Chapter 12
12. Judas and Patrick''s Dinner
On the morrow, at the behest of Marie, I yielded to her relentless urging and took to the de. It marked a triumph for her, as she had persistently harped on the matter for the past two months.
"Oh my, what a marked improvement you exhibit with your facial hair trimmed."
Having shorn away my whiskers, I found myself quite taken with the invigorating sensation it bestowed upon me. I silently concurred with Marie''s sentiment. However, I had no desire to undergo the rigors of a full-fledged ablution, so I beseeched Marie to procure a vessel of water to serve as a makeshift basin.
As in my days of yore, when I sailed upon the navy''s vessels, I submerged a cloth in the basin and painstakingly attended to every nook and cranny of my person. When I wrung out the cloth, a dark, muddied stream of water flowed forth. Its presence did not evoke any particr reaction from me, as I had grown ustomed to such squalor during my days of military service and ardent exploration.
However, it was Marie who beheld the sight with a degree of consternation. She swiftly emptied the basin, filled with the murky residue of my cleansing, and forcibly expelled me from the room, insisting on purging it of its umted impurities. The sound of her diligent sweeping and mopping resonated from within. She possessed an exceedingly meticulous disposition.
"Behold, this is the amount of dust that has been expelled."
And after a time, Marie collected a conglomeration of filth and triumphantly presented it to me.
"Truth be told, I find myself at a loss for an appropriate response, for it is the first instance wherein one has disyed a cluster of dust to me, awaiting my reaction."
"Such is the wretched state of your chamber."
"Dust has an inclination to umte over time."
"Even so, who in their right mind dwells amidst such a mountain of dust!"
"You are simply unustomed to bearing witness to such squalor."
Fatigued by the ceaseless pestering of Marie, I sought sce within the confines of my chamber. Unquestionably, the floor and the bed appeared more immacte than prior to my departure. Resigned to abandoning any unnecessary search for faults, I readied myself for departure.
As I attended to the arrangement of my suit, an unsettling realization abruptly seized hold of me, prompting me to direct my gaze towards the desk. I then shifted my scrutiny to the bookshelf, followed by the bed, and atst, the windowsill. s, the object of my quest eluded my diligent investigation, refusing to reveal its presence.
In utter desperation, I resorted to my final recourse.
"Marie, perchance have you chanced upon my wristwatch?"
"Wristwatch?" she queried.
"Yes, have you perhaps stowed it away?"
Marie, entering the chamber, shook her head with an expression fraught with anxiety.
"You know full well I refrain from meddling with your possessions."
"Indeed, I am cognizant of that fact. Yet, if neither I nor you is responsible, do you imply that this wristwatch sprouted legs and embarked on a ndestine expedition?"
Uttering my discontent in a disgruntled tone, I muttered under my breath and, with a sense of apprehension, lifted the pillow from its resting ce.
<strong>Ding dong.</strong>
The resonant chime of the doorbell reverberated through the entryway, summoning our attention.
"Quickly, locate it," I beseeched, my search growing ever more frantic as I rifled through drawers where the watch had no conceivable ce of concealment.
"If the matter pertains to the watch, fear not, for I shall unearth it. You must proceed forthwith," Marie insisted.
"What? Do you expect me to venture forth bereft of my timepiece? That is an inconceivable notion!" I retorted, my tone fraught with incredulity.
Marie''s obstinacy knew no bounds, driving me relentlessly toward the entrance, where I was nearly propelled forward by her unyielding determination.
"Hey!" I protested.
"You are poised to assert your refusal once more," she retorted, an air of exasperationcing her words.
The notion of retracing my steps at this juncture appeared increasingly preposterous. Reluctantly, I conceded defeat, yielding to the inevitability of the situation. With great reluctance, I gingerly opened the door, my countenance assuming a semnce of hospitality.
"Good morrow," I greeted the visitor.
"Good morrow, sir. I have arrived to escort you," replied Wilson, stationed outside the threshold, saluting dutifully, his policeman''s hat perched atop his head.
asionally, requests for civilian coboration in investigative endeavors reached my doorstep. Yes, akin to the detective in a mystery novel.
However, if one were to inquire whether my acumen equaled that of those fictional sleuths, the answer would unequivocally be in the negative. In truth, the reason I found myself on the receiving end of such proposals stemmed from an inexplicable reputation that had somehow taken root. Personally, I pondered over the manner in which I had managed to cultivate such a peculiar renown.
Yet, one aspect remained resolutea certain unresolved case, believed to have been resolved through my intervention, served as the initial catalyst.
