Prologue: A Knock on the

Door in the Middle of the Night

The untimely deaths of Henry Harrow and Emily Bone proved no great shock too many – least of all themselves – although that was not how it was seen in the eyes on one Matron Marianne Throap.

She had been sitting – quite stiffly, might I add – in her office on the fourth floor, behind a mahogany desk and hidden under several layers of paperwork, when the door bell sounded, ringing through the entire home as if there was somebody who actually cared for its presser. But even so, with grudging effort, she pushed impatiently away from her work and left the office, muttering many curses to whomever decided to disturb her at such a late hour.

Outside in the main corridor, it averaged approximately twenty degrees less than her heated office. As she passed the children's dormitories (girls on the left, boys on the right), a wry smile replaced her grimace, at the thought of them all shivering in their beds.

You see, this was no ordinary shack cramped between two abandoned plain redbrick warehouse buildings on the fraying outskirts of London, in a dreary neighbourhood where if you went for a stroll after sunset, there was a ninety-seven precent chance you'd be stabbed and robbed of all possessions – in fact there was nothing ordinary about it at all. Edger Allan Poe Children's Orphanage for the Undisciplined and Undeniably Hopeless was a less than fine establishment run shabbily by Matron Throap, a less than wretched old spinster, with the compassion of a brick and the sensitivity of a gnarled root left in the frost. Her care stretched as far as her lowly wages, which was not far indeed, and probably the only reason she hadn't abandoned the job of Matron over the last thirty years, in fear of being thrust onto the streets like an old lonely hag.

By the time she'd reached the door, she had hoped that the late comer was frozen to the bone in the snow.

The Matron flung open the wooden door, "What do you want?" Her tone on voice was blunt and to the point, a hinted Scottish twang alienating her English accent.

"I apologise for disturbing you, Miss, but I bare rather bad news," Said the man in a sad voice. He was young and bland, with neatly cropped damp brown hair and plain brown eyes that held no depth or emotion, "My name is Officer Denrick Branstone," he flashed his badge, "And I'm afraid this evening we found two… bodies, in the Thames," He gulped.

Matron Throap grunted, looking irritated, "So? What's this all gota do with me and my orphanage, huh? I've got thing to do, paperwork to sort out, you know?"

Officer Branstone shuffled uncomfortably, avoiding her harsh glaze, "Well, they've been identified as, well, Miss Emily Bone and Mr Henry Harrow… Am I correct to say that this is where they lived?"

"Aye, you'd be correct in saying so," Throap nodded seriously, "But I ain't seen them since a few days ago, when they broke into me office and stole from me files cabinet!"

"I see," Officer Branstone answered robotically, cogs turning in his mind, "What did they steal, exactly?"

The Matron sighed, "I'll show you. Would you care for some tea, Officer?"

He nodded silently and stepped inside.