To say that I completely trusted the deductive skills of Gregory Lestrade would be a stretch. Still, the plot that he laid out for us was terribly intriguing and it did seem as though he had done an uncharacteristically thorough job of researching his facts. Had the years, and experiences, changed the man for the better? Perhaps.

Poring over the contents of file folders, photographic slides, intercepted correspondence and a meticulously complicated web of newspaper articles he pled the case to us, believing that beyond a doubt there was some sinister plot at work that held within it a cleverly veiled attempt at the life of none other than the Crown Prince himself.

There was more, of course. The assassination of a cousin to the crown of Liechtenstein, the investigation quickly brought to a conclusion by Scotland Yard when it was declared that he had been a pawn in the games of Irish Republican terrorists. The kidnapping and ransom of the son of a British arms manufacturer, mysteriously brought to a conclusion when the boy was returned unharmed and with no ransom paid. Constables being dispatched to famous landmarks to search, without proper cause, for something or someone whose identity was not disclosed.

Inquiries into these incidents by the press were met with untoward hostility or even downright brutality. Watson and I listened intently to the information the detective was so eager to share with us, our curiosity piquing even further when he began to detail case after case, bizarre and unsolved murders, to which the Yard seemed to have simply turned a blind eye, in some cases even going as far as attempting to destroy the files.

Lestrade, however, still had a few friends inside the Yard and though they were not convinced of some grand plot against the crown they had still taken note of strange incidents over the last few years and had agreed to help him by saving what they could from the furnaces. As he showed us witness accounts and crime scene photographs it instantly became clear to Watson and I the nature of the crimes in question. Surely Lestrade had jumped to the same conclusion and that was why he had summoned me , of all people, to his aid.

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Still, what common thread did these cases all share, save for the fact that someone at Scotland Yard was attempting to sweep them under the rug? Most of them reeked of one thing, monsters, of that I was certain. The Yard's refusal to conduct serious inquiry into such cases was not surprising. How could they explain them to the public? But what of the more complicated affairs? Indeed they did hint at something further than the Metropolitan Police Force not wishing to get caught up in matters of monsters and witches for fear of being labeled lunatics.

The fact that both types of cases were being hidden from the public eye and frequently going as far as having the files destroyed seemed to indicate to me that there was indeed one officer, or possibly several officers working in collusion, who were privy to more information than they should have been and were participating in a conspiracy of some fashion. Though the detective had woven together a fanciful tale of how these items linked together into a plot to assassinate the Prince of that I was less than certain.

What I was absolutely sure of, however, was that something was amiss at Scotland yard and that I intended to get to the bottom of it. Anyone covering up the types of cases that he'd presented to us was obviously in the know when it came to matters of supernatural origins. In my mind that left three possibilities. A Versieht like myself, using his position to obfuscate his night-time hunting activities. A perfectly normal man, possibly wronged by some beast, doing the same to cover his tracks as he wrought vengeance upon those who'd wronged him or his kin. Lastly, a man who wore a uniform by day to hide his true nature but was indeed a beast of his own style. A man who would seek to use his position within the constabulary to prevent the public from learning about either his own wicked actions or simply those of his kind.

I freely admit that the last notion disturbed me most; a terror at Scotland Yard.