Chapter One
Meg: Hi there. I know I said three years ago that I had retired from the fanfiction world. I am now in college and about to graduate in one year, go to grad school for either Middle Eastern history or law, and am informally engaged. Yes, I said engaged, and I will not explain why it is informal right now.
I am once again delving into the world of GMD for several reasons:
1) My creative writing has suffered greatly since I dropped it. Most of my writings usually consist of articles on local city activists or therapy dogs, and my papers for classes often require my research into topics such as Jewish nationalist or eighteenth century shipwrecks in the South Sea and how many sailors mutinied against their commanding officers.
2) That novel I am editing is still in the works, but life has caught up with me. I need to step away from it for awhile to figure out where I want to go with it.
3) I've been working on this story on and off for the past two years or so, and think it would successfully end the Meg Sarentis series once and for all.
4) I miss writing new things for Ratigan to say.
5) I also miss writing about girls like Rose McGeady.
6) I hope to dispel any silly thoughts and fantasies about "true" love. This means that any character in this story is in danger of having their hopes and dreams dashed against a rock. At least one person will die.
7) In case you haven't noticed, I've been cynical since I created Rose McGeady. This strain has continued on into my college years. The real world is not as pretty as I had hoped, and I would like to share some of that knowledge in the only useful outlet I have ever found for expressing my emotions in a healthy, productive way.
So sit back, relax, and hopefully enjoy. I pray that I am not too rusty in creative writing after a three year hiatus. As always, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
October 1903
A tall man with dark eyes, long, thin white hair, long legs and a bulky torso entered a thread factory in London's East End, the air humming with the drone of machines and children. He removed a rotted wood board from one of the walls, went down the rickety iron stairs and rapped out a quick ratatatat on the rusted door at the bottom of the stairwell. There is a rough sack slung over his shoulder, his body hunched over as if he had been born in that position.
The creaky door opened a crack and the dull orange glare of a lantern shone in his face. Then the door closed, only to reopen moments later revealing two smaller men. One had a shock of red hair, the other a dirty blue cap pulled over his head as he placidly smoked a cigarette.
"Whatcha got there, Mayhew?" the redhead asked.
The man pointed to his sack.
"Ah, I see. Anythin' for us?"
The man pointed to the one in the cap.
"Hey Harry, you hear that?" You've got somethin'."
"Well ain't that grand," the blue cap said, disinterested.
Maybe started to pass the two door-keepers. "Hey Mayhew, ain't ya gonna give Harry his mail?" the redhead said.
Mayhew ignored him and continued on his way.
"Hey Harry, doncha want your letters?" the redhead asked, confused.
"Shuddup, slug!" Harry said, tossing his cigarette at the redhead.
"Why?"
Harry grabbed the slug by the collar and pointed to Mayhew, limping his way into the obscurity of the subterranean passage. Slug watched until the man disappeared.
"Why must ya talk to 'im ever time 'e comes down 'ere?" Harry hissed. "Ye expecting a love letter from yer sweet-'earted 'ore?"
"I don't 'ave a sweetheart," Slug muttered. "I jest like makin' talk. Mayhew don't talk to no one, and it gives me the willies."
"Well, it gives me the willies when ye start bombarding 'im with questions!"
"Why?"
"Listen Slug, I know yer new 'round 'ere, so ye don't know 'ow things work out. Mayhew ain't like ye and me. 'E's different. 'E's been 'round 'ere since before the Boss, lurking 'round corners, keepin' an eye on things. 'E knows ever thing that goes on, 'as gone on, and will go on in this neighborhood. 'E's like the divvil 'imself- every where and nowhere." Harry looked around, then leaned close to Slug, as if taking the man into his confidence. "They says 'is 'ead got scrambled in Balaclava."
The red-head looked confused.
Apparently Harry did not feel the need to elaborate, for he then said:
"So shuddup and keep yer words to yerself. Ye may set 'im off at any time. The Boss wouldn't like that now, would 'e?"
