"The Man Who Would Be King"

North East India

May 1894

It was only nine in the morning and already the temperature was rocketing up to eighty-six degrees. So Griffin didn't feel the slightest bit apologetic for the gin and tonic currently sliding down his oesophagus. It was medicinal. Medicine for a Brit out of water, so to speak. It was the only way he could manage the long heat that preluded the Monsoon deluge. Boy was he glad to have missed it in '93, and he certainly had no intention of being here for it next year. Give him Afghanistan or the Himalayas any day, at least in the mountains there was some reprieve!

"A little early for tipple isn't it?" Watson enquired wryly, making Nigel stir on his bar stool and straighten out.

He did his best to ignore the observation and the underlying assumptions it implied, "Ready then?"

James prudently let the subject drop, though he had to admit curiosity at the effects of the last couple of years on his friend. It seemed that adventuring across continents predisposed one to becoming increasingly coarse – not that Nigel had been particularly refined to start with.

"Time to meet Mr Saha," Watson smiled, putting his hat on.

With a brief nod Griffin slipped off his chair and finished his drink in one gulp, "Right. I just hope the runt's not running on bloody Punjab time."

Leading the way out of the hotel, Nigel smoothly placed his own hat on his head and stepped into the shockingly bright sun. The heat saturated him within seconds, making his starched collar feel altogether too tight. God he'd be glad for a swim when they got back, if the water wasn't boiling that is.

"Where did you arrange to meet?" James enquired quietly as they meandered on foot through the growing crowds of people.

"I didn't." Griffin pointed out, "Farrell said he'd be found at the back of the army encampment around half nine. Part of his usual routine – pedalling his wares."

Watson hummed thoughtfully at that. He'd already been briefed over the stock and trade the Indian was known for. Bringing British soldiers a little illicit fun through opiates predominately, arsenic and cocaine from time to time. All well tested stimulants for the white market, who – as Watson well knew – could easily afford such indulgences here. That the soldiers faced a strict discipline for using them during service hardly seemed to matter to Mr Saha's brain-bored customers, and the druggist, it seemed, was nothing if not enterprising.

They rounded a dusty corner to a road that ran the length of a high wall. The nearest buildings were more than six feet away, tall, and ramshackle, with paint flaking on the outside. If he was feeling charitable Griffin might have termed it rustic: the wall was in fact the perimeter he had just described, and an opening just up ahead made for the gate to the military presence in the town. With the recent disturbances, the garrison had been full for months.

Continuing to follow the wall, the road began to narrow, and as the crowds thinned out so the buildings loomed a little closer. It was then Watson noticed that the discernable tracks of man and handcart he'd picked up five minutes ago lead to a figure in the road up ahead: a short, wiry man with brown skin, wearing cool Indian cotton, and a curiously British looking suit jacket. The man's cart proudly proclaimed 'Dispensary' in English – clearly taking the angle that it was easier for one's activities to be overlooked when they were carried on in plain sight.

"I believe, that would be our man," James whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Nigel had noticed him a little slower amongst the plants which hung, dried and shrivelled, from the wall at which he stood, but his attention was fixed on him now. Steeling himself for the inevitable interrogation, they caught the man's eyes and made their way towards him.

Mr Saha's smile was a brilliant white beneath a dark, perfectly groomed moustache. He didn't see the tall apparition emerge from a cloud of red behind him, thought nothing of the odd, slightly electrical sound, until a knife had already forced its way into his flesh. Ripping up through his kidneys, and into his spleen, Mr Saha's assailant lodged two hollow eyes on the men in front of him. They baulked, hesitating for the barest of moments, in absolute horror.

It was James who recovered first, taking up his concealed firearm and levelling it between John's eyes. As he shot, Griffin started towards him, to grab Druitt if he had time, and save the drug wallah if he could. It all happened at once – the bullet whistled past, glancing near Druitt's ear as he disappeared into the ether. Whether it was the nerves, or a lingering note of friendship, which caused James to miss his intended target, he didn't want to dwell.

The dispensary fell to his knees, coughing up blood and going into shock as Nigel reached him, and pulled him into his arms.

"Stay with us," he implored, "God damn it, Watson, get over here!" After all, Nigel wasn't a doctor. "Bloody 'ell."

Saha's lifeblood was leaking everywhere, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it – the Ripper had lived up to his title, yet again.

James' sharp eyes surveyed the scene the very instant he'd lost sight of him, and now his mind was doing overtime. Why was Druitt here? To taunt him? No. To protect the abnormal dealer, that much was clear, but why? To what end? Was he dealing in creatures now as well as killing women? Or had he become a mercenary to hire? The thought sent cold shivers through his skin.

"James!"

Stunned, the sound of Griffin's voice finally registered with the shaken Watson, and he dashed over to aid the dying man.

"Bad luck old boy," Called a sinister voice from above.

They both looked up at the man now on the rooftops, a sardonic, slightly masochistic grin from his bloodied face, half-hidden beneath the curtain of long, lank hair.

"Looks like the trail ends here."

Griffin frowned angrily at Druitt, about to give him an earful when, predictably, the menace teleported away. "Twisted little shit!"

While he vocalised their frustration Mr Saha had all but perished; his last haunting gasp finally punctuating the ensuing silence.

"We have to find him," Watson's hard voice intoned. "Druitt must be staying here, somewhere, in the vicinity."

"And how'd you figure that?" Griffin complained, standing up from the dead man, worried that he might need to nock some sense into his usually brilliant friend, "He could be half-way round the world for all we know and just popping in for a biscuit and some tea!"

James frowned angrily at him, "Because Nigel," he began to pick his way towards the less savoury side of town, forcing Griffin to follow him and abandon Mr Saha to the ground, "either he's been following us, or our dangerous-species-dealer knows we're onto him and has identified Mr Saha as the weak link that needed breaking. Either way, not even Druitt could've just dropped into an unknown town in precisely the right spot without doing some kind of reconnaissance, so spare me-"

"What about Saha?" he deliberately stopped them in their tracks.

He turned on him peevishly, "Griffin. Is Mr Saha dead?"

Nigel didn't humour him. He wasn't stupid, and didn't care for the unspoken comparison. Instead he stared back reproachfully.

"How is our caring for his body going to make any difference to catching the murderer, except to cause us to lose him? We've no time for sentiment Griffin."

Griffin expelled a low breath of air at the risen tempers Druitt had provoked, "Right." He grumbled, not entirely happy with the situation, but forced to relent against James' dogged pursuit.

"If we hurry we might catch him," the detective asserted, and then almost as an afterthought, "or a clue that leads us to our man."

Griffin knew as well as he did that with John's ability, that the latter was the most they could really hope for.

Author's Note: Just a quick disclaimer - so we're clear: what is expressed in the narrative, or character speech, is not necessarily representative of my own opinions! These are Victorian men, lest you forget, and things weren't exactly PC in those days. On another note, I couldn't research a specific place for this so let's say; it's not a big-assed city, but a railroad town somewhere between Calcutta and the heart of the Ganges, where the army are stationed.

Also yes I meant masochistic not sadistic – I always feel that John has an underlying self-hate as the Ripper, that he knows what he's doing is wrong, and doesn't take any pleasure in knowing that – though he takes a lot of pleasure in the doing of it!