Mr Finegold has called Mycroft into his office today. With the end of the term arriving, he could guess what this was about. Mycroft stopped holding back in my studies and has gone all out, acing all of the tests, no matter what subject. This change was bound to garner attention from the board of directors and the headmaster himself.
Mycroft knocked on the door.
"Enter."
"Mister Finegold, you wanted to talk to me?" Mycroft asked.
"Ah, Mr Holmes, please have a seat, we'll get right to the matter at hand. We at St George's School maintain a certain standard, as you are aware. I saw something special when I met you in Rye 6 years ago. Something which has the potential to change the world."
Mr. Finegold stopped for a moment and looked Mycroft in the eyes. The young man knew what he wanted to talk about, as it was obvious. The change in his academic accomplishments was as apparent as can be, and since it was Mr Finegold who 'found' Mycroft in Rye, he naturally had great hopes for him.
"I am certain you are aware of what I wish to discuss with you, Mr Holmes. Your sudden rise in grades across the board has many professors questioning whether you fudged to achieve those results."
"I can assure you-"
Mr Finegold held up his hand to stop Mycroft from speaking.
"Please, Mister Holmes, I am the last person you have to convince. This is not about your impeccable grades this term, but the reason which led to this."
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Mister Finegold."
"I am interested to know why it took so long."
"..."
"Well?"
"I believe that forming friendships will be harder for me than rising through the grades, Mr. Finegold."
"I thought as much. However, can I count on you continuing to score the way you did from now on? The board is unhappy about it and believes you have started cheating. I know this to be untrue, since the scores you have shown were far too consistently 'adequate' but not too impressive."
"I give you my word, Mr. Finegold, I will continue to work as hard as I can from here on out. And I am more than willing to retake the tests, under harsher or closely monitored conditions, if that is required," Mycroft says.
"Yes, that might be enough to convince the others that we had a slacker, rather than a cheater, in our school. Very well, Mr. Holmes. I shall tell you about the date and see what my colleagues think about it, after you've aced those as well."
"Thank you, sir."
"That will be all."
.
After four months of going through additional tests under watchful eyes, the professors at St. George's were convinced of Mycroft's genius and backed off. Mycroft didn't slacken from there on out, despite knowing all the topics which were being taught, pretty much as soon as he held the course books in his hands. He took the time he had on hand to go through the entire library the school had, to increase his personal inventory of knowledge.
It was on the last day of August in 1888, when something happened which captivated Mycroft and didn't let him go again. It was all over the newspapers.
.
~~ The Times ~~
London, Saturday, 1st September, 1888
Whitechapel Murder – A Woman Found Horribly Mutilated in Buck's Row
A shocking and most brutal murder was discovered in the early hours of yesterday morning in Buck's Row, a narrow thoroughfare in the East End district of Whitechapel, already known for its congestion and destitution. At approximately a quarter to four o'clock, the lifeless body of a woman was found lying on the pavement by a cart driver on his morning route.
The unfortunate woman, later identified as Mary Ann Nichols, aged 42, is reported to have been of no fixed abode, and, it is believed, of unfortunate circumstances. Her body bore evidence of a most savage attack: her throat was slit from ear to ear with great violence, and, upon further examination, the abdomen was found to have been dreadfully mutilated in a manner suggesting an unusual degree of anatomical knowledge.
Police Constable Neil of the J Division was the first constable on the scene and summoned the medical officer, Dr. Llewellyn, who pronounced life extinct and noted that death must have been instantaneous. Dr. Llewellyn remarked that the injuries were inflicted with a sharp instrument, possibly a knife, and exhibited signs of deliberate cruelty rather than haphazard violence.
The police have expressed concern that the ferocity of the assault suggests more than a mere act of robbery or drunken aggression. Investigations are underway to determine whether this outrage is linked to recent disturbances in the neighbourhood, and several persons of interest have been questioned. However, no arrests have yet been made.
This appalling crime has shocked the community and added to the growing fears surrounding public safety in the East End. The authorities have given assurances that every effort is being made to apprehend the perpetrator.
We shall provide further updates as the investigation proceeds.
.
"What are you reading there, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Finegold asked as he entered the library.
"I was just going over the Times on the murder of the woman found in Whitechapel," Mycroft answered.
"Ah, yes, dreadful way to go, that is. What has you so interested in the case?" he asked.
"I find it strange and typically exaggerated by the press, to call it 'dreadfully mutilation' and then write that the murderer possesses an unusual degree of anatomical knowledge, right after."
"Do you disagree with that statement?" Finegold asked.
"It bothers me. On one hand, we have the clean cut across the throat, and then we have the state he left her in. I say he, but it could of course have been a female individual."
"You believe he mutilated her first and then cut her throat? Why would he do that? To be cruel?"
"I believe there is great anger involved. It must have been messy. Everything had to have been full of blood, but there is nothing written in the article. And they would write about it, to make it more shocking. So that tells me that the murder happened somewhere else. She was dropped off after the murderer was through with her."
"In Buck's Row?" Mr. Finegold asks.
