Detecting suspects and divining truth
is what Guy has done since his youth
Making sense of all the facts
figuring out most murderous acts
The latest test of his detecting skill
is a most disturbing kind of kill
A headless body has been found
lying on the blood-soaked ground

The scene is rather grisly.
Hanging around on Fleet Street is risky.
A detective by nature, Urilla said a quick prayer,
then proceeded to look for clues and evidence.
Fitzroy's body lay lifeless, red blood ran pink in the rain.
He was a man six feet tall, dark and handsome, lived a modest life.
His tan shirt, grey pant covered in blood.
He never lived to see his lady friend's romantic surprise. He lay dead, headless.

The owner of the the Grand Royale Hotel was fuming
His business rival, John Creel, has been spreading rumours
sending his worried customers packing and leaving,
fearing the lies about a non-existing curse.
Only a few refused to believe the nonsense remained.
Roy Mackwill was grateful but if this continues,
his hotel business's reputation will be flushed into the drain
unless he decided quickly what to do

Anabel Lee,
she chose her name carefully.
Cut her hair, painted her face,
the never ending battle with identity.
Arriving in London,one dreary morning,
bareback and alone, she landed.
Her un-ladylike appearance subject to scorn.
Another chapter in her story was born.

Section One
Victoria is Queen in London Town.
The Empress rules it all with velvet hands.
‘Tis eighteen eighty eight, the city’s brown
with coal and cholera that vex the land.
But down on Fleet Street starts a tale of woe.
Her Highness will learn nothing ‘til too late.
For Secretary Fitzroy’s caught a blow
delivered of a monster’s razor hate.

It's late, yet none could fall asleep
while Mog the monster's free somewhere.
Mystery wraps, the demons weep,
and rain won't wash what has to scare.
No footprints, or bullets are found,
it's Mog for sure, again they face.
the bobbies desperate, they are drowned,
confusion seems would close this case.

Victoria is Queen in London Town.
The Empress rules it all with velvet hands.
‘Tis eighteen eighty eight, the city’s brown
with coal and cholera that vex the land.
But down on Fleet Street starts a tale of woe.
Her Highness will learn nothing ‘til too late.
For Secretary Fitzroy’s caught a blow
delivered of a monster’s razor hate.

The Victim
Secretary of Indian Affairs Alabaster Fitzroy was fifty eight years old, pole thin and over six feet tall. A man of fastidious character he yet often found himself in the seamier parts of London Town. He was something of a sexual deviant, though no one in the government was aware of this fact. He did his job extraordinarily well and seemingly had no enemies… neither did he have friends. He lived alone with a canary he took very good care of and drank sparingly. He was not wealthy and never carried more than a few pounds with him at a time.