On October the Second of 1923, at ten o'clock in the evening precisely, I was busily writing an article on my typewriter, occasionally glancing out the window as the heavy precipitation - rain, to be exact - pounded down on the cobblestone streets below. The newspaper had not requested that my piece was done for another week, but, well, I was a very efficient young woman with a lifestyle to uphold. In the 20's it was almost unheard of for a twenty-six-year-old woman to live on her own in a London townhouse, but I was not the average woman, and I did not much enjoy being told what to do.
I was not expecting any company that night. Why would I? I wrote in the news under an alias, so nobody knew that I, Andrea Banks being my real name, was the quality writer. When I did my articles, I went by the man's name of Matthew Green. Not even my employer knew that I was a woman.
I seem to be rambling quite a bit now, so I'll get on with it.
The knock at the door came as quite a surprise. It was rare for anyone to be out so late, especially in the rain, at this time of year. Cautiously, I grabbed my rifle and opened the door, finding a short man at the door.
"Andrea Banks, known in the East London Observer as Matthew Green?"
Needless to say, my warning signals were now going off. I pointed my gun at this stocky man with the handlebar mustache, who put his hands up in the air.
"I am not here to harm you, ma'am. I'm here to ask if you might be willing to assist the police in a new case. It is quite the mystery, and we need a person such as you to help us."
"What sort of case?"
"I trust you know of the Jack the Ripper cases nearly forty years ago?"
"I've heard of them, yes."
"They seem to be repeating themselves."
I lowered my gun a bit in shock. "What...?"
"A young prostitute by the name of Noela Grayson has been murdered in the same manner of those women. And we need someone such as yourself, who knows the backstreets, to help us catch the murderer before this can become history's rerun."
".... Where should I meet you?"