Part 2, where we investigate

As I expected, the Yard dispatched a detective with commendable haste when such an upstanding gentleman as our Edward was reported missing. I confess I was not entirely surprised to see none other than Detective Inspector Reginald Smythe-Higgins himself emerge from the carriage. I greeted him with a hearty clap upon the shoulder and laid out the facts of the matter in proper order—only to endure VEXING interjections from that young scoundrel Edmund Nash, who apparently deemed it necessary to embellish proceedings with entirely superfluous particulars!

Nevertheless, one of the constables caught wind of the appellation Geoffrey "the Knife" (a more pedestrian alias is difficult to envision!) and showed immediate recognition. This "Knife" fellow is apparently a brute-for-hire, unaffiliated with any particular criminal enterprise, who involves himself in sundry nefarious activities—racketeering being chief among them. A thoroughly unsavory character, as one might well imagine. A constable expressed considerable confidence that this wretch frequents an establishment called the Argyle Arms, along with several similar dens in Soho.

Seeing no need to dally further, I pressed upon Reggie to take a carriage with us to Soho, leaving the bobbies for the menial work at the crime scene. He of course acquiesced, and we departed. 

Now, I HAVE passed through Soho on previous occasions, though naturally it is no district where any person of breeding or character would willingly be observed. However, circumstances and our desperation demanded action.

Soho

We arrived at the Argyle Arms and made our entrance. That such an establishment should operate at midday struck me as thoroughly improper, though observing the assemblage within provided ample explanation. Reflecting upon my service among the lower castes in India, I would be genuinely challenged to recall encountering a more concentrated gathering of malefactors than that which presented itself before us. Londoners, to be certain—yet conspicuously deficient in those qualities for which Londoners are justly renowned.

Reggie, exercising appropriate discretion, indicated a fellow matching the description of this Knife character. Perceiving no advantage in circumspection, I strode directly toward the table where he sat, paying no heed whatsoever to the collection of ruffians surrounding him. "Sir," I announced in my most measured tones, "I have reason to believe you possess knowledge regarding the disappearance of an upstanding gentleman who is most dear to me. If you wish to avoid the gallows, I STRONGLY suggest you accompany us immediately!"

The fellow did not respond with the alacrity I had anticipated. Nash positioned himself at my flank, whilst Phillip and Reggie adopted a more circumspect approach. I must acknowledge—with some reluctance—that I may have miscalculated the tenor of the situation. I had assumed securing the cooperation of this criminal would prove a straightforward matter. However, my pronouncement precipitated a distinctly unfavorable reaction: muttering, signs of agitation, jackets loosening, hands moving toward concealed objects—the entire display sent an unmistakable chill down my spine. 

A reassessment of tactics appeared prudent. Whilst I found it scarcely credible that this rabble would dare assault a Major of His Majesty's forces AND a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police (to say nothing of the young gentlemen present), my instincts—honed through years of service—counseled otherwise. I have learned to trust such instincts.

Nash, employing a combination of mendacity and promises of financial reward, managed to extract certain intelligence from the Knife. Apparently there exists what he termed a "medical fella"—a practitioner who purchases access to persons suffering from grave maladies, who volunteer themselves for whatever experimental treatments this individual provides. He employs a peculiar leather mask to conceal his identity.

Having obtained this intelligence, we deemed it prudent to vacate the premises before circumstances deteriorated further. We resolved to proceed to Whitechapel, where we might ascertain more regarding the whereabouts of this masked medical practitioner. It appeared increasingly probable that Edward's disappearance bore some connection to this peculiar individual, given the nature of Edward's own inquiries.

Whitechapel

Our first action was to attend the local police station, an establishment with an unfortunate reputation for corruption—what the lower classes term "being on the take" (a vulgar expression previously unknown to me). The station captain proved to be one Jock Bucknell, a Scotsman of such considerable stature that he nearly matches my own formidable height! Reggie maintained a prior acquaintance with this Captain Bucknell, and we posed several ostensibly innocent questions regarding Ellen and her disappearance. Something in Bucknell's manner—his eyes shifting laterally, his tendency to repeat our questions verbatim, unnaturally protracted pauses—suggested at least to me that he was withholding the complete truth.

