Part 1, in which we learn who is brilliant at breakfast.

Friday 9th november, 1883

So, another weekend, another dinner invitation to the Higginses in Bloomsbury. Since returning from the war in Egypt, my chum Phillip has prevailed on his father to include me in these evening get-togethers. Higgins senior, mister Edward Smythe Higgins, of the Kentish Smythe Higginses, don’t you know, is a rather droll widower, but he serves servicable scran, and the tipple is top shelf.

Feeling sprightly, I decided to give Bertrand and the coach the night off and ambulate over, a decision I had cause to regret. My new threads, from that french tailor down Oxford Street were just not up to the job. Sure, they’re rather fetching, but didn’t stand much of a chance faced with a proper London rain-and-smog combo. Should have known better than to trust a frog for anything outside the boudoir. 

At the Higginses, the company was amiable enough. There was old Higgins and his son Phillip. Thomas Beckett, a foreman or something at Higgins’ carpentry business added his nervous personage to the gathering. Cybill, Higgins’ daughter was there of course, casting her long glances my way, and that old curmudgeon Henry Whitcombe was there, ready to regale us all with his boorish, booming postulations. All in all, a rather drab group, if it wasn’t for yours truly to inject some joie de vivre into the proceedings.

That Beckett might be a real dark horse, actually. He used an inordinate amount of time to describe a project he’s working on. Some sort of cabinet, but where there are hidden, secret compartments inside. That actually sounds like a splendid idea. I hope he manages to pull it off, I might buy one. Rather does steer one’s mind to what germinated that idea in his mind though. Possibly one to look out for.

Cybill, bless her, has her heart set not on marriage, but on education, wanting to take some sort of classes. Seeing how her protestations annoyed the conservative minds of Higgins senior and major sir Whitcombe esq., I put my two pennies in, saying she should settle for no less than a degree from Cambridge. Actually, in my time there, I observed at least one or two damsels gallivanting about at lectures, and they just opened a new college solely for the weaker sex. My comments had the desired effect, except now Cybill might view me even more favorably. At least if she trundles off to college for a couple of years she’ll make better conversation.

Whitcombe, that old chestnut, has settled on some new societal bug-a-boo to rant about: Anarchists. Apparently, the peasants are all ready to burn his lordship and all his class out with torches and pitchforks and home-made bombs. Balderdash. The only anarchists I’ve ever encountered were lushy dreamers with fantasies of revolution. All talk and no game. If the revolting underclasses really had any gumption, they’d be besieging Whitehall, building barricades in the streets, like they did in Paris in 71. That could have been bloody good sport. Imagine charging over tower bridge at the head of a company of horse, taking on the revolutionary rabble! Could be a welcome bloodletting for both the obese upper classes and the filthy underclass, that, get rid of some of the chaff. A man can only dream.

Steak and wine can only go so far to entertain, so me and Phillip headed out to a gentleman’s club post-haste once the table was cleared. Phillip usually is a bright and amiable fellow, but this evening he was whining about a war wound, and hitting the cups even more than usual. By Jove he can pack it away! I’d have been comatose in a jiffy if I’d tried keeping up. Instead, I hit the cards, regaling the company with tales of me and Phillip’s derring-do. The idea was to dazzle my opponents to gain advantage, but I got so lost in my own stories, I ended up losing a couple of guineas.

After packing the highly inebriated Phillip into a hansom cab, I ended the night at a finer establishment where a pretty blond thing was amenable to my not insubstantial charms, inviting me home. Ah, lips to die for!

Saturday 10th november, 1883

Carnal pleasures unfortunately lead to blasted little sleep, and I turned up at the Higginses for luncheon having had no chance to change my coat. Ah well, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast, as I say. Even if breakfast is, technically, lunch.

The others were already stuffing their chops. Cybill was trying to elicit some sort of response from Whitcombe to her paintings. It was painfully obvious that he cared not a whittle for her style, but to give him credit, he did try to act in a kindly, avuncular fashion. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even realise how condescending he seems, but at least he doesn’t actively go in for cruelty. A marked contrast to many of his ilk, I might add. Recalling some drunken conversation I had with some buff Nordic fellow, I urged her to be more experimental, as they’re reportedly being in Norway and Denmark these days. What a lark it would be if young, demure Cybill became an enfant terrible artist!

