“To think you outmaneuvered the ‘Lady of Funerals’ in securing that camera! I expected you to return empty-handed, wallowing in defeat.”

“…Credit lies with Miss Schaal, not me.”

Ulysses froze, cutlery hovering. “She’s involved? Then the device should be in the organization’s custody. Explain.”

Yvette recounted events. Her two colleagues—masters of theatrics—gasped dramatically.

“The case is closed. Why the long face?” Ulysses pressed.

“…Nothing.” Memories of the tormented spirit lingered.

“Hmph. The ‘Lady of Funerals’ bending rules for you? Unthinkable. She must hold peculiar favor…”

“Or your reputation sinks so low that basic courtesy seems grand,” Winslow interjected. “Avert celebration. Had the task fallen to you, Sir, we’d be drafting apologies to Parliament. The Lady shows no quarter for… French blusterers.”

Ulysses scowled but held his tongue.

“…Broken clocks, etcetera. With bones unearthed at the Pump Street well, we’ve concrete proof of cursed remains. Now comes the drudgery: quelling hysterics. I’ll propose a ‘Fire Risk Committee’ to shutter these gutter presses…”

Yvette held doubts. These fly-by-night papers operated from shadowy print-shops—Parliament’s antiquated hounds couldn’t hunt them all. Shutdowns would merely spawn underground editions.

“Half-measures won’t suffice. My solution: fight fire with fire. By week’s end, ‘spectral evidence’ will be a punchline.”

……

Two days later, Yvette navigated Pump Street’s cobbles in threadbare disguise. Ulysses’ promised “gift” awaited.

Her scheme had set Albion ablaze. Even here, laborers pooled coppers for respectable broadsheets priced at a day’s rookie wages.

The air crackled with debate—today’s Times exposé dominating discourse:

“Saints witness! The Times guts these liars! No fear, no favor!”

“Whole coffeehouses are quoting it! Those ink-rats fooled us for years!”

A bystander blinked. “Ghost photos? My missus lit votives for a week!”

“Ancient history!” another crowed. “Times blew the scam wide open—show a ‘ghost’ by dodging mid-shot! They’ve death threats posted now. Coppers on it!”

“Death threats?!”

“Read the Telegraph yourself!”

A cluster formed, voices rising as they scanned The Times’ defiant editorial: Unbowed. Cheers erupted.

“Heroes of our age!”

“No more penny dreadfuls! Burn their presses!”

Victory.

Yvette melted into the crowd, phantom-like.

Her playbook—Earth’s media circus tactics—had staggered London: manufactured “haunts,” strategic exposés, staged threats. Each act meticulously timed.

Here, primitive photography enabled easy fraud: pose as specter, exit mid-exposures. A trick Earth’s charlatans milked for decades. Yvette leaked mock “spirit photos” to tabloid vultures, let greed spread the hoax, then shattered the illusion. Final stroke: frame rivals as thugs intimidating truth-tellers.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Future supernatural photos? Handled through underground channels monitored by allies like Miss Schaal. A masterclass in narrative control.

At the derelict pump, Yvette found her “gift”: Ulysses hosting a charity gala for social-climbing industrialists. Albion’s Commons Parliament seats demanded such pageantry.

“…Funds will modernize pumps and sewers. Surplus builds a hospital,” a magnate fawned.

“…Donors’ names etched in stone…” Ulysses parried.

……

The laundress’ home felt lighter. Cradle-rocking, she smiled through grief.

“Neighbors say you found my Mary… saved us all.”

“She saved herself,” Yvette whispered.

Handing over £30 as “Miss Schaal’s charity,” she was gently refused:

“The veiled lady settled debts. But take this—”

A patchwork handkerchief—silk scraps stitched by mother and child—pressed into her palm. Albion’s mourning traditions prized such tokens.

“For luck,” the woman said.

“I’ll treasure it.”

It was past midnight when Ulysses returned, evidently concluding his dinner with the charity group. Yvette relayed the newspaper editors’ reactions. His smile carried a razor’s edge: “So the guttersnipe tabloids are finally meeting their end? Splendid. You’ve a gift for puppeteering public sentiment. Blackjack—that delusional charlatan—met a fitting end at your hands.”