The hunched man entered a brightly lit room covered with mahogany paneling and intricate carvings on the doorway and the ceiling. Within the room were several men and two women. The five men wore identical black suits with matching black ties. One of them was playing a melancholy tune on an accordion, while the others were engaged in a somewhat heated debate about the French in Algiers.
One of the women, a dark-haired, middle-aged woman with a deeply lined face and a gaudy assortment of cosmetics plastered on her wrinkled visage helped herself to an assortment of candies on a ceramic dish on the table in front of her. The second, a pale young woman with lighter hair and dark circles under her eyes sat reading a book, at a distance from the others.
Seeing Mayhew, one of the five quintuplets, this one differing from his fellows by his short, albino-white fur, said, "Hey boys, it's Saint Nick or Old Nick! I cannot tell the difference. I think he's come for you, Lisa!"
The dark-haired woman nodded slightly, not even glancing up.
"All right Mayhew, what do you have for us today?" the young man said as he got to his feet, his clones following close behind him. The hunched man brought his sack to the ground. The albino took the sack and dumped the contents on the floor. "All right boys, go to it."
The four men began to sort through the various letters and packages, the albino presiding over their work.
The young woman with the light hair set her book aside and rose from her seat. Approaching Mayhew, she looked shyly up at him. "Is there anything for me?" she asked softly.
Mayhew slowly reached into his jacket and drew out a worn brown envelope from its depths.
The girl's eyes grew bright and luminous. "It is from-?"
The man's lips turned slightly upward. The creature before him, taking it as a smile, thanked him profusely as she gently accepted the envelope.
She sank back into her chair and gazed at the envelope for a few moments. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the scratchy script that had written the address.
Mayhew left the room silently, none observing his departure.
The letter was opened, and the many pages of correspondence in her hands. She eagerly read the "Dearest Lydia" and was moving to the next line of poor penmanship when she felt a presence near her.
"What do we have here?" a cold voice asked behind her.
"Nothing of importance," Lydia murmured, trying to position herself so the albino could not see what was written on the paper.
"Really? Then why are you hiding it?" the albino asked, snatching the letter from her hands.
She spun around, the blood rushing to her cheeks. "Give that back!" she sputtered angrily. "It's mine!"
"It hasn't gone through proper censoring," he replied. "We don't want your sweet innocence being corrupted now, do we?"
"It's a personal letter!"
"All the more reason to censor it." He held the pages up to the light. "'Dearest Lydia,'" he read in a matter-of-fact tone, "'I hope you are doing well in your new home. I write this letter with the wish that you are pleased there. I am now on the march, preparing to fight the natives. We are all going to Hell. We are all going to die.'"
The girl jumped to her feet. "Give it back!" she cried, trying to grab the letter from the reader's hand.
He warded her off easily with his free hand. "'Stop asking me so many questions, for I cannot stand to see you cry. But I cannot lie to you- we are all going to die, and you must not blame me for it.'"
"Gerard!" She made another vain attempt for the letter. The others in the room gathered around, interested in the sport.
"'They lie about Paradise; there is no such thing, and we can only become one as chemical matter in death. There is not enough room in a coffin for two.'"
"You're making it up!" she yelled.
"Me? Why would I make it up?" Gerard asked innocently, handing the letter to the young, dark-haired man next to him. "You've been expecting word for weeks now; why would I cause pain to that precious heart of yours?" he asked, placing his arm around her. "Mikey, read the dear child the rest of the letter."
Mikey cleared his throat. "'I have a bottle of arsenic ready. I will not let those savage beasts of this land take me; I shall control my fate.'"
Gerard restrained the girl from rushing Mikey. "Let me go!"
"'This war, this infection, is spreading through my toes, up my legs. There is no hope unless they can amputate at once-'"
"Stop it, Gerard, stop it!" she screamed, beginning to cry.
