Though I am quite handy with enchantments and elemental magics, my forte has always been my keen eye, quick wit, and attention to detail. I often wonder how different my life would be if I had followed my dream of being a detective rather than becoming the world's foremost expert on the Ars Magica. This is why when I was approached by Scotland Yard in February of 1891 to assist them in investigating a series of gruesome murders in Whitecastle, I jumped at the chance to become involved.
As I learned in a debriefing with the Head Detective, there had been several murders of cross-dressing male prostitutes, the victims all killed and disemboweled with surgical precision. As of the briefing, the constabulary had no real clues linking the deaths with anyone. The usual suspects, of course, had been picked up, the drunks, the homeless, the indigent, but none were of a caliber onto which the police could realistically pin the crimes. The public knew a skilled and crafty killer was on the loose, and they would not be fooled with the Yard's usual scapegoats.
It was clear to me that I was going to have to go to the scene of the crimes and catch the murderer red handed if I wanted to stop him. I decided to make myself very familiar with the nightlife of Whitecastle parish and to do my best to blend in with the locals. However, "blending in" has never been my style. My clothing, my mannerisms, my joie de vivre has always made me the very center of attention everywhere I go. So, I enlisted the aid of a dear friend of mine who was very good at laying low and calling no attention to himself: Vlad Dracul. If anyone knew how to remain unseen, it was him. He has been roaming the world for centuries with no one the wiser.
That is why I was to be found that cold and blustery February evening dressed in my best top hat, black coat and overcape, and silver encrusted blasting rod. Vlad, for some odd reason, was dressed in a black felt cap and felt overcoat, exposing his bare chest and ragged grey pants. He looked terrible. Well, he actually looked rather sexy, but still, he was dressed just like the poor people wandering around the alley where we were stationed. If I looked away from him for more than a moment, I would lose track of which person was him and which was the beggar Eddie "The Licker" Bricker. (Don't ask.)
After watching the alleyways for a week and a half, we finally met with success. I was conversing with the prostitute Maltish Mal, a very lovely cross dressed man who wore the most tasteful bloomers and stockings. We were discussing the merits of different rouges to help mask the onset of age (He was leaning towards a brownish red. Really? I asked him. With your skin tones?) when there was a scream from one of the side streets. I rushed over to find Vlad on his knees, his head buried in the crook of the neck of someone collapsed on the street. After pulling him away from the figure, I was surprised to see a young man about eighteen years of age on the ground, blood still flowing from two puncture wounds on his neck.
I spoke to him quickly before he passed on to the next world to discover who he was. Apparently, the young man, Thomas Stone by name, loved to frequent the prostitutes of Whitechapel, to sate his youthful cravings. It had happened on several occasions, however, that after being with his chosen escort and doing whatever it was he enjoyed doing, he discovered his newfound lover to be a man, not a woman. When this happened, rage came upon him and he would kill his former bedmate. Unfortunately for Thomas, he seemed to be attracted to the male prostitutes much more often then the female; all told, he had bedded eleven prostitutes only to find all eleven were men.
Can you say "denial?"
Well, after Vlad's not so subtle apprehension of the killer, the Whitecastle murders stopped. Scotland Yard chose to never disclose the perpetrator had been a boy of eighteen since they would be ridiculed for being unable to track and catch such a young and inexperienced man. I was given a commendation by the Commissioner himself for my role in stopping the killings. Since my dear Vlad was not officially on the case, he received nothing, though I made it a point to reward him myself in the way for which I am most known.
That's right.
I painted him the most lovely picture of a sunflower you have ever seen. I believe he still has it up on his wall.
Excerpt from The Memoirs of Dr Mandragora: From the Maudlin to the Macabre