Higgins senior, meanwhile, has his own worries, and kept going on about some former employee called John. Apparently, the fool had got his hand mangled in a workplace accident some years back, and Higgins, naturally, had to let him go. Only Higgins, ever the bleeding heart, has been giving him money and checking up on him over the years. Everyone needs a pet, I guess. However, as they are wont to do, this cripple has bred, and now his daughter, Ellen, has gone missing. Apparently, so has several other people in and around their neighbourhood, Whitechapel. Old Edward was all fired up over this rather pedestrian tragedy, and had big plans for investigating the matter. If you ask me, she’s probably fallen victim to one of the many less-than-honorable fellows in that seedy part of town. Probably dead in a gutter somewhere, or servicing an unending line of greasy customers at some disreputable establishment. However, this might prove an opportunity for adventure! Always up for getting our hands dirty, me and Phillip volunteered to look into the matter for the old chap, but he would have none of it, insisting on making inquiries himself.

Phillip, his thirst for drunken stupor apparently not yet sated, grabbed me on my way out from the luncheon, hoping to convince me to whet our beaks at the clubs again this evening. However, my paramour from last night was ever so eager to repeat the encounter on the saturday night, so I made up some excuse about a boring dinner date set long time in advance, to let Phillip down easy.

Sunday, 11th november 1883

I’ll have no man challenge my stamina or constitution in the ways of the flesh. However, even I need rest from time to time, and sunday morning is perfect for it, when all the world is busy carting themselves off to church to be shouted at by some shrunken old moralist from the pulpit. To my dismay, my much-needed rest was interrupted rudely before ten o’ clock in the morning by Phillip banging on my door.

Apparently, his old man is missing. Bed not slept in, coat and cane missing. With him being the type you could otherwise set your pocket watch to, Phillip was quite out of sorts. Naturally, my thoughts went to that dark mystery the old fool had taken upon him to look into, and I quickly put on some rags, opting for the more sensible Scottish tweed-variant this time. As a precaution I brought my trusty old Webley.

Phillip was pulling out all the stops, having sent Thomas Beckett ahead to look around the park, and sending for Whitcombe to join the search.

When we arrived at the park, we split up. I quickly found Thomas, who was arguing with a rather shifty-looking, rat-faced fellow. The blighter was holding old Higgins’ fancy walking cane, claiming to just having “found it”, and demanding to sell it to us. Me and Beckett were parlaying to get more information out of him, when that walking walrus Whitcombe turned up, and started some rather capital shouting at the knave. Shouting and blustering clearly are among the major’s main talents, as it did the trick. That, and the sight of my revolver casually hanging in its bandolier, naturally.

In any case, he showed us where he had found the cane. Beckett had observed him conspiring with a brutish-looking man brazenly wearing Higgins’ coat. We pressed for more information, and he told us the scamp was called Geoffrey “the knife”, apparently some hoodlum from Soho, making his way extorting people for money. After he gave us the information and the cane, we told him to shove off.

On the ground were tracks showing someone was attacked, probably cowardly, from behind. While in Alexandria I made the acquaintance of a man who claimed to be a veteran from fighting in the American Indian wars. He told me he’d learnt some rather spiffing tracking skills from some native collaborators. Apparently they’re the bees knees when it comes to tracking, those redskins. Any way, before being brutally murdered by a volley of Egyptian rifles (no great loss, he was a rather uncouth, foulmouthed fellow), he gave me some pointers, so I was able to follow the trail from the fracas, over to a more secluded part of the park. It seems poor Higgins was mugged and then dragged over to some bushes. Marks showed that the coat Beckett had spotted had been there. We also found Higgins’ top hat lying in some bushes.

Seems my instinct was correct. Higgins has run afoul of hard men, who probably also have his daughter. We quickly apprehended a local bobby, who promised to give information to a detective. I’m sure the famed London police will have everything sorted, spick and span in no time. Right after hell has frozen over.