The Gasfitters Union Hall was on Great Peters Street, in Westminster, just down from the Gas Light and Coke gasworks building. Briggs dressed in the best his meager wardrobe had to offer and took a cab to the union hall. This was to be the first stop in his investigation, and he was about to do his very best at something he was very good at - lying.

"Good afternoon Sir, my name is William Briggs, and I am a barrister and hope very much that you can assist me," stated the Badger to a clerk who was sitting behind a large reception desk in the main hall foyer. The entrance was grand, and the desk was grand, but the clerk manning his station was merely a four-shilling-a-day man and such men are usually interested in that odd extra coin that may come their way.

"Yes Sir, how can I be of assistance?" replied the clerk as he stamped a large stack of notices, one by one.

"This may strike you as an odd question, but I assure you that it has a direct connection to my business at hand: do you read the detective stories about Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Briggs leaned forward and placed his arm on the top of the desk, which also doubled as a counter.

"As a matter of fact, I do," replied the clerk - BANG his stamp came down on another notice.

"Are you familiar with the latest tale, 'A Case of Identity,' in which a young woman is wronged by her step-father?"

BANG

"No, I have not read it as of yet."

"Let me impart some circumstances in the tale upon you, and perhaps you can be of assistance?" Briggs related an elementary version of the story.

"And thus, I am energetically attempting to find Miss Sutherland, to assist her in employing her legal rights against Mr. Windibank in this case."

The clerk had paused in his stamping as he took an interest in the tale.

"However, I suspect that Miss Mary Sutherland is not her real name but is a fiction used to protect her identity, and there lies my predicament." Briggs could see that the young clerk was caught by the tale, so now he just had to hook him with what was to be gained.

"So my good man, here I am looking to see if you can tell me the names of any unfortunate widows to which the union still sends ball tickets?"

The clerk looked away from Briggs and back down at his paperwork.

"Of course, there will be some compensation for you if you can provide me some positive assistance…" smiled Briggs reassuringly.

"Allow me to contact the gentleman who prepares the arrangements for the yearly ball and see if he can provide some assistance - just one moment," and the clerk got up from his desk and departed through a large hallway.

The Badger lit a cigarette and paced the foyer as he waited. A name here, at his first inquiry, would be a find as significant as recovering the Crown Jewels of King John.

After a short time, the clerk returned with a slip of paper in hand. He met Briggs in front of his desk and handed him the note.

"Here are the names of six widows whom the union continues to send complimentary tickets."

Briggs received the note and smiled to himself. He looked at it and saw the names of six women.

He looked up at the expectant clerk, reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a coin and held his hand out to the clerk. The eager clerk glanced around the foyer, and discretely held out his hand in anticipation. Briggs pressed the crown into the clerk's hand, smiled and winked and turned heel before the young man had an opportunity to either thank or rebuke him for the amount.

Satisfied with what he obtained from the union, Briggs took a cab to St. Savior's Church. Experience taught Briggs that in every falsehood, there existed an element of truth, and he was banking on that axiom as well as the lazy writing of Dr. Watson, to reveal what parts of the "Case of identity" were factual.

Briggs realized that matching the bride of a failed wedding with a name off of his Gasfitter's list gives him the girl, but without a match, his investigation is back to step one. And, it could also mean that Watson invented either the ball, and-or the church Sutherland was to be married. It would make his job all the more difficult going forward.

It was now early evening, and the pubs had changed their fare from sausages and pies to roasts, stews, and mutton. William Briggs was in excellent spirits and decided to treat himself by dining and drinking in a pub other than the Sword and Sheath. His inquiry at the church met with brilliant results as he had the name of a young lady who was left standing at the alter less than a year ago, and her family name was on the list provided by the union.

He would celebrate till late in the evening. A man starved for a victory will celebrate the rising of the sun, and Briggs had not tasted victory is a great while.

Briggs awoke at half-past-headache, having celebrated his good fortune a little too aggressively. He poured the basin water over his head and chastised himself regarding his condition. Briggs needed to remain in control and to concentrate on his story. He cannot continue down the path he has been on the past several years, as that path is well-worn and circular.