"'I want to die soon. This fevered wasteland is surely worse than Hell, where I shall soon be going. We are all going to die. Tomorrow we go into battle, and I yearn for it, to plunge myself into the demonic hordes to meet the Devil-'"
She pulled herself out of Gerard's grasp, and fled to an open doorway, where she ran into a large rat coming through the door. He caught her and looked down at her usually pale face, now flushed, tear-stained, and disturbed. "What is going on?" he asked.
She looked too stupefied to reply.
"Well? Answer me!" he barked.
"Ge… Gerard to-took a letter from me, and was fa-fa-fabricating its contents."
The rat, who was wearing a black suit, purple and pink striped cravat, opera cape and top hat, had a long, wormlike tail and a weathered, malicious face. He stepped into the room, still holding the girl. Another young woman with blonde hair piled neatly on top of her head, wearing an outfit fitting a professional woman, followed him into the room, keenly observing the scene before her with sharp grayish blue eyes.
"Gerard," the large man said.
"Yes, Professor?" the albino replied, coming to attention. His lackeys mimicked his moves.
"Who is the letter from?"
"Parker."
"Where is it from?"
"South German Africa."
"And what does it say?"
"The contents of the letter are so disturbing that it would not be proper to disclose them to you at this time-" he nodded to Lisa, Lydia, and the third woman, "-in the presence of the ladies. If you will, however, allow me to show you the letter in private-"
"How did you get this letter?" Ratigan asked the girl.
"Mayhew gave it to me. It came with the rest of the mail."
"Did it go through my censors?"
"No… it's a private letter, sir, addressed to me-"
"I don't care if it was addressed to Arthur Balfour himself!" the large man roared. "When you're under my care all outside articles are analyzed and approved by Gerard before falling into your hands. Is that understood?"
The girl glared at him. "I never solicited your aid in taking care of me, Professor!"
"Listen to her!" Ratigan laughed, his voice cruel in her ears. "'Oh no, don't look out for me, poor Lydia, who was living in the slums before Professor Ratigan came along and saved me.' Isn't that so, Gerard?"
"She would have starved to death if it hadn't been for you, sir."
"No, I would have not!"
"Silence!" Ratigan snapped, slapping her across the mouth.
The blonde woman next to him grabbed his arm. Ratigan pushed her away.
Lydia held her hand to her mouth.
"You're using me right now, and I know it," Ratigan snarled. "You sit here all day, reading, not doing anything useful. You're no good to anyone. I should kick you out, because that is the last thing you want me to do. You know you have to stay here, or else you wouldn't get any of your precious letters, any word of Parker. But I'm warning you- Lisa knows an Abbess, and I will send you to her. Mark my words—if I have anything to do with it, you will become a regular Ladybird!"
Lydia's eyes grew wide. "Please, no, Professor… that's why Shaun left, to ensure that I wouldn't have to resort to that! I just want to read my letter, Professor—"
"You will do as I say. Is that understood?"
The girl nodded. "Yes," she breathed, before rushing out of the room.
Mayhew stood behind the outer door, peering through a crack at the scene within.
"What a spoilt child," Lisa announced before shoving another candy in her mouth.
"The letter, Gerard," Ratigan said, holding out a hand.
The albino complied, handing him the letter.
"Hmmm…" Ratigan glanced over the worn pieces of paper.
The blonde woman next to him folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. Giving a grunt he crumbled up the correspondence and thrust it in his pocket. She cleared her throat.
He shot her a sideways glance and suddenly appeared exasperated. "Don't give me that look."
"Who is the girl, James?" the blonde woman asked.
"No one of importance," Ratigan said, waving his hand. "Would you like some tea, my dear?"
"Who are you torturing this time?" the blonde woman demanded.
"Anything interesting in the mail, Gerard?" Ratigan asked, moving away from the blonde woman.
"Most of the usual business, some stuff for the greener guys, Miss Lyon's information…" here the albino picked up a thick envelope and extended it, with a slight bow, to the blonde woman.
