Think like a wise man, but communicate in the language of the people – William Butler Yeats
James had always been intelligent. It was simply understood as a fact that he would top every class, best every debater, solve every puzzle. He knew the classics and science, modern history and music. His knowledge was all encompassing, and if he found something lacking, he wasted no time in learning all he could on the subject or skill. And, as such, it set him apart somewhat.
Helen's genius was of a different sort. Where he was master of following logic to whatever conclusion it would bring, she followed instinct to the very same ends. He somehow found this disquieting. Not only this, she was a woman, and in the eyes of many around her had no place at a university as distinguished as Oxford. It set her apart somewhat.
After the injection of the source blood, he found connections she could not, links no-one could follow in the most innocent and inconspicuous of details. And he found with this knew ability that his superiority complex flourished, though not to the point he was as inflated as Tesla.
And then came the Ripper, a common murderer able to outsmart him. Simply because he had become set in his was, confident of supremacy. His flow of though had carved a deep river and he found he could not divert its course. It was John. God! He should have known.
And he didn't. Because he had put himself above human interaction, and never afforded himself the opportunity to see his best friend was a murderer. And that murderer was as intelligent as the next poor sod traipsing through life without a clue.
He had put himself above those around him, but as Helen's gloved hand gripped his with desperation she could not show, as the coffin containing a body that was not his was lowered into the ground, he vowed never again.