Chapter One

A Hunting We Will Go

London Times headline, June 1st, 1897: London Ladies Vanish; Foul Play Suspected.

“Tell me, James, what do you make of this?”

My colleague and roommate Edward Rand handed me his newspaper, the London Times, and tapped the headline with his long forefinger.

I scanned it, and glanced up in shock. “Why, Edward, what can this mean?”

He took his Times back and read aloud; “Scotland Yard’s Inspector Howard Marcel reports the disappearance of several young ladies of noble linage. No ransom has yet to be demanded. The girls’ names were not released by the police for publication.”

“No ransom?” I said. “I can’t understand why not. Surely their families are wealthy, as well as titled.”

“No, my dear James, this is darker and more sinister than a mere kidnapping. Look at the girls’ photographs. Surely it’s evident what purpose such young and beautiful females would be desired for—it is unmistakably obvious.”

“They are lovely girls indeed, Edward. So young and innocent-looking. Surely no one would wish to do them harm.”

Edward looked at me down the length of his smoldering pipe and gave me a condescending smile. “Professor James Corwin, surely all those years you spent teaching medicine at the university, while certainly brilliant, have left you woefully deficient in understanding the criminal mind.”

“That’s your specialty,” I replied. “You’re the private detective and everyone admits you are remarkably brilliant in your own field.”

“Perhaps not everyone will be as charitable as you are in judging me. I expect one of them will be calling on us this evening.”

“Inspector Marcel, you mean?”

“The same. I have this telegram from him,” he drew it from the pocket of his lounging robe and handed it to me.

Dear Mr. Rand:

May I have the benefit of your theories concerning the disappearance of several young ladies from London’s most illustrious families? I shall call around to your apartment at 25 Tallow Lane this evening at seven.

Inspector Marcel

Now concerning my companion, Edward Rand, who is perhaps the most noteworthy and clever private detective in Victorian London, mostly due to his many successful triumphs in solving several crimes of the most diabolical and cunning nature that criminal minds have devised. Yet in his person, here in our mutually-shared second-floor apartment, he appeared to be the most common and disorganized of men. Our furnitur