Reigning in the enthusiasm of an energetic and eager young man can be quite a task. That was precisely the reason that I’d asked Graham Roth to accompany me on the evening of the 5th of January to Scotland Yard. I sent him in through the main entrance carrying a stack of case files so large that he could barely manage them. The sight was, in fact, quite comical.

It was after 10 o’clock in the evening when I turned him loose. I can still only imagine the look on the desk Sargent’s face when the lad came in with such a burden, asking to query dozens of police records. I’d later find out that the Sargent had acted precisely as I had expected and had told Mr. Roth in no uncertain terms that he’d have to return in the morning.

Lestrade and I had not revealed the finer details of the investigation to him but the young man was keen to prove himself and did as he was told without question. He was to insist on querying those records, to make a scene of himself, and if necessary to spend the evening in a jail cell so that I could stealthily make my way into the rear of the building and do some querying of my own.

During our cab ride to Whitehall Place I’d had to humor the young man, who had wished desperately to query me about some of my case files. Though he greatly tried the patience of Detective Lestrade I rather liked the fellow and saw in him a healthy amount of potential. He had my own zest for uncovering the truth, though his energy was wild and unfocused. He needed a mentor, but alas I had neither the time nor the desire to be one. I did, however, happily tolerate his myriad of questions as I am not one to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm in regards to my own fantastic accomplishments.

I will state in no uncertain terms that Mr. Graham Roth did not disappoint me that evening. Barely had I dashed around the building and made my way over to a vantage point in the shadowy alcove of a nearby structure, where I could watch for my opportunity, when it presented itself. He’d worked quickly, almost too quickly in fact. For through the doors of Scotland Yard could be heard a great deal of shouting, most of it unintelligible, though I knew it to be constables attempting to calm a hysterical man with an armload of paperwork. Mr. Roth, it seemed, very much desired the letter of recommendation that I’d promised to write on his behalf to Mr. Stilton. He would later recount for me what had transpired.

Inside the building his confrontational attitude with the desk Sargent had not drawn enough attention, so the clever young man had resorted to a full on shouting match. When even that failed to provoke the proper response he’d then proceeded to toss his papers about the station’s floor, questioning the virtue of the mother of every constable in sight. Then, to ensure that the law men were properly distracted, so as to allow me a stealthy entry, he’d proceeded to run about erratically, defiantly eluding every police officer who attempted to grab hold of him. The tactic had been a rather simple one, but I could not argue with how brilliantly it had worked.

The two men who’d been chatting near the door quickly ran back inside to see what all of the commotion was about, leaving me with my opportunity. I double checked the area and then ,with not a soul around to see, I crept easily into the rear entrance and made my way up the first flight of stairs that I happened across. The upper floors were dark, abandoned for the night. I had little fear of being discovered lest I chance upon a detective working late at his desk. Still I moved carefully, listening to the sounds in each room for several moments before entering it. I used no light that could give myself away, instead allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Despite the knowledge that my accomplice would make bail as soon as dawn broke, that his charges would be dismissed after a certain doctor declared him to have been acting out of temporary insanity, and that he would likely get the promotion to detective that he so desperately sought, I could not help but feel a slight bit of guilt at having him play such a part in the endeavor. Several hours of uninhibited access to the records at Scotland Yard, however, seemed well worth the price.

I learned more in those few late night hours than I did in the previous weeks of investigation. It appeared as though Lestrade’s fears were anything but paranoia. Plots most foul were indeed being hatched in this place, the very bosom of the law.

I worked ever so cautiously, lighting only one lamp at a time and being certain that it was on its lowest setting. In the dim illumination I pored over case files that not only revealed to me the veracity of every claim that the detective had made but also much, much more. Two and one half years, that is when the case files, subtly altered by a very clever individual, began to appear in the records.

I let time get away from me and it was shortly after one o’clock in the morning when I was disturbed by a sound in the hallway. Quickly extinguishing my lamp I ducked into a position that allowed me to peer through the window of the record room door without easily being seen by anyone on the outside. The hall was only lit, ever so dimly, by moonlight that shone through a window at the far end of it. There was a rustling sound, that of cloth and with the faintly detectable jingle of metal. A man undressing?