"It pertains to a case from fourteen years past," Wilson articted, his gait unhurried.
"The Norfolk Evening IncidentI delved into its depths. Your name garnered considerable renown."
"Thanks to that, I acquired a measure of undesired notoriety."
"You performed admirably."
In the year 1881, a macabre incident of unparalleled proportions unfurled, sending shockwaves across the entirety of Ennd.
The venue of this distressing affair was none other than a domicile nestled on Norfolk Street, a thoroughfare characterized by its tranquil ambiance, even within the bustling confines of Londonwhere men of letters traditionally congregated. Within the confines of that residence, five souls met their untimely demise, their demises so intricately entangled that discerning a clear demarcation between victims and perpetrators proved an exercise in futility.
The origins of the cmity can be traced back to the ill-fated asion when Harris Jude extended an invitation to Martin Patrick, beseeching his presence at a solemn repast.
"Seated at the dining table were Jude''s two progeny and his wife," I recounted.
Twas an evening that would forever be etched in the annals of London''s historya harrowing chapter unfurling before their very eyes.
The initial harbinger of this grim saga emerged from the lips of a concerned neighbor. The eyewitness, having been assailed by piercing cries and unnerving shrieks emanating from the domicile of Jude, promptly sought the aid of the constabry. To the authorities, he divulged, "It appears that a burry has taken ce next door." This supposition arose from the fact that Jude''s family had perpetually conducted themselves with decorum, never once yielding to fits of discordant tumult.
Indeed, such was the reputation of Judea gentleman esteemed and relied upon by his neighboring denizens. Without dy, two vignt patrolmen set forth towards the abode of Jude.
However, upon their arrival, the cacophony of screams and mors that had tormented the air had long since been silenced. The house stood not in a state of abandonment, for faint streams of light pierced through the sagging curtains, hinting at signs of upancy. The two officers approached the threshold, their footstepsden with trepidation, yearning to glean insight into the enigmatic tableau that awaited them within.
<strong>Chomp chomp.</strong>
The two officers poised to knock upon the door were arrested by an anomalous sound emanating from within. Perplexing indeed, for one of Jude''s esteemed standing would not produce such an indelicate mor. It resembled the ravenous feeding of a canine or swine rather than theportment befitting a human being.
The officers, sensing an inexplicable shift in the situation, halted their intended action of knocking, realizing that the door stood ajar. They applied a gentle pressure, causing the portal to yield slightly. In that instant, a putrid stench, reminiscent of the abattoir''s pungent domain, gushed forth from the crevicean olfactory assault born of blood, viscera, and excrement intermingled.
Their intuition whispered of an egregious circumstance unfolding within,pelling them to breach the threshold.
Within, a sight unfolded that transcended the boundaries of our mortal realm. All was suffused with a ghastly crimson hue.
At the table sat five figures, their abdomens rent asunder, allowing their innards to spill forth like twisted serpents. None among them possessed unmarred ocr orbs. Upon thevishly adorned table, a macabre collection of unmistakably human appendages, including ears,y heaped, while the Arabian carpet beneath was drenched in crimson, its fibers desated and twisted.
Four were but lifeless husks, their souls forever vanquished. Only one exhibited signs of animation. Harris Jude, with fingers ensanguined, gorged upon his own daughter''s entrails.
"Jude, apprehended at the scene, sumbed immediately."
"He bled out."
Subsequent scrutiny by the investigating officers unearthed a revtion more shocking still.
The invited guest, Patrick, too willingly partook in this grotesque banquet. Several undigested fingers were discovered within his stomach, and within the recesses of his oral cavity resided an esophagus presumed to be that of Jude.
It suggested but one conclusion. Amidst the unfolding dinner, Jude and Patrick, like savage beasts, orchestrated the massacre, rending flesh and tearing asunder with unabated ferocity.
As news of the incident reverberated, an ominous pall descended not only upon the streets of London but also upon the entirety of Ennd.
Dread enveloped the popce, for the two gentlemen, once esteemed, had metamorphosed into the most grotesque murderers in the annals of history.
The family of Patrick, used of harboring devilish inclinations, fell prey to the torment inflicted by the local denizens, forcing them to seek refuge in the remote countryside.
Yet, even there, they found no sce, for their presence was unwee in their former abode. Helen, the wife of Martin Patrick, her mind addled by the relentless pursuit of journalists from the capital, sumbed to the grasp of despair, departing from this mortal coil without leaving behind testament or testamentary provisions.