She flashed a grinned as she accepted it. "Thank you, Mr. Wade. This is very helpful indeed. Not too much trouble to obtain, I hope?"
"Not if you know the right people," Gerard said with a wink. "And sir, there's a letter from Nickels."
He snatched the letter from Gerard's hands, broke the seal and eagerly began to scan the letter.
"Who is Nickels?" Lyon asked Gerard.
"I am not at liberty to say," the albino said cautiously, looking at Ratigan. "The professor has lots of—"
"Could I have peace and quiet for ONE moment?" Ratigan snapped.
The room fell silent.
Lyon shrugged and opened her envelope. She shivered in excitement at the leaf of papers within. She had an urge to go home and began reading all the information at once; she had been waiting for it for months.
A small snickering was heard from the Napoleon of Crime. In a few moments it turned into a laugh, only to become a full-fledged guffaw. He bent over and held his sides, laughing uncontrollably.
"I didn't know that your mail was so funny, James," Lyon dryly remarked.
Ratigan came over to her, still laughing. "Oh, this is too perfect!" he gasped out. "It's perfect, and you're going to see how… how… it is going to happen!"
"What is going to happen?"
Ratigan picked her up and spun her around. "I am finally-" he stopped and looked at the bewildered faces of Gerard and his clones and Lisa gaping at them.
He put Lyon down and offered her his arm. "Shall we discuss the matter in private?" he asked. Lyon nodded.
They left through the door Lydia had run through.
There was a moment of silence preceding this departure. Then one of the clones spoke up. "What's with the Boss and Miss Lyon anyway? You think she's…"
"She's what?" another one of them asked.
"Eh, I dunno. But she's here an awful lot, and she seems to know the Boss so well."
"A little too well," Lisa said in disgust. "How many young women is he going to bring in here?"
"I like Miss Lyon," Mikey said. "She keeps the professor in check. Maybe it's good that she's here. Ever since she's been coming here she's been keeping him calm."
"He needs it with Lydia around," another clone said. "That girl seems to infuriate him."
"Lydia," Gerard muttered, chuckling darkly. "Poor, sweet Lydia. Poor, stupid girl. I've never seen a girl rub him the wrong way like Lydia does."
"Why does he keep her here?" Lisa asked.
"For the same reason that I make her cry," Gerard said. "For amusement."
Mayhew limped off into the darkness.
In the dark, frigid October evening Lyon strolled home, taking in the sight of the lit gas lamps in the autumn gloom. She shivered slightly to herself as a cold wind whistled through the alleys. She waved to a few of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Most ignored her, but a few did a double-take, or nudged their companions and pointed.
The young woman could not help but grin.
She listened to her boots thunk on the sidewalk, and her smile widened. She lightly swung her umbrella and patted the heavy canvas bag hanging by her side.
She turned to a house with a brick exterior. Bouncing up the steps, she opened the door and entered the building.
A young servant girl with dark hair neatly pinned up under a white cap met her at the door. "Good evening Miss Lyon."
"Evening, Mary."
"A gentleman was here to see you earlier today."
"Oh, really?" Lyon said, stopping halfway up the stairs. "Who was it?"
"Mr. Basil of Baker Street. He called around tea time. I let him into the parlour, but when you didn't come he left."
Lyon's eyes briefly flickered. "Oh? When did he leave?"
"About two hours ago."
She let out a long breath. "Thank you, Mary." She then continued up the stairs.
Up one flight, two flights, three flights Lyon climbed. She then came to a door on the last landing. Unlocking it, she opened the door and entered the room beyond.
It was not a large room, but fairly orderly and strict in appearance. There was a single bed against one wall with a drab brown quilt, next to which was a washstand with a porcelain pitcher and dish and some other toiletries. A battered, leather-bound trunk sat at the foot of the bed. Across the room, by the window, was a small desk covered with writing implements, newspaper articles, open or heavily marked books and a typewriter. Next to that was a bookshelf, each of the volumes arraigned by size. A stove stood by the door along with a small table and two chairs. The table had a plain light blue tablecloth, a lantern, and a pitcher of dead rosebuds in it.
