Chapter Text
A young woman with long, grey hair—shorter towards the front—hurriedly throws on her short cape, her black heels, and a top hat as she rushes out of her door and into the grey landscape that is the city.
As the woman briskly walks to the nearest trolley, she quickly passes by the swaths of brick buildings with boarded-up and covered windows, characteristic of the heart of London. The grey-haired woman passes by a newsboy, handing him three pence and taking the newspaper with a quick departure as she wishes him a good day.
Upon reaching the trolley, she pays her fare to the trolleyman, politely greeting him with a good morning. As she takes a seat on the trolley, whispers begin to rise as her fellow commuters notice her.
Some men whisper to each other, “A lady out of the house on her own?” Upper-class women gossip amongst themselves with their husbands nearby, “She ought to be married by now, right? What kind of husband would allow her to be out and about like this?”
The grey-haired woman ignores the whispers, used to such comments by now. She sits back in her seat, pushes up her glasses, and finally takes the chance to read bits of the daily newspaper— it is important for someone in her profession to remain in the know, after all.
The woman smiles a bit upon seeing herself featured in the headline: “Female Detective Carol Eastaughffe Cracks the Unsolvable Again!” Underneath the headline is a monochrome image of her testifying in court as a witness. As she reads, Carol notices that the article credits many joint efforts in the case to the men she worked with, though she recognizes that there’s not much to be done about whatever the newspaper says. On the next page of the newspaper, Carol sees another headline that she thinks may pertain to a telegram she received as soon as she came home yesterday evening: “‘The Genius’ Strikes Again!” Satisfying her curiosity, she skims the article, finding that “The Genius” seems to be a new serial killer around the city. It’s a bit strange that such important news isn’t on the front page, though she decides that it’s not worth pondering on quite yet.
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Once the woman reaches her stop, she steps out of the trolley along with a flood of other people. The other passengers quickly disperse, dotting the grey city with specks of color, while she heads towards the Scotland Yard police office, opening the gates as she enters the premises. She is greeted by the receptionist, a partially bald older man— perhaps in his 50s— smoking, clearly not wanting to be there in the slightest. The man rudely addresses the woman as he sighs, “Go home, you need a man with you if you want to report something.”
The grey-haired woman, though slightly irritated at the upfront dismissal, firmly stands her ground as she recites with a largely neutral expression and firm tone, “I am Carol Eastaughffe, private investigator. I’ve been called here by Scotland Yard.”
Carol pulls out a notepad from a pocket in her fluffy grey and purple dress, flipping it open with practiced ease and presenting a telegram as proof of her claim, which was nestled between the pages of her notepad.
The receptionist only bothers with a short glance at the paper as he scowls, dismissively speaking as he seems to lose interest in speaking with Carol.
“Whatever, just go talk to whoever you need to here, ma’am.”
Carol thanks the man out of courtesy alone and walks off to a side room, knocking on the door of a small office. A deep and gravelly voice on the other side simply commands, “Enter.” Carol steps into the office, and she’s greeted by a dimly lit, warm-toned office containing a large number of redwood bookshelves and filing cabinets against the walls, with a matching redwood desk in the center of the room. In front of a window— one of the few functional ones in the country— the Chief Superintendent sits behind his desk skimming case files and miscellaneous paperwork, the smoke from his pipe filling the room.
Carol decides to speak first: “I’ve come back here as soon as I could— how could I be of assistance, Mr. Anderton?”
The Chief sets his pipe down and gestures for Carol to take a seat, so Carol grabs a nearby rolling chair and sits across from the desk. He then leans forward in his chair, speaking with some impatience at Carol’s presence despite Carol having just entered the room.
Anderton skips pleasantries, cutting to the chase. “We have a killer on our hands; normally, we wouldn’t be so desperate as to hire one such as yourself—“ the Chief obviously referring to Carol’s gender— “—but your skills speak for themselves, Ms. Eastaughffe. Here’s what the Yard’s collected so far.”
Once various files are set on the desk, Carol helps herself to a random file, opening it and skimming the contents. Yawning, Anderton continues giving Carol a summary of the case, while Carol’s mind already starts its work.
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After a few minutes of Anderton droning on about the case and how impossible it is to solve, being “the first in years that the Yard couldn’t solve” —though Scotland Yard isn’t a particularly old establishment— the Chief Superintendent asks Carol with the thud of his forearm on the desk, bringing her attention back to him, “Think you can crack it?”
Carol, somewhat startled for a moment, quickly looks up from the file in her hands before calming herself, pushing up her glasses, and replying with a smile of confidence, “I’m certain I can.”
The Chief is unreactive to Carol’s confidence, picking his smoking pipe back up as he replies with indifference, “Alright then, the city’s counting on it. Send a telegram here if you need anything– and take the case files with you.”
Carol is already taking up the case files in her arms while Anderton speaks. Carol is obviously in a rush to leave the office as soon as possible, and once Anderton finishes speaking, she quickly replies, already walking towards the door: “Thank you for the trust, don’t forget to mail me payment by tomorrow! Have a good evening!”
She doesn’t wait for a reply and quickly rushes out of the Scotland Yard building, nearly dropping the files on the way out in her haste.
Her mind is racing at the speed of light, already going through possibilities and theories about who the killer might be based on the parts of the files she’s read and her personal knowledge. Carol races to make it home, forgetting to eat anything as she becomes absorbed in the depths of this new case on her hands.
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As the candle illuminating her desk burns out in the late hours of the night, Carol falls asleep at her desk, pen still left in her hand, and the case lingering in her mind in her dreams.