and I became suspicious. I sent the cabby back at all haste to bring me the gun and call the police, while I ran ahead. Thus, we were all able to get there just in time for you to be attacked."

Holmes considered this. "Were to able to understand my last words to you?" he asked.

"Indeed, I was," I answered. "I found this piece of paper on the ground near where you were lying. It reads as clearly as when you read it. Lowe is obviously in the United States."

Holmes looked at the paper in amazement. "I never read this paper nor saw it while I was in the building," he said. "Believe me, I searched most diligently, but I've never seen this before. Someone put it there on purpose for you to find it."

I was quite stunned. "Perhaps while we were carrying you out and then loading the monster into his cage," I suggested. "Yes, it is possible, but not entirely probable. Yet, here it is. Then how did you know where Lowe would be?"

Now Holmes grinned. "It was merely a matter of deduction," he said. "The monster's body was mostly that of a bear. To be more specific, it was that of the black bear, native to the United States. Therefore, I deduced that the only way Lowe could've possibly had such bears here is if he had contacts in the US and had them shipped here illegally. Therefore, where else should he go? He is certainly not safe in this city or this country, for that matter."

"Yes," I agreed. "Mr. Holmes, I thank you for your assistance in this case, but I fear that you are unable to carry it any further. You must excuse me, for I have much work to do."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "Go, then, if you must," he said. "But rest assured that should I recover and you haven't solved the case, I may very well join you in the US. This case intrigues me, and having now been partly involved, I should like to see it to the end, if possible."

I shrugged at him and without a further word, left the room to where Freddy sat waiting for me. I filled him in on events and then asked him, "Freddy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go to Colorado ahead of him. Someone needs to start the search quickly before the trail runs cold and there are some things that I must do before I go there myself. Can I trust you with this? I warn you, though, that it will most likely be dangerous. I will be honest with you…there is a chance that you won't be coming back. This is a chance I am willing to take. Are you?"

Freddy thought for a moment. "I shall be glad to continue in your service, sir, even if it must travel far from home and put my life in danger," he said, solemnly. "It is all in the call of duty, for it is for the protection of my country and countrymen."

"Very well," I said to him. "Then do what you must to prepare yourself for the journey, but do it quickly, for you must be on your way to the US by tomorrow night."

Freddy nodded once and then hurried away. I watched him go with a certain sense of pride. Who would've thought that I would become so fond of the boy? I sighed and turned back to the task at hand. I must go to the animal house now and see what has become of the monster and have a closer look at him, if possible. So, that is where I went next.

The stray animal house was a gloomy looking building. Apparently, they built it this way on purpose to make the animals inside too depressed to even try to escape. It was tall and dark and looked vaguely like a prison – the barred windows helped add to this idea. As I walked into the building, I could heard the distant barking of dogs. I approached the receptionist and asked him where the monster was being kept, assuming he would know what I was talking about.

He did. He directed me to take the elevator to the lowest floor, then to walk the hallway to the last door on the left. As he said this, I could help but notice that he continually glared at me as if this whole thing was my fault. The elevator was small and dark and make a strange coughing sound as I went down. The lowest level revealed a dank and musty hallway. Water dripped off the ceiling. But off in the distance, I could hear a low growling moan that didn't come from any kind of dog.

Eventually, I came to the last door to the left. The moan was quite loud now. I knocked on the door and a man opened it. He looked quite tired and nervous. He wore a badge that bore the name Andrew. "Good day, Andrew," I said, shaking his hand. "I am Detective Tristan Peterson, here to observe the beast."

Andrew nodded anxiously. "Come in, then, sir," he said. "Although I'm not sure what you hope to get out of such a thing. He is terribly sedated, so it is safe enough to enter his cage and approach him. He can see you, but his muscles are completely paralyzed, so he can't harm you in any way."

I nodded and Andrew took out a pair of keys and unlocked the doors to a huge cage. I could see the beast now. He lay there in a corner, his wings awkwardly folded around him. His mouth was open. There was a strange foam around his lips and that deep guttural moan issued forth from his throat. His eyes, however, were open and alert and he was watching me. I could see that his fur was an unmarked black sheen, which verified his identification as a black bear.