Lyon put a few lumps of coal in the stove, turned on the gaslights and went to the desk. Clearing off all of the papers and books and placing them neatly on the floor, she took out the envelope she had received earlier that day.
Emptying out the contents, she held an article on top up to the light and examined it. She looked at a drawing of a man with long hair, dark eyes and a cold, unwelcoming face. She began making notes in the margins of the paper.
So this man is wanted by the Napoleon of Crime as well as Mouseland Yard, she thought to herself. He could be even more dangerous than Ratigan himself.
Lyon recalled with a frown a one day in late June when she had gone to Baker Street. Mrs. Judson had shown her in, adding that she would alert Mr. Basil to her presence. Lyon had waited, looking about the messy flat in mild interest. She caught the strains of a voice like an angel's, beautiful and pure, singing a song of heartbreak. A violin accompanied the heavenly tones. She had heard it from outside, but had assumed it was coming from the next house.
In a few moments the music abruptly stopped. Lyon perked her ears, hearing some noise from the kitchen, and then Basil of Baker Street burst through the door.
"Miss Lyon!" he said, exposing his eagerness. In three strides he was in front of her, vigorously shaking her hand and leading her to a chair. "What brings you here?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Basil," Lyon said, taken aback by this behaviour. "I'm actually here to talk to you about a piece I'm doing on…"
Lyon stopped as another person entered the room. Her blue eyes met the dark eyes of a chestnut-haired beauty a few years younger than she. The woman was tall and had a sweet and curious face. But, when her eyes fell upon Lyon, they clouded over and the face formed into a dark expression of bitterness bordering on hatred.
Lyon looked from the woman to Basil, and then back to the woman again. The woman folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen door.
"… a piece I'm writing about Geoffrey Dagnar," she finished, looking at Basil. "I understand that you have been following him for the past several years."
Basil frowned. "Yes, I have. But I was not aware that Geoffrey Dagnar's presence in the criminal world was public knowledge," he said shortly. "How did you find out about him?"
Lyon, glancing at the dark-haired woman, gave a little uneasy laugh. "Not from where you'd think, Mr. Basil. I was interviewing an inmate, a Mr. Karl Sidney, at the Nottingham Correctional Institution, actually. He let the name slip. I wasn't aware of its importance until he was assaulted by another inmate soon after I left, one who was about to be released the next day. Sidney was killed. The other inmate received an additional 18 months hard labour."
"Who is the murderer?"
"A petty thief by the name of Ben Worsely. He had been sentenced to three months' hard labour for stealing petticoats from a merchant. It wasn't a first offense, and he has a record of assaulting people before, usually lady friends."
"Hmmm. And what was Sidney interred for?"
"Embezzlement. He was a bank clerk. He pocketed somewhere around 2,000 pounds before he was caught."
The young woman's mouth dropped. Basil nodded. "So you think that Dagnar told these two to commit those crimes?"
Lyon raised her eyebrow. "Are you mocking me, Mr. Basil?"
"No, not at all," Basil said with a hint of a smile. "I would, however, like to hear what you think of the matter."
Lyon shrugged. "I think that Sidney was embezzling for Dagnar. No one's found any of the money he stole yet, not even one shilling. And they wouldn't release him until some semblance of it had been found."
"And what about Worsely?"
"I am not sure, but I think that he was hired by Dagnar, or someone connected to him, to murder Sidney. Petticoats don't strike me as a valuable asset to a man."
Basil smiled at the comment for a moment, but then his expression turned grave. "Miss Lyon, how much do you know about Geoffrey Dagnar?"
"Nothing, except what Sidney told me."
"And what did he tell you?"
"He told me that he would be able to go free, with the 6 months' hard labour he's already done, if Geoff Dagnar, would give even 50 pounds. Then he looked panicked, swore at me, and the guards ended the meeting and escorted me out."