Henceforth, the warmth of neighborly camaraderie evaporated, dissipating like ethereal mist. Suspicion coursed through the veins of neighbors, rendering them wary of one another. No longer did doors remain ajar when visitors arrived. This phenomenon, this apprehension towards one''s neighbors, spread like a malignant affliction, its dominion extending far and wide. Sociologists, seeking toprehend this collective anxiety, christened it the Jude Syndrome''.
Newspaper pressesbored ceaselessly, birthing sensational articles with unyielding fervor, as the industry witnessed an unprecedented surge. Amidst their revelry and morous delight, the burden upon the Crime Investigation Bureau deepened, as public intrigue swelled to a crescendo.
This proved to be the inaugural trial for the recently established Bureauan opportunity to showcase their mettle, their unwavering resolve tobat heinous transgressions.
Though the London police force boasted a mere seventy years of existence, the Crime Investigation Bureau''s own history was unusually brief, having undergone aprehensive reorganization a mere three years prior, in 1878, under the ambitious direction of its former head, who meticulously handpicked two hundred detectives. This case, urring at such a juncture, offered a momentous asion for the Bureau, which, thus far,ckedmendable achievements. Should they navigate these treacherous waters adroitly, they stood to earn the trust and confidence of London''s citizenry.
However, this case deviated from the norm, defying conventional reasoning. The lines between victim and perpetrator appeared starkly delineated, yet an enigma shrouded their fates. No one stood to be held ountable, no avenue presented itself for justice to be meted out. Nevertheless, the public mored for some semnce of resolution, yearning for a modicum of closure amidst the chaos that ensued.
The Bureau conducted their investigation in a haze of uncertainty. Thirty seasoned detectives were deployed, their efforts supplemented by six vignt military canines and two steadfast equinepanions, all poised for constant mobilization to ensure on-site security. Yet, despite their unwavering dedication, a significant portion of these detectives found themselves adrift, their purpose obfuscated amidst the swirling maelstrom of enigma.
As the fervor of public expectation waned, the Bureau, driven to desperation, sought to enlist civilian aid in their unraveling of the enigma. Each newspaper bore an extensive ount of the case, apanied by a fervent plea for any minuscule clue to be reported.
"It was then that your missive found its way to the Bureau."
"The public possesses an affinity for grand theatrics, finding it far easier to believe that a singr prodigious mind unraveled the case through a mere letter, rather than attributing sess to the collective efforts of numerous detectives. In truth, I penned but two sentences."
The year 1881 marked a momentous juncture in my life. My left leg, once an indomitable limb, was irrevocably lost, and with it, my cherished tenure in the military, a life I had envisioned serving until my twilight years. Bereft of purpose, akin to an aged man bereft of vigor, I whiled away the hours in a rented abode, masquerading my aimless existence as a futile search for new employment.
Naturally, I became acquainted with the case at hand. With idle hours to spare, I dispatched a letter to the Bureau, dismissing it as naught but a fan''s indulgence in concocting deductions akin to those found within the pages of a detective novel. Soon after, I dismissed it from my thoughts entirely.
Some oundish im arose, purporting that I had divined the intricate course of the case, even uncovering the malefactor''s identity from the confines of my humble abode. Yet, this assertion was a facya distortion of truth. I had, in a casual and inattentive manner,mitted but two sentences to paper, unwittingly providing the spark that reignited the case''s dwindling me, bridging the vast chasm thaty betwixt the sensibilities of the 21st and the 19th centuries.
Indeed, the 19th century bore witness to a period characterized by the remarkable expansion of scientific understanding. The chasm separating the erudite few from the general public was vast and profound. Science, to many, resembled a mystical craft, a ndestine art known only to a select few artisans.
Furthermore, the concept of forensic investigation had yet to be firmly established, resulting in infrequent coboration between detectives and experts in the field. This stark contrast yed out against a backdrop where detectives, well-versed in a myriad of misceneous disciplines, often found themselves at odds with the authorities.
Nevertheless, the sentence I had dispatcheda mere trifle I deemed to bemon knowledgepierced the very heart of the case, providing a clue of immense significance. Two months hence, an article was published, heralding the apprehension of the true malefactor behind the enigma.
At that precise juncture, I found myself adrift above the vast expanse of the Antic, ensconced as a researcher aboard the illustrious HMS Glory. Secluded upon the vessel, I possessed no means to refute the deluge of facious reports disseminated by the voracious journalists of the era.
