At a society party

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"Where are you going?" Robert whispered, hoarsely. Behind him, the sounds of the party welled up the stairs. At least his wife wouldn't hear him calling after the luscious Lucinda. The girl showed a tantalising glimpse of ankle from the hem of her dress as she rounded a corner at the end of the hallway, leaving only her infectious giggle behind.

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Robert steadied the two glasses and bottle he was carrying and started after the young temptress. He found her standing with her back against a bedroom door, bosom heaving under her dress. She bumped open the door with her bustle-bolstered bottom and stepped back into the darkened bedroom. The only light came from a street lamp and showed through a crack in the curtains. Robert checked back over his shoulder, then followed the girl.

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He placed the glasses on a small table and began to open the bottle. Lucinda's hands wandered over his shoulders and down, around his waist, where she began fumbling with his cummerbund. "Wouldn't you like a drink, my sweet?" he asked.

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Quite roughly, with surprising strength for a young woman of such petite build, Lucinda turned Robert to face her. "Love first. Wine later," she whispered, then walked over to the bed. Robert followed, eagerly, enjoying the sway of her hips as she moved. After a long, deep kiss, and much fumbling to loosen her dress and corset, Lucinda threw back the sheet.

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Her scream was heard in the main hall.

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Two policemen discuss current affairs

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Detective Inspector George Collingwood walked into his office on the third floor of New Caledonia Yard. He had just returned from a grilling from the Chief Constable on the progress of his case load. While Collingwood had defended his position and reiterated his request for more bobbies on the beat, he was not at all sure his arguments had been persuasive. He hung his walking stick from one of the hooks on the hat stand and slumped into his chair. Seemingly absent-mindedly, Collingwood started patting down the pockets of his overcoat, looking for his pipe and tobacco pouch.

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"Cup of tea, Sir?" Sergeant Charlie Selby asked and, without waiting for a reply, turned away and lit the stove. Selby had worked with DI Collingwood for nearly three years and knew his boss would not refuse a cuppa.

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Collingwood lit his pipe and puffed happily for a moment before replying. "That would be marvellous, Sergeant."

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Tea was served with Selby's usual alacrity and the Sergeant returned to his own desk. As he sipped his tea, Collingwood gazed thoughtfully around his office. The walls, in those small areas which were not hidden by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, cabinets and maps of Laandan Taan, were of darkly panelled wood. Small gas lamps lit the corners and a larger chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. Commanding the whole office, on the wall opposite his desk, was a portrait of Victorina, the White Empress, whose empire spanned a quarter of the globe. Collingwood was merely a small cog in the machinery of Empire but he viewed his role as important. For, if law and order were to break down in the capital, what hope would there be for the rest of the Empire? He had put away countless thieves, muggers and brutes in his career and had sent ten murderers to the gallows. 

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His reverie was interrupted by Sergeant Selby's whistle of amazement. "Have you seen this, Sir?" Selby asked. He waved a copy of the Illustrated Police Gazette in the air. "Whitechapel Station suspects Jack the Ripper is really a vampire! They're advising members of the public to get baptised."

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"Twaddle!" Collingwood retorted. "A story put about by La Vie En France, the largest importer of garlic in Whitechapel Market."

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"But why else would the attacks only happen at night?"

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"Sergeant," Collingwood began, patiently, "the killer is obviously an inadequate, cowardly rat who targets the weak and vulnerable. I remember the old days, when Eestend was run by the Crays. Everyone knew where they stood."

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"It explains the marks on the womens' necks," Selby went on. 

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"So does strangulation or asphyxia in the height of passion."

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"But ..."

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"No buts, Sergeant. That Stoker chap has stirred up a hornets nest and no mistake. And don't get me started on all the New Agers. Orders, secret societies, theosophists and what not. They've turned the Age of Reason into an age of idiots. They'll be seeing ghosts, ghouls and goblins under every bed soon. What's needed here is some good, old-fashioned coppering. Next you'll be saying the Whitechapel lot suspect a Royal!"

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Collingwood sketched a shallow bow in the direction of the White Empress. Some said she could listen in to conversations through her portraits. More twaddle but better to be safe than sorry.

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"Wow! Now there's a thought," Selby enthused. "One spoilt, rich sicko," the sergeant was not known for his love of the Royal Family, "who's fed up shooting foxes so they start on people. They've got the connections to cover it all up. Makes sense to me, Sir."

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"Balderdash!" Collingwood snapped, as he wagged a disapproving finger at the Sergeant and glanced nervously up at the portrait. Was it frowning now? Collingwood was getting cross. He had a Lodge meeting at eleven that night and needed to calm down a bit. 

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Fortunately his flow was interrupted by a knock on the office door. "Come," Collingwood ordered.

A uniformed constable appeared in the door. The younger man looked nervous. Perhaps he had overheard some of Collingwood's tirade? "A call has just come through from Sloane Square, Sir," said the officer. "A dead body found at a society party. Your assistance is requested, Sir."

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Oh Heavens above! thought Collingwood. This whole thing could turn political and that was not a comforting thought. Still, he mused, I could always take early retirement if it all goes south of the River.