CHAPTER 3: INVESTIGATING ALONE

For Heaven's sake! If only Helen was here. I did forget that she had returned to Moskva in April. At that time I also went to Russia under the Tsar's order to accomplish a "top secret" affair, and incidentally I embarked a train along with Helen, and a businessman who acquainted with the Watson family - Aleksandr Dmitri Mendelev. I didn't know how to describe, on the train from the harbour to Moskva, we got an obstacle. Unfortunately, he had a feeling toward Helen the previous years but unrequited, so he dumped all of his anger on the poor Dmitri. So I had to act. Just in time it arrived at the station, I'd done, it made me so tired that I absolutely didn't want to go further. But not because of that I against His Imperial's order, that night I came to the Palace for audience. Nearly two months later, I returned to Great Britain. Of course, it was just only me.

If there were still Helen, I would be helped parts in this investigation. But this time, I had to go alone. For a woman, if not a "moth", nobody would be out such late this night; well, I was naturally an exception. But seemingly it was normal to go investigating along with Scotland Yard throughout the night.

Firstly, I was going to the place where the victim was last seen on the night of the murder, according to the claim of the police who patrolled this area the night of the murder.

I did not deny that this was a pretty noisy place, with not only the men drunk throughout the night, but also women. I realised I might more or less pull out some valuable information from the owner here, or someone else who had seen the victim that night.

- Good evening, sir. - I opened the door intentionally to see the owner, but he greeted me before I pushed the rickety door and made the little bell rang - Have you read a newspaper or not? The hot news has just come this morning.

He pulled out from under the cabinet a daily newspaper and banged it on the table. He must have read it.

- Yeah. A moth was killed, alright? What misfortune it caused me, ma'am?

- For the honour of Scotland Yard, it does related.

He gasped as if undoubtedly surprised, then said frantically, as if denying his guilt (in case indeed he was guilty):

- Scotland Yard? Oh no, are you really from Scotland Yard? No, no, I'm innocent! During the last night I was here, if you don't believe, just go and ask the old Mayfair in the corner! He was also here talking with me when the case happened!

It seemed... superficial enough. I put on my "investigator" mask and dropped the "commoner" one after hearing that.

- You knew when the case happened? - I questioned.

- Twenty to four in the morning, I could hear the scream of that brat Barry storming in and yelling someone had been killed at Buck's Row! A little after midnight, after half past a bit, I still see her drunk while leaving my pub!

Half past twelve of the night, the victim began to leave, so the period from half past twelve to the time she was killed, what did she do? According to the witnesses, the victim was last seen at two thirty in the morning, at the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel. Perhaps I would have an answer from the people whom the owner called Mayfair.

In the pub's corner, where the owner showed me, no one sat there. Did he lie? Probably no, there were half-drunk glass of whiskey on the table, a morning newspaper, a cigar still burning; a rusty pocket watch, remain of two or three matches and half a glass of gin. I thought the pocket watch was belonged to "Mr Mayfair", and it also could be the most valuable asset of his.

- Ya want to see that olde Mayfair? - A strange voice behind me spoke. A drunken man, around forty years old, with somewhat hollow voice, slurred. This to me wasn't unfamiliar.

- Yes. He's not here, sir? - I replied.

- He's dead. Just this afternoon.

- What?

- Haven't ya come here once? Everyone knew, except for that big fat Winefield. - He said, pointing to the owner - I recently attended the funeral the olde Mayfair, with these fellows here.

"The fellows" of his, looked as unkempt and alcoholic as identical. Probably the labourers, the group of chimney sweepers. I said that because all seven of them unnecessarily black, covered with ashes and soot in the chimney.
But there was just a thing I wondered: if Mr Mayfair had just passed away this afternoon, so... whose things were on the table?

- Those'er mine, ma'am. Except for the newspaper with the pocket watch, glass of whiskey that was olde Mayfair's. The glass of gin is mine.

I realised the man. A few days ago I had hired him clean because my chimney was clogged with soot, he probably be reasonably useful? Maybe I should try, he would just drink here forever!

- Two days ago, you and your son were hired by a house in Baker Street to clean their chimney, remember?

He looked at the ceiling for a long moment, then patted his knee and said:

- Didn't!

Initially unsuccessful, I ignored it and asked:

- You must know the woman who was killed this morning, you knew her. Tell me what you know.

He looked at me like scrutiny, pouring out a glass of gin, drank and then turned over and asked me in return:

- What do you ask me for? Why shall I tell you?

Why was I born a girl, I wondered? Inspector Lestrade (I said, that Claramenthe Lestrade) alone was also woman but how she was so respected! I did not want to say because that was probably she was the daughter of the famous Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard's special investigating department. Like the wife of a certain nobility will also be considered aristocratic lady even though she may not born noble; and I, ah, maybe my shell of a middle-classed lady was too discreet...

- You must have read the newspapers! You has been drinking here throughout days and nights, you should have known her!

In a drunken stupor, he said:

- Ain't you mad, lassie? I don't like reading newspapers! I don't know who the woman you ask is! It's useless to ask me anything!

Listening to this statement, I started feeling discouraged. Calling this "crime of century" was not exaggerating at all. Maybe neither I, nor I and the whole Scotland Yard's special investigating department might bring the culprit to justice. I was well-known as "Athène of Baker Street", yet... I did not want to think about the time when I must surrender to the murderer...

- Mademoiselle?

- What is it boy? Finding someone? - The owner asked while trying to polish some glasses.

- I find Mademoiselle.

- Mademoiselle huh? No one here has such a name.

The boy looked around and his eyes stopped at the corner where Mr Mayfair usually drinking before. Looking oblique to the right a little, was the table of the men I was questioning, then the boy looked at me. Had I known him? Not. But seemingly I knew what he needed.

- Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle ... I want to say this! I've read the newspapers this morning!

I gave up the chimney sweepers, and turned to the boy at the door. Perhaps that child had worthy informations than them.

- She's left already. Let's drink, men! - That man said.

That boy, who was quite young, about ten years old or younger, beckoned me. When he saw me walking towards the door, the boy grabbed my hand and pulled me away out of the pub.

How fortunate! From when I was in the pub to now there was one thing I wanted to say but could not say it, was the pub was horrible! Horrible that I could not stand another minute in it! For Heaven's sake, I hated the smell of cigarettes so bitterly, however that small pub was filled with smoke and stank with the foul smell of nicotine in cheap tobacco. Despite the hatred, but the work was priority, so I had to sacrifice, though.

When we arrived at a rickety wooden house, he stopped and pointed:

- That's my house.