Prologue

On a brisk autumn evening in the fashionable district of Mayfair, the Georgian loveliness of Upper Brook Street was marred by an unsightly swarm of police-men in and around the stately end terrace. Outside, passers-by gawked and chattered, while constables urged them on their way.

Inside, the house was eerie in its silence, the family and servants having been chased into the morning room. Three people remained in the expansive ground-floor drawing-room: a small, nattily-dressed man whose dark eyes darted impatiently about the room; a middle-aged constable who was trying very hard not to fall asleep on his feet; and a hirsute Italian that sat cross-legged in the middle of the bloodstained carpet, eyes closed, exactly as he had been sitting for the past hour.

The man on the floor stirred. "Inspector Lestrade!" he snapped, his voice unpleasant and gravelly. His eyes caught the waning light as he rose and turned, the pupils flashing in a fashion more appropriate to a cat than a man.

Lestrade elbowed the constable awake. "You've got something?" Finally?

"Yes. I have no doubt that the murderer is none other than young Mr. Telesca."

"Wrong!" snapped a voice from across the room, and where before there had only been a patch of carpet and an open window there now stood a tall man in a long coat, his face muffled by a scarf and a hawk-nosed masquerade mask. Dark blue cloth had been sewn into the eye-holes, but the tilt of his head still gave the impression of intense disapproval.

The Italian sputtered. "Wrong? What the devil do you mean, wrong? Who do you think you are, barging into a crime scene like this? Do you know who I am?"

The man in the mask bowed. "I am Sir Mise, occasional consultant to the police force, and you are Mr. Ettore Catanzaro, Post-Cognitive Investigator on call to the Royal house. What I mean is that you are mistaken in your conclusions. Mr. Wishnov was not killed by his daughter's fiancé."

When the official policemen made no move to arrest the interloper, Catanzaro puffed out his chest and sneered. "And I suppose you know who did kill him, Mr. Mise?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not," Mise admitted. Before Catanzaro had a chance to be too pleased with himself, he continued, "Yet. However, dragging in Mr. Telesca simply because you do not have a better match for the cloaked figure in your vision would not do, as by the time his innocence had been confirmed by a Reader, the real murderer would be long gone, and your reputation would be called into question."

There was nearly an audible pop as Catanzaro's mouth snapped shut. He glowered in silence, his beady eyes following Mise as the masked man made a lazy inspection of the room. Curiously, the large bloodstain held his interest only for a moment, whereas he became much absorbed in the carpet by the dining-room door, even going so far as to crouch down and whip out a lens to inspect it.

Catanzaro could only take so much. "Pah! This is intolerable. Inspector, I do hope you're not usually in the business of letting masked men saunter into your crime scenes and denounce your theories without the slightest bit of evidence."

"He isn't," Mise answered for Lestrade. "But he makes an exception for me. I'm usually right."

"Stuff and nonsense! The man in my vision may have been cloaked, but I am certain that it is Mr. Telesca, and I needn't stand for any of your foolishness!"

"The person in your vision, they wore one of Mr. Telesca's suits, yes?"

"Well, yes!"

"And had coarse brown hair, much like Mr. Telesca's, yes?"

"Of course!"

"And were the appropriate height?"

"Yes!"

"And Mr. Telesca is in the habit of attaching slabs of wood to his shoes, I suppose?"

"Ye- what?"

Mise pointed one long, leather-clad finger at the carpet he had just finished inspecting. "That, my dear fellow, obscured amidst the Oriental pattern of this rug, is a print in blood of a curiously rectangular mark, with slivers of wood caught in the fibres around it. I imagine you didn't look too closely at the feet in your vision, which is what the murderer was counting on when they risked adding these extra inches to their height. No, I think you should be on the lookout for a woman, somewhere within or just below five-foot six, a fairly slender one to masquerade as Telesca, with blonde hair."

"A blonde-haired woman, Mister Mise?" asked Lestrade, who had so far been very successful in pretending he wasn't greatly amused by this whole exchange.

Mise indicated the main bloodstain. "There are a number of hairs among the carpet fibre, some undoubtedly belonging to various members of the household, but there is a particularly large number of long, fine blonde strands right about where Wishnov's hand would have fallen. If I remember the household correctly, that would put main suspicion upon the new lady's-maid and the Wishnov girl's friend, but seeing as both said hairs and the wood fibres bear traces of a black wax similar to that used in cleaning stoves, I would follow up the maid first. Check the boiler for signs of a wig and two small slabs of wood, two or three inches thick. The maid's shoes may possibly have nail-holes in the heels. Don't be surprised if you find the rest of the evidence stuffed in Mr. Telesca's room."

"Williams, go make sure the maid's still with the family," Lestrade instructed the Constable.

"Yes, sir!"

Catanzaro's mouth opened, attempting to form around some word or another, then shut again when none came. He repeated this process several times, succeeding in a remarkably good impression of a surprised catfish, before finally closing both his mouth and eyes in focus. When his eyes opened again, they were quite round. "Why, you... that's... I mean, that's a very plausible story as well, mister - what was it?"

"Mise. Sir Mise."

"Yes, Mister Mise. I will, of course, have to take Mr. Telesca into custody as well, just in case, but-"

"Of course. Just so long as the real murderer is apprehended. I believe my work is done here, and I shall take my leave - through the front door, this time."

Lestrade followed him out, waiting until the door had closed before he let his disbelief show through. "Did I just watch you correct a Post-cognitive?"

"Yes, you did."

"We don't pay you enough."

"No, you don't."

Based on stories and characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle

Beta-read by Adidasandpie

Fair Warning: I only have a vague idea of where I'm going with this story, so updates will be sporadic and/or nonexistent until I discover the main plot.