He had stopped growling now and was regarding me. I had the strange and eerie feeling that he was calculating me, as though gauging my abilities as a detective. It was decidedly an unpleasant feeling and I shuddered. Then, on a whim, I knelt down and reach over and touched the dark, fur-covered, clawed leg.

The fur felt slightly coarse and rough and matted, as thought it hadn't been cleaned in many days. The leg didn't tense at my touch due to the muscles being heavily paralyzed, but the body felt warm. But the reaction I got was quite surprising. The monster's eyes widened at my touch and then they suddenly filled with tears. I looked into those eyes and saw a surprising amount of sadness and weariness. He gave a deep groan, not one of pain, but of sorrow.

I stood and looked down at him. "Poor creature," I said softly to myself. "What kind of world have you known? Only one of death and anger and darkness. If only you could speak to me. Then you could tell me how you were made and what kind of atrocities were done to bring you about." The monster, of course, said nothing, but continued to watch me, even as I left the room and Andrew locked the cage behind me.

I glanced at my watch. It was a bit past lunch time. Probably it would be a little late to call on the next person I wanted to see by the time I got back to London. When it came to that, I wasn't even sure why I needed to see her again – perhaps to clarify something one last time. Nevertheless, I decided to call her and see if it would be too late for her. But upon doing so, I discovered that she was going to a dinner party and was not available. However, would I be so kind as to call on Alicia Sheffield on the next day at 12 o'clock?

So, after making the arrangements, I went to the train station and waited for the next train to London, which came at approximately 4 pm. Upon my arrival there, I thought it wise to inform Scotland Yard of my intentions. I didn't particularly want to, but I felt it might be better if the authorities were aware of my whereabouts should things go wrong.

Naturally, Georges was furious when he saw me. "What in heaven's name have you been up to, Peterson?" he quite literally shrieked. "Never mind, don't tell me, I'm sure I don't want to know. All I know is that I pulled you off the Sheffield Case and yet you continue to interfere with things."

"I only interfere with things because you seem incapable of doing it yourself," he responded coldly. "If you must know, and someone must in this arena for my own safety, I shall be leaving for the United States in a few days to follow up on some more evidence."

"Is that so?" said Georges, curiously. "And what sort of evidence might that be?"

"None of your damn business," I snapped. "Since I'm officially off the case, I can do as I very well please. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very tired. Good day, Georges."

As I turned and left the building, I heard Georges call out to me, "Be careful where you dig around, Peterson. You may dig up things best left undiscovered." I pondered that statement and thought it quite odd, but my tired mind dismissed it for the time being. Suddenly, I felt very tired and after dinner, I went to bed and fell into a deep sleep from which I didn't awaken until 10 the next morning. Thus it was not until 11:30 did I venture out onto the streets of London to hail a cab for the house of Alicia Sheffield.

Alicia greeted me most hospitably and offered me a glass of wine before lunch, of which I am ashamed to admit I only ate little of, having eaten such a late breakfast. So, as we sat at her table, she asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Is it about the case?"

"I'm afraid it is," I said gravely. "But first may I inquire as to when Aidan's memorial service is to be held?"

Imagine my surprise when her face turned a terrible shade of white. "What do you mean?" she gasped. "What has happened to Aidan?"

"Do you mean that you have not been told?" I all but shouted and then swore. "I told Georges to send someone to inform you. Take another sip of wine. You may need it." After she had done so, I said, "I'm afraid that your father has been murdered not but a couple of days ago. I am very sorry, especially to be the one to tell you all this. I had arranged for the body to be sent back to his estate, but I'm shocked that no one had told you."

"No, do not apologize," she said, her face still pale. "I had suspected as much. Something inside me told me that it was so." She blinked a few times, then took another drink of wine. Her face became somewhat more relaxed. "In that case, I shall go to his estate immediately and find out what is being done."

"Very well," I said, standing. "In that case, I shall leave you in peace. Allow me to ask you one question and then I shall bother you no more. Has Alfred Lowe ever been to the United States or has he ever mentioned it?"

She frowned. "I know for certain that he has never been to the States, or else he surely would have at least mentioned it as part of his traveling experience," she answered. "Nor has he spoken of it in any important way. Why?"

"I'm afraid that is where Lowe has gone," I said. "It seems he is responsible for Aidan's death and I myself shall be leaving for the States in a few days in hopes of finding him. But now I have disturbed your day, so I shall take my leave. I would wish you a good day, Alicia, but I doubt that it will be one for you."