These scribblers drained every drop of intrigue from the incident, weaving fantastical narratives around my personaan ordinary civilian who had stumbled into coboration. The resulting tales were not of the strange and otherworldly, but mundane fabrications. s, this unforeseen turn of events saddled me with an unwanted reputation for involvement in perplexing and enigmatic urrences.
In the depths of London''s enigmaticbyrinth, whenever an aberrant urrence unfurled its sinister tendrils, I found myself ensnared in its web. Each mention of my name in connection to these disquieting affairs only served to further entrench my infamous reputation, a relentless cycle reminiscent of the inescapable Jacob''s Ind trial of yore.
"But you have sessfully resolved numerous cases since then."
"Yes, that is the refrain I often hear when encountered in public. They speak of haunted abodes, children possessed by demons. I offer mundane advicefix the creaking floorboards, engage in heartfelt conversations with their progeny. If that passes for a resolution," I retorted, my wordsden with sardonic bitterness.
Already a target of scorn in the eyes of the press, I harbored no enthusiasm for entanglement in these peculiar affairs. With each foray into the realm of the inexplicable, they gleefully concocted nicknames that failed to elicit even the slightest twitch of amusement.
"But it is the first time I have been summoned to apprehend a werewolf."
"And it is likewise the first asion we have made such a request."
Wilson emitted a bitter chuckle, his mirth tinged with destion.
"So, how much farther must we tread? Allow me to remind you that traversing great distances does not align with my physical prowess," I jestingly remarked.
"We are nearly there. Merely a passage through that alley awaits us," Wilson reassured.
Amidst our conversation, we had already veered away from the main thoroughfare, venturing deep into the recesses of a dimly lit alley, its obscurity an invitation to trepidation.
"The newspapers assert that the werewolf materializes with every passing night."
"A sip of whiskey renders the detection of a werewolf a trivial matter. Bearded men abound, after all."
Wilson cast a quick nce on me.
"What?" I queried, his gaze momentarily fixated upon me.
"No, it is nothing. Merely observing that you appear somewhat sullen today."
I averted my impending remark, striving to maintain the facade of an ordinary, unremarkable middle-aged man. However,menting the loss of a timepiece hardly seemed characteristic of my usual temperament.
"Pray, continue," I encouraged Wilson.
"ording to the constabry, the werewolf has manifested on three asions," he divulged.
My eyebrows arched in surprise. "That is quite frequent," Imented.
"And there are an additional five incidents that bear the hallmarks of the werewolf," he continued.
Myprehension faltered. "What do you mean by bear the hallmarks''?" I queried, seeking illumination.
"As you are aware, we find ourselves simultaneously investigating two casesthose of the werewolf and Spring-heeled Jack. Those five urrences may pertain to thetter," Wilson rified.
Though Iprehended the words that had been spoken, their deeper significance eluded me, as if they were the riddles of a malicious mathematician, purposefully confounding the senses.
"Pray, where is our destination now? For it does not appear to lead us towards the city hall," I inquired, a veil of uncertainty tinging my words.
"Indeed, there is something I wish for you to witness," Wilson replied, his voiceced with an air of solemnity. With those words, he turned into an alley, the twisting backstreets of London unveiling theirbyrinthine nature, where new paths materialized, regardless of the direction one chose to tread. A peculiar odor permeated the air, pervading every nook and cranny. Not wholly unpleasant, yet bearing an essence that stirred within me a sense of repulsion. To describe it precisely would prove a daunting task.
"The werewolfst made its appearance two nights hence. We are now heading to witness the aftermath of that fateful night," Wilson disclosed.
"Ah, excellent. I am eager to hear what the purported victim has to impart," I responded, my curiosity piqued. In a city teeming with youthful imitators, driven to perform oundish acts merely for a taste of notoriety, I yearned to discern the true nature of those who sought the limelight.
"That may prove to be quite challenging," Wilson confessed, his countenance beset by aplex amalgamation of emotions. Together, we turned into the final secluded alley, veiled from prying eyes.
Then, a swarm of flies assailed my face, disrupting the tranquil air.
Before mey a decaying corpsea macabre tableau brought to life. Maggots writhed upon dimmed pupils, and the desated tongue hung limply, akin to a piece of withered timber. The abdomen, torn asunder, cast the entrails in a grotesque dance across every corner of the narrow passageway. It was a work of art that defied the whims of chance, a grotesque masterpiece.
"The victim of that night was a police horse," Wilson solemnly dered.
Peering down the alleyway, a shiver coursed through my being. The scene before me evoked the notion of modern arta haunting reflection of the world''s first abstract painting, rendered with the innards of a horse.