"And you're just surmising that Dagnar had him killed?"
"Perhaps not directly, but name-dropping is a pretty dangerous thing to do in the criminal world. It could have been an associate. I tried looking Dagnar up in the Yard files, but Vole won't let me near them. He seems to think that I'll use them to help Professor Ratigan and Mr. Dagnar talk business over tea together."
"He has a right to think so!" the young woman burst out.
Lyon and Basil shot their heads in her direction.
"You think you can come here and get information about a criminal after you interviewed the most infamous man in society today?" the woman persisted, her voice raising itself an octave.
"Meg-" Basil began.
"You want people," she continued, "to trust you after interviewing a cold-blooded, evil murderer and sower of discord, a man who has killed more innocents than you probably know, a man who you would not help the police track down after you interviewed him, not once, but several times? You could have saved us, and you didn't! And now you want help with finding another criminal?"
"Meg!" Basil said sternly.
"Why do you keep coming back here? To use Basil to help Ratigan?"
Lyon stood up. "Miss Sarentis, why would I help Professor Ratigan?"
"You didn't help the police to find him!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, and they have begged me to. So have many other people—the families of victims of Ratigan's wrath, government officials, the police, even little children. But I am a journalist, not a policeman. I requested several interviews with Professor Ratigan; he consented. Each time my photographer and I were escorted, blindfolded, to an unknown location, and we conducted the interview. The descriptions of the location are enough from the photographs that were taken. I cannot give you any more information than you yourself saw in the photos and read in the articles."
Meg tossed her head in disgust. "I don't believe it."
"I understand that Professor Ratigan has attacked you physically and emotionally, Miss Sarentis. I am sympathetic to your pain; I would not wish what he has done to you upon my worst enemy. But you should also know, even better than I, how brilliant Professor Ratigan is, and how he would ensure that an interview would not incriminate him. I am not brilliant, Miss Sarentis; I cannot guess where I was when I conducted the interviews. I can tell you how I contact Professor Ratigan- each time I've wanted an interview I've advertised in the newspapers, he has replied with a simple yes or no, and he's personally sent me the instructions to follow."
Meg glared at Lyon. The journalist turned to Basil.
"Will you share any information with a former troublemaker, Mr. Basil?"
Basil resolutely shook his head. "Dagnar is none of your business, Miss Lyon. I would advise you to stay clear of him."
"I surmised as much. Well, I have tried this source. I shall try another. Have a good day Mr. Basil, Miss Sarentis." She turned to go.
"Renée," Basil said quickly. Lyon turned around. He coughed. "I am sincere in my advice. Dagnar is dangerous. Some claim that he is as dangerous as Ratigan, if not more so."
"Then why have we not heard of him before?"
"A crime needs to be traced to him first."
After that brief talk with Basil Lyon tried her last and probably most reliable source—James Ratigan.
She smiled as she thought of that meeting. He had ushered her into his study, and they had talked for a good while about nothing in particular. Then she had presented her case to him.
He had chewed on the end of his empty cigarette holder and frowned. "Dagnar? You want to find information on Dagnar?"
"Yes, James. Is that going to be a problem?"
Ratigan tossed the cigarette holder aside and shook his head. "Not if you like impossibilities."
"I'm ready for a challenge," Lyon said with a mischievous grin.
"Hah! Some challenge for you, giving the information to Gerard for him to process."
"I like abusing my power here."
"That you do…" Ratigan trailed off, looking down at some papers on his desk.
"Will the information be hard to obtain? Because if it will, I can always-"
"You came here because you tried everything else within your power first. I know you well enough to have figured out that I'm your last resort. And you don't want to drop the subject of your supposed article now, do you?"
"No, I don't want to."