Today was an important day, for today he would call upon Miss Mary Sutherland, who was actually named Miss Rosamund Henderson, and would ask her how she felt about being "left at the altar" by Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It was late afternoon when Briggs saw the young woman walking down the street towards him, then up the steps and into the home across from where he was smoking. He had been stationed there for several hours, just waiting for Miss Henderson to return home from work. He would wait for another 30 to 40 minutes before he knocked on the door; just enough time for her to make tea or start to relax after her day's toils.

His knock was brief and authoritarian in manner. He took a deep breath. This interview was critical, and he would have to play his part correctly, or he would be shown the door.

"Yes, may I help you," said the same young woman he had watched walk home.

Briggs removed his hat, gave the young woman a slight bow and put on his most sincere countenance.

"Good evening Miss, my name is William Briggs, and I hope to have a moment of your time, and that you may be willing to assist me with a critical problem."

She stood still, looked at him, and remained quiet. Briggs noticed that she was an attractive woman, but did not look as described in Watson's story. Her face was of a full or round shape, but her cheeks had hollowed and given rise to her cheekbones. Her complexion was fair, but begged for more sleep and screamed of restlessness. She wore simple, but lovely clothes, as a woman with some means may wear.

It was just a moment, but Briggs felt a shudder of panic in the silence. Her look was now that of one who distrusted, who despised, and who was about to shut the door.

"Sir, I really have no…"

"Miss Henderson," said Briggs, interrupting the young woman.

She stopped mid-sentence and became just a bit wide-eyed with surprise at hearing a stranger address her by name. She reflexively reached for the door and gaining hold of the handle, drew it slightly closed, as if preparing to close it and flee into the confines of her home.

"How do you know my name - who are you, Sir?"

"Please, please Miss Henderson, I am in a terrible predicament and am considering hiring Sherlock Holmes and would simply like to discuss your experience with him."

The mention of Sherlock Holmes coupled with Briggs earnest plea for assistance seemed to have a positive effect on Miss Henderson, as she paused, then stepped back and invited Briggs into the home. He bowed his head slightly, then walked into the house, inwardly smiling.

Miss Henderson served them tea, during which the discussion began in earnest.

"How do you know who I am and how did you find me?"

"Miss, I read about you in Dr. Watson's story 'A Case of Identity' and then utilized some resource that I have at my disposal to uncover your real name and residence. I assure you, I have not spoken to Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson, so they did not betray your confidence to me."

Miss Henderson sipped her tea and considered what Mr. Briggs had to say.

"Miss Henderson, have you read Dr. Watson's story?"

"Yes, I have."

"Clearly, he fictionalized some of the information - your identity to start - but are the other circumstances true? Did your step-father portray your romantic interest?"

Slowly setting down her teacup, the young woman folded her hands in her lap and seemed to be gathering her thoughts, or preparing her words.

"Yes that is true, my step-father and my mother acted as portrayed in the story."

"Did Mr. Holmes ever give you a final explanation as to what he discovered about the circumstances?"

"No Sir, he did not."

Distinctly uncomfortable, she looked at her hands as she smoothed her dress down her lap.

"The first I heard of the circumstances were when I read the story and despite Dr. Watson's fictions and disguises, quickly divined that it was my story he was telling, and I was shocked at the conclusion."

She paused a moment and removing a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes.

Briggs remained quiet for a moment. Here was where he needed to dig up the bones and get to what will be the headline in his story.

"I read the story and was deeply troubled by the detective's actions. I am trying to evaluate whether or not to hire this man to handle a delicate situation, but I really need to hear your thoughts.

Miss Henderson, you contracted Mr. Holmes to find your fiancé, which he accomplished, yet he decided not to tell you the truth of his findings - what are your thoughts on his decision? Your feelings on the matter?"

The young woman sat taller and seemed to gather herself. It was an emotional recount, yet she was handling herself with aplomb. Perhaps he was the first person she had discussed this with since the day of her wedding.

"I felt betrayed… betrayed by my family and betrayed by those I employed to help me."