"Yes. Buck's Row is known for its lodging-houses and the transient population they serve. The police will face difficulty in collecting trustworthy witnesses, as trust is scarce, and many people are coming and going. A suitable place to 'dumb' the body and walk away as if nothing happened."
...
"You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Holmes. I can see your passion has caught fire. But don't forget your other studies because of it, alright?"
"I won't, Mr. Finegold."
"Good. Then I'll leave you to it."
Mycroft looked at Mr. Finegold's retreating back and thought about his next steps. This was his chance. He had a chance to solve the crime that no one had solved. There were several theories, but nothing was confirmed, at least from what he knew. The only question was how he could get the necessary information needed to start his investigations.
The answer was obvious.
.
A few days later, Mycroft was ready. He waited for the right moment to slip out of the school at night. Doing this, at this early hour of 3 o'clock, would be hard for him, since he was barely 14 and the night was not kind to small boys. Thankfully, he at least couldn't die; that was his assurance. Over the last couple of days, Mycroft had been planning what to do and the optimal route to take to and from Buck's Row. And now he was ready.
He slipped out of his room and into the night. The P.E. he had been doing helped now. He climbed out of the window and moved through the darkness using the path he remembered, dressed in a slightly oversized second-hand coat, which he picked from the school's charity bin.
The route from Southwark to Buck's Row, Whitechapel, was approximately 4 miles, depending on the route he chose. He walked northeast through Borough High Street, passed London Bridge and then through the City of London. From Aldgate, he continued east on Whitechapel road, passing the church and finally turning down a quieter stretch near Buck's Row.
The entire trip took him 90 minutes. He still had time.
Mycroft kept his head low and didn't speak unless he was addressed. His eyes moved over everything and everyone he encountered, placing everything in memory. He had a wrapped copy of The Times tucked under his arm to seem like a young errand runner, in case someone asked him questions. He saw it all.
The butcher shops with movement inside, coal dust on the doorsteps, the smell of vinegar from the pickling sheds, locals drinking and laughing. The time was about right for the stalls and lots to open up and start preparing for the day. At one particular corner, Mycroft spotted a tea stall on wheels, run by a woman in a bonnet and shawl with floury hands.
Mycroft spotted her attentive gaze and the way she checked for anything suspicious or new faces. This seemed unusual for someone in her position, but when you had your stall here, after what transpired, it did make some sense. However, the way she moved her gaze over everyone suggested to Mycroft that she either knew something or saw something. She was serving boiling black tea, slices of bread to dockers, nightwatchmen, prostitutes and what seemed to be pickpockets.
He moved towards the stall and sat down, laying a few coppers on the wooden table and ordering tea.
"Mornin', miss. One tea, please," Mycroft said.
"Mornin' yerself, love. You look like you've been out since sparra's fart. Lost, are ya?" the woman said.
"No, miss. Just needed the air. S'all clagged up back home. Too many snorin'."
"Yer sound posh for round 'ere. School lad, are ya?" the vendor chuckles lightly.
"Somethin' like that. Heard summat on me way — police all up near Buck's Row?" Mycroft asks.
She suddenly narrowed her eyes and stared at him.
"Mm. News travels fast, it does. Another tart done in, poor cow. Throat cut clean through, they say. Blood all over the bleedin' place."
"Truly? How much blood?"
"You're a curious one, ain't ya? Not many your age askin' 'bout corpses this early," she looked at him sharply now.
"Just odd, innit? A girl gets killed like that. Was she robbed?" Mycroft shrugged his shoulders casually.
"Nah. Pocketbook was still on her, they say. Even 'ad her ring still. Weren't no common bloke after coin."
Mycroft nodded. His eyes scanned the crowd around the stall, who were all absorbed in their own talks.
"Was anyone see it? Or hear nothin'?"
"S'pose so. Polly — that were 'er name — she were seen drunk off 'er boots 'round half-two. Some cove said he saw her arguin' wiv a toff lookin' fella in a dark coat. Didn't think nowt of it."
"A toff?" Mycroft asked.
"Well-spoke, fancy boots. Not from 'round 'ere. But that don't mean murder, now does it? Coulda been a customer, coulda been anyone. Many people get round 'ere."
Mycroft started to place the information he had just gathered in his mind, in an orderly fashion, like he did with everything. Ironically, his name was Mycroft and like Sherlock said about his brother: 'has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living'. That statement was now very much true.
"You watch yerself, boy. Ask too many questions 'round Whitechapel and someone'll think yer the one doin' the slicin'," the woman told Mycroft, leaning closer.
But Mycroft only smiled faintly.
"Good thing, I ain't."
"Then drink up and get movin'."
____________________
First off, I am not British, I know little about British history, and English is not my mother tongue.
I wrote the text for the Times article and the dialogue with the vendor myself, and then had ChatGPT refine it to make it authentic and fitting for the year 1888. I'm unsure whether this approach was successful, as I have no benchmark to compare it to. I will continue to use ChatGPT for tasks like this, but not for writing my own story; I prefer to do that myself.
I assume some enjoy the 'authenticity' of the story that way. Again, I write everything myself. But since I don't know how to write the dialogues with those accents, I have no choice if I want to make the story good.
I appreciate any feedback.