He proposed we accompany him on patrol to familiarize ourselves with the district. I suggested the younger men undertake this task independently, reasoning they might extract more intelligence without their elders present—and would avoid the disadvantage of association with the "coppers," as the local rabble term them.

Reggie and I took a constitutional with Jock through these disagreeable streets before returning to the station. Upon our return, we posed additional inquiries regarding Ellen. She had apparently vanished near an establishment called the Ten Bells. Her father, one John Kelly, reported her missing on the 10th of October. Jock confirmed she had been a woman of ill repute—a "slag" in his coarse parlance—though reportedly an uncommonly handsome one for this degraded neighborhood. To their credit, the constabulary did conduct something resembling an investigation (employing the term with considerable latitude) and discovered several rumors regarding her fate:

1. She had secured a wealthy patron and fled either to Scotland or to New York
2. She resides in a hospital somewhere within London
3. She has been murdered and disposed of in the Thames (what the criminal classes term "sleeping with the fishes")

During this exchange, I observed that Jock exhibited profound discomfort, and I pressed—though with appropriate delicacy—for additional information. He hesitated considerably, but ultimately indicated he possessed intelligence he would share only with myself (presumably to avoid exposure of corruption before a senior Yard detective). When we were alone, he confessed to accepting bribes. Some months prior, he had been approached by this masked medical practitioner—a gentleman properly attired, approximately five feet ten inches in height, speaking with an educated accent—who requested that certain cases not be investigated too thoroughly. For this service, Jock receives five pounds monthly. A substantial sum for a Whitechapel constable, I grant you.

Judging it unwise to pursue the matter further at that juncture, we reunited with Phillip and Nash at a nearby eating establishment. They reported intelligence gleaned from what Nash characterized as an "information broker" (though he struck me as nothing more than an inebriated wastrel) to the effect that this leather-masked individual stands seven feet in height and may not even be human—PREPOSTEROUS, naturally! More significantly, the masked practitioner's first patient—one Adhira, a woman of Indian extraction—is purportedly confined to a London hospital, having aged some thirty years as a consequence of her "treatment." Finally, this medical charlatan apparently travels in a hospital carriage bearing the insignia of Bethlehem Hospital (known colloquially as Bedlam).

Og resten ble oppramsing :( 

• Vi drar til John (faren til Ellen). Han tror mest på at datteren er syk og ligger på et sykehus (k bro). 
• John har sett sykehusvogna, men ikke noe symbol. 
• Vi får en bunke navn på stort sett unge damer - men ikke bare det - som har forsvunnet (11-12 totalt). 
• I journal til Eddy finner Nash+P mye av det samme som over, men også navnet på en Mabel Gray. Reggie vet at hun er en lederfigur i The Elephants, et kvinnelig kriminelt nettverk. 
• Det er midt på natta, men vi drar dit. Nashy Nash smisker seg inn (extreme Charm) finner ut at hun formidler kontakt mellom syke og Medical Fella mot betaling via en postboks. Kun 1 person i mnd. 
• VI drar på Bedlam, finner ikke Adhira - men finner Jenny Carthwright (et annet offer). 
• Jenny lå på trappa, med nok penger til å betale opphold livet ut. Hun er derimot ikke 24 lenger, men ca 30 år eldre - men med "en fysikk som en 20-åring". 
• Hun er apatisk, men hyler i terror når jeg viser henne en tegning av Leather Bro. 
• Legen viser arr hun har på brystene (hurr hurr) og korsryggen. Ser ut som noe apparat har vært stukket inn i henne og så expertly sydd igjen. 
• Vi finner en lignende pasient på Hoxton hospital, Mary Stone. Hun er derimot aggro, ikke apatisk. 
• Majoren klarer appellere til hennes daddy issues og får henne lucid et lite øyeblikk. Hun gikk inn i en hambulance i en gate i Whitechapel for å møte Medical Fella. Ble ført til et sted hvor hun ble holdt fanget hvor var det masse maskiner og tuber. Blodet og "essensen" hennes ble lagret på store flasker. Det var en person til der samtidig. 
• Adhira er på Otto House. Også apatisk. Brev som er underskrevet med "B.L.". Hun DAUER når vi presser henne, whoops. Men najs, nå har vi et lik å obdusere! 
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