The Amelia Project - Episode 65 - Jack (1888)

Episode Date: June 9, 2023

"I come seeking Janus." This episode takes us to London during the Victorian period. A man named Carl Granton seeks out The Brotherhood of the Phoenix, but is he really just the humble cabbie he claims to be? It turns out he harbours a dark secret... This episode was written by Oystein Ulsberg Brager with sound design by Alexander Danner. It features Jonathan Sims, Alan Burgon, Julia C. Thorne, Jordan Cobb, Erin King, Hemi Yeroham, Benjamin Noble and Torgny G. Aanderaa. The episode is dedicated to Cliff Huizenga. Full credits on our website. Content warning: this episode contains mentions of mind control, murder, and altered mental states. Website: https://ameliapodcast.com  Transcripts: https://ameliapodcast.com/transcