…When last we read about the horrific murder of yet another prostitute in London’s Whitechapel district, Chief Inspector Winston Wendall Wentworth, III was staring into the eyes of, as we will soon discover, not simply a worthy “opponent” but rather, an enigma in one Sister Mary Ephraim…
… Sister Mary Ephraim’s foot fell silent, her steadfast, upward gaze communicating far more than words alone – “yes, you heard me correctly, it is the English language we both speak, is it not Mr. Wentworth?”
Brows reluctantly creased to form a furrow, allowing self doubt to rapidly seed, a feeling foreign to the imposing police official, instinct now whispering warning, stature was not relegated to physical height.
“It is imperative I take our sister back to our convent for proper burial preparation, our Order is specific to funerary rites; seeing as you appear to have determined this as another “Ripper” victim, there is no reason for further delay. I’ve arranged seating on the tram to Bow and will hence take passage on the North London Railway straight away so time is of the essence Mr. Wentworth, do not hinder me further in fulfilling my duties and responsibilities, I answer to a far higher power than you.”
Mesmerized, as if one of the rabble of bystanders left loitering on the perimeter of the crime scene straining to catch a glimpse of something horrific, a tidbit to share and shock amongst friends and family, Chief Inspector Winston Wendall Wentworth, III stared down at the figure speaking orders to him; feeling a gear skip inside his brain, he realized he was literally unable to respond.
Who was she, this tiny woman telling him what to do, he helpless to utter a single syllable to put her in her place, to remind her who was in control (but are you Wentworth?)