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The answer was provided, much to my horror, only a moment later. From the shadow, into the pale shaft of moonlight that fell across part of the tiled hallway floor, I saw move the leg of a man; one that, upon touching the light of the moon, metamorphosed into a cloven-hoofed version of itself that fell heavy onto the floor with the clatter of two hard surfaces meeting one another. Much to my relief as the rest of the man’s naked body followed suit it too changed form before my very eyes. While I can appreciate the complexity of the human form I am not particularly fond of the nude male figure, the feminine physique being much more pleasurable to view. My comfort, however, was only fleeting, as the shape that replaced that of the man disturbed my mind far in excess of anything that squeamish sensibilities could ever accomplish.

The form was that of a tall beast, massively heavy in appearance, that stood upon two hoofed legs and that bore the coarsely furred torso of a man but the substantial head of a bovine...particularly that of a bull. I had, at that point, encountered monsters of many varieties but I can say with no uncertainty that until that moment not one of them had frightened me so deeply. It had not the fangs of a Loup-Garou, nor the claws of a Bugbear, yet still something about its presence chilled me to the very depths of my typically cool and calculating soul. The beast’s breath was drawn in slowly but powerfully, then exhaled with such force that I could feel the resonance of its deep rasp through the door. Without warning its head turned and I ducked below the glass of the window. Had it sensed my company? No real moonlight was falling upon me, so surely the emerald radiance of my eyes could not be spilling into the corridor. Could it? I did not know.

I sat perfectly motionless, totally silent. With nothing more than a meager piece of wood between myself and the monster I began to regret the decision not to bring any weapons with me. I’d done so on the chance that I’d been apprehended, so that the charges against me would not include possible conspiracy to commit murder.

With a forceful snort the creature sniffed at the air several times. Then, a moment later, I heard the heavy falls of cloven hooves as it continued down the hallway. I dared steal a quick glance out of the window as I heard it do so and saw that even though it had stepped out of the light of the nearly full moon it remained in its bestial form. It had fully transformed, hence the removal of the clothing, but for what purpose? Why would a homo-monstrum, as the doctor preferred to call them, wish to possibly reveal itself by walking about in plain sight inside of a police station? Yes the upper levels were shut down for the night, but there still remained a decent chance of being spotted. In my mind that hinted at something.

“This creature is not afraid of revealing itself because it does not care if it is seen.” I thought.

Quickly I tucked my notebook and pen into the pocket of my coat and reached for the door handle. Unaware of how keen or not the beast’s hearing was, or how far away it was for that matter, I proceeded in utmost silence. There it was, lying on the tiled floor, a crumpled police uniform. In the darkness I could not make out details but I was certain that it held the answer to exactly who our mole inside Scotland Yard was. Carefully, and in a crouched position, I moved across the floor toward it. My hand reached out, I needed only to see the officer’s name, when, much to my surprise a hand laid itself upon my left shoulder. I froze.

“Sherlock Holmes I presume.” said the voice of a man roughly forty years in age, one who was a long time smoker. He had spoken softly. Did he know of the presence of the minotaur?

“You would presume correctly.” I replied in a gentle tone. “Whoever you are sir I must say that your skills in regards to stealthy movement are to be applauded.”

“Kind words. Now stand up slowly.” he instructed, and I heard his billy club slide free of the ring that held it to his belt.

I whirled and grasped his wrist. Our eyes locked and though it was dark I could see the stupefaction within his. A quick blow to the throat prevented him from calling out and as I grabbed his other wrist and spun him into the nearest open door I caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight, albeit a terribly brief one. Some form of feline, of that there was no doubt. It certainly explained his ability to move silently. It also explained the sudden materialization of claws that dug into my wrists, an attempt to free his own from my grasp. His tactic worked as I recoiled in pain but he had not counted on me retaining the equanimity to grasp the billy club from him as I did so. With it I feigned a strike with my left hand, a maneuver which brought his arms up into a defensive posture, and then delivered a swift heel kick to the sternum. This sent him backwards into a desk that was overflowing with stacks of papers, most of which promptly tumbled to the floor after the desk moved back several inches from the impact, an action which caused its legs to make a loud scraping sound across the floor. As the man, a constable who I was not familiar with, grasped at his chest I switched the baton to my right hand and promptly struck him upon the left temple. He fainted, collapsed back onto the desk, then fell forward into my arms.

It was then that I heard the smashing of weighty hooves upon the tile some distance away. Our altercation had drawn attention and without my weapons I had no desire to engage such a beast in a dark and mostly unfamiliar setting. I scooped up the constable, who luckily was a wiry chap of no more than eleven stone, and bolted for the nearest set of stairs. If only I had been able to examine the discarded uniform. Damn!