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First time turns into a group affair.

"Kidneys!"

The succulent morsels were uncovered with the theatric flare of the magician.

"Eggs!"

Again the flamboyant reveal accompanied by a slap to my hand as I attempted to filch a lonely urinary organ from the previously exposed dish.

"Toast!"

I was dumfounded, undone equally by both the cornucopian repast and by the exhilarating prestidigitation. I hung my head remorsefully, only to be reprieved by the softest peck of a sweet pair of lowland lips on my cheek.

"You're such a perfect cad sir and such a little boy. Eat, enjoy, bless you. Should I wake the Doctor?"

"Let him be Mrs. H, the world can bear him slumber a little longer yet."

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Arthur Seymour Sullivan was by nature a man with little consideration for gossip or notoriety. His talent and success had granted him a guiding position in Victorian society but his popularity as a composer amongst both high and low borne alike allowed for leeway in strictly personal peccadilloes. Being far less addiction riddled than say a Byron or Rossetti meant even the great moral prognosticator Charles Dickens found criticism difficult. Finding the great man sitting quite distracted in the bowels of my study was quite mystifying.

"My dear Arthur, how the devil are you?"

He rose, took my hand reasonably firmly but resumed his seat at once.

"You seem a bit wobbly old chap. Something amiss in the world of light opera?"

"Terrible tragedy H. Poor Braithwaite got killed on the way to the theater tonight. Chap was doing so terribly well too. Kicked the infernal needle for once and all and was back to top form."

"Really am so terribly sad to hear Arthur. Was it a robbery? I know he lived in Stepney and had to travel through Whitechapel twice daily. Not a good spot at all."

"No one seems to know much at all H. Would really appreciate it if you could take a look."

"Calm your self old man and give me as much of the facts as you can. No panache please, just facts, clean, concise and undiluted."

There in lay the rub. The facts, or at the least the assumptions were as thin as a whores underpinnings. Braithwaite had taken a hansom from Stepney to Commercial Street at around four that afternoon for an undisclosed destination and had remained incommunicado till found slain some two hours later. No information either helpful or distracting just bare bones.

"Where did they take the body and who is looking after the case?"

"I believe the body is being held at Saint Thomas's morgue and an Inspector Fred Abberline is in charge."

"Leave the matter in my hands please Arthur. I know Abberline, he's a good man and will let me poke my nose around quite peaceably."

"Thank you H. don't know where else to turn. Braithwaite was a special friend you see, want him done right by."

"Understand old chap. Soon as John gets back from his rounds we will get moving. Need the fellows medical skills, my hands are a little shaky still from a five percent episode. You toddle off back to the Savoy. Am sure you have a lot of work to do before curtain call."

"Gilbert is beside himself. Just keeps on and on about the possible effect on box office receipts and there's poor Braithers lying on a marble slab."

"Don't let the old fellow get to you Arthur. You know he is as soft as soap under that starched collar."

"Quite right H. your so right. He's all bluster and little real malice in reality. Will you let me know as soon as anything becomes evident?"

"You have my word on it Arthur, anything and everything."

"No scandal though H. Keep the poor boy out of the tabloids. Don't want his dirty washing spoiling a great artist's memory."

"Enough said Arthur. We all have our skeletons to keep closeted."

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John Hamish Watson still consistently took my breathe away.

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