Ratigan leaned over and took one of her small hands between his two large ones. "My dear, listen to me. I normally wouldn't question why you want to write an article about Dagnar, but I feel that, as your… friend, it is my responsibility to warn you. This man is dangerous. He concerns me in a way that Basil never could because he has no restraints. Alas, if my marvelous plan for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee had not failed, he would not be a threat right now."
Lyon gave him a confused look. "What do you mean by that?"
Ratigan chuckled darkly. "Surprisingly enough, my plan of absolute power would have also rid England of some real and still present evils. I knew what I was doing when I made Flaversham build that robot Queen, and I knew that Dagnar would be the first person I would have to contend with." He paused. "After Basil, of course."
"Does Basil know this?"
He released her hand and leaned back in his chair. "It is difficult to say. If he hasn't, then the old boy isn't as intelligent as even I've ever admitted him to be."
"And the Yard?"
"Oh, they know. Or, at least, they should have guessed. They should have more information on Dagnar than Basil has."
Lyon raised an eyebrow. "You're joking."
Ratigan gave a sincere laugh. "They're the ones hiding all the information. Any public record of his has been destroyed. Basil, meanwhile, has to obtain his information through mostly unlawful means. It's a tricky business for him, given he's supposed to uphold the law."
Lyon sighed. "Poor Basil."
Ratigan rolled his eyes. "'Oh yes, poor Basil!'" he said in a high-pitched, mocking voice.
She folded her arms and shot him an annoyed glare. "He pities you enough to leave me alone when it comes to you."
"No my dear, he pities you. To him, and to Meg I'm still a black-hearted scoundrel shot should die like a dog." He paused for a moment, and then his face fell. His shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked haggard and worn.
"James, are you all right?"
Ratigan shrugged. "I was just thinking…" He stopped, and looked warily at her. Then: "Let me give you an idea of how dangerous Dagnar is. Do you remember the Stratton massacre you upbraided me for two years ago? The one I denied being involved with?"
Lyon frowned. "Yes."
"I was telling the truth. Dagnar was the real perpetrator. His agents committed the crime, for reasons unknown, and then planted evidence against some of my own men. My two best men at the time, Sirius and Caldwell, were tried and executed for it."
"Do the others know of Dagnar?"
"Of course. Any time my boys run into a Dagnar man, someone gets killed. There's been a war in London's underworld for years now that the Yard and even Basil are not aware of."
The journalist's eyes grew wide. "Really?"
"You don't know how much trouble this ongoing war has been for my numbers. I'm short on men. This year alone I've lost four men because of Dagnar. My resources are limited. I have no information to say that the skirmishes our agents get into are demoralizing his men as much as they are mine. But I continue to tell those blockheads that we're winning. Besides, when a relative or a friend gets killed, they want revenge."
"Wheh…when did this war start?" she asked.
Ratigan's left hand reached out for the discarded cigarette holder. He rolled it across the table, catching it right in front of him. "It's been on and off since the end of '94, I think. But it didn't get serious until about '99, when he sensed I was coming back from the Diamond Jubilee disaster."
"I never knew," she said quietly.
The Napoleon of Crime took out a cigarette and lit it. "Do you still want information on Dagnar? I warn you, you'll have the Yard, the governments of three countries, Basil, and even Dagnar himself on your back if you publish anything incriminating."
Lyon had agreed. And now she was sitting with a drawing of a man in front of her who had murdered the inmates of the Stratton orphanage. What else had this man done?
Lyon looked through train records, lists of goods, uses of the name in relation to regular travel patterns, tabs in pubs and stores.
She shivered, and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. The garret was cold, especially in the winter. It penetrated her very bones.
Lyon's mind wandered to the cold sewers where a criminal mastermind resided, kept company by vulgar men and a distraught girl…
Meg: I actually have completed a lot of research on the Victorian Era since I started college, thanks to my boyfriend's love of books. "Ladybird" is a Victorian slang term for a prostitute, while an "abbess" is a female brothel keeper, also known as a 'madame." As you may have guessed, a brothel was sometimes called an "abbey."