Alicia said nothing, but looked away, so I let myself out of her house quietly. I hoped to hear from Freddy before I left the country, so I spent the rest of the day walking around London, thinking to myself and watching the people go by. I didn't return to my home until late in the evening. No sooner had I put away my hat, then my phone rang.

It was Alicia. "I am at my brother's estate," she said. "It seems that the memorial service for him is tomorrow afternoon. He shall be buried in the back yard, as he requested in his will. We would be very honored if you would come."

"My lady, I would be honored to be there," I said. So it was that I found myself on the road to the Sheffield Home once again. On this day, the sky was grey and cloudy and it seemed that rain was imminent. As I drove past the fields, I noticed that the 'butterfly eggs' were gone. Not a single one remained.

The old house itself seemed to look shrunken and sad, as thought it knew its owner has passed. The ceremony had already commenced. Everyone was solemn and Alicia herself, still pale, was dressed in an elegant black gown. The ceremony progressed as the minister spoke a eulogy and the casket was laid into the ground. Without a word, Alicia lay a bunch of flowers on the casket. The shovels of dirt came, each one hitting the wooden box with a resounding thud.

After the ceremony, I approached Alicia to offer my condolences once again. "Is it still your intent to travel to the States?" was what she said.

"My lady, nothing short of God Himself could keep me from leaving," I answered.

"Then take me with you!" she cried, suddenly clutching my arm as if in desperation. "There is nothing for me here to do and I wish to see my father's murderer brought to justice. I want to see the look on Alfred's face at his downfall."

"Alicia," I said, gently removing her hand. "It will be much too dangerous to allow you to come with me. Even if I wanted you to come, I could never bring myself to take you into danger and that is where I am going."

"I am not afraid of danger," she said, quietly.

"Be that as it may," I answered. "I still cannot and will not allow you to go with me." She looked at me sorrowfully, and then turned and walked away. I let her go. There was nothing more I could say to her anyway. So it was that I left the Sheffield home with a heavy heart, almost dreading the journey ahead of me.

I had purchased passage to New York on board a schooner which was leaving from the east coast of Great Britain within two days. So, I had two days to kill in London. I spent them by doing as much research as possible about Colorado Springs and the surrounding area. It seemed that much of the state was covered in mountains and I supposed that my investigation would no doubt lead me into those mountains. There would be plenty of places there for any scientist to conduct experiments without much notice.

So, as the time of my leaving approached, I packed accordingly. I also packed plenty of warm clothes, as I was unsure as to what kind of weather awaited me in the mountains. The schooner was a small affair, although sturdy enough. I expected the voyage to take at least three weeks, for the captain assured me his small ship was fast and if the weather was clear, he would make very good time.

Surely enough, the ship was out of the harbor and on its way much faster than I expected. I shall not bore you with details of the voyage, for it turned out to be a long, almost a month long, and dreary tale. I shall tell you this though: throughout the journey, I could not shake off the feeling of not being the only passenger on board the ship.

For although I never saw anyone, occasionally I would step out onto the deck in the middle of the night to try and calm my churning stomach and I would often find the captain lying asleep on a cot. However, upon questioning, he merely mentioned that he enjoyed falling asleep while watching the stars. Also, I noticed that the ship's cook made more food than necessary. When questioned, he merely shrugged.

None of this became quite clear to me until we came in to New York's harbor late one afternoon approximately 28 days after our departure. I stepped off the ramp and onto the dock feeling refreshed and anxious to continue on my journey, when I heard a voice call me name. I turned and saw coming down the ramp behind me the last person I expected to see.

"Miss Sheffield!" I managed to gasp. "What in heaven's name…?"

"How many times must I ask you to call me Alicia?" she said, very sweetly.

"Don't give me any of that," I said sternly. "I recall giving you strict instructions to remain in England."

"Oh, you most assuredly did," Alicia said, as she stepped onto land. "I remember it quite well myself. However, what you failed to recall was that, in spite of your good intentions, you neither own me, nor can tell me what to do. So, I acted of my own accord. I discovered which ship you were taking and by paying more money than you, assured myself a hidden place in the captain's cabin and the closed mouths of the crew."