The compliment curdled. Charlatan? She’d ambushed the man openly. Yet he spun it like some back-alley deceit...

Yvette settled on a stiff “Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“The gift. You attended Pyle Street’s charity event. How did you know I...”

“My dutiful nephew returned victorious yet moping. Mentioning that spectral girl, you wilted like a child refused a puppy. Rewards were in order.

But my challenge persists: you disdain jewels, gowns, theater, and the hunt. For a Frenchman, it’s criminal to leave a lady’s melancholy unrelated to romance. Today’s chance was overdue—my thanks for permitting me the pleasure.”

He swept into a courtly bow, all rakish elegance—the sort of man eternally mistaken for a rake despite spotless conduct. Yvette thought of Batesian mimicry: harmless creatures aping venomous ones to evade predators.

“...A reply? Silence bruises a gentleman’s pride,” Ulysses prodded.

“Forgive me. I theorized: maintain this performance, and you’ll bedazzle London’s marriage market.”

“Performance? Exhausting. I reserve effort for worthy recipients.” He glanced away, muttering, “Most women would swoon. Yet here I earn frosty disdain? No matter—frost beats sorrow.”

Another murder lingered in the shadows, eclipsed by the ghost-photo scandal. A first-class train passenger lay dead, skull obliterated by a large-caliber bullet. The victim—a “venture pioneer” with neither company nor credible projects—had swindled vast fortunes.

Most investors resigned to their losses. But one anomaly arrived: a young woman at the station, face etched with despair.

“The police took the body days ago. Try Scotland Yard...”

“No need.” Her quiet grief softened the clerk.

“May I ask...your financial toll? Many inquire about his effects. Forgive my candor: the man was a grifter. Reclaim your funds before they’re squandered.”

“Not money... A promise. Now unfulfilled.” Her dignity shamed him.

“Any leads on the killer?”

“The rail company failed you. We’re aiding the police—those tax-drinking sluggards—to hunt the brute.”

“May justice prevail.” She left, despair clinging like mist.

Fool, she seethed. Had he merged with me, he’d live. Why refuse?

The box hummed: Find the killer... Who?

“Infection struck only Pyle Street. Dismissing ghosts, I sought common threads: air, food, water. Water fit—localized, daily use. My uncle’s cholera studies guided me.” A week later, the Thinking Labyrinth Club pressed Yvette for details.

Blackjack’s identity now public, the masses deemed his death cosmic justice.

Yvette had braced for his nightmares. Yet after days... nothing. Did gunshots void the ritual? Or...

She remembered the blood-crusted train window. Without the glass, it would’ve drenched her...

Club members besieged her. Though newspapers anonymized her as “Mr. M,” their elite connections unmasked “Mandrake.”

“Truth hides in plain sight—your brilliance unearthed it,” praised Monkshood.

“Mandrake! Hoarding such a case?!” Oleander protested.

“I posed as a laborer. Youth disarms suspicion—unlike your aristocratic airs. Monastery life taught me servant’s chores. Could you haul water for slum dwellers?”

Oleander reddened. A true Albion gentleman, he’d never held his toothbrush.

“I must finish The Vampire Murders before you solve another crime!” groaned Aconite. His novel—inspired by the Moulin Rouge killings—starred Chevalier, a French noble detective (his sister’s romantic demand), meant to launch a series.

“Join us at the Pyle Street house tomorrow!”

“Regrettably, I’ve an art exhibition.” Truthfully, facing those who’d seen her disguised as a beggar... discomfort outweighed curiosity.

“The Royal Academy Exhibition! Our artists lack Florentine polish, but their avant-garde sparks,” mused Strychnine, puffing his pipe.

A century-old tradition, the exhibit showcased 1000 juried works. During London’s social season, nobles flocked as patrons—careers hinged on their gaze.

Though no opera critic, Yvette cherished art. For a modern eye, this was a living museum. The invitation had been unmissable.