Colts, Crinolines, and Conspiracies

(transcribed from notebook)
early January
I had been away from the Horta for some time on a surveillance case. it was pleasant to return to the snowy soot of Babbage, and chill of the morning air felt oddly comforting on my face as I walked up the street towards Miss Janus' house. While I had been in negotiation for office space within town, the hospitality she had shown me in giving me a room was a pleasant diversion to the day to day workings of the agency. Because of the hour, I entered the house through the housekeepers entrance in the basement, so as to not disturb the lady of the house. I headed up the back stairs to my room in the attic, and paused near the back door of Miss Janus' bedroom. What gave me pause was the smell that wafted out from the room. It was the smell of decay. Death. I slid the door open slowly, and drawing my pistol from underneath my coat slipped into the room. The room was unoccupied, but the bed told the tale. The coverlet was stained with sweat, and spotted with blood. The odor of slow death hung heavy there, and yet there was no one in the house. Something had happened while I was gone, and now I had to find out exactly what had happened.

I can't sleep.

The urchins are whispering about strange things, rats drained of blood, nighttime stalkers, dark figures who lurk in shadows.

I fear she has been taken. I fear she has been turned.

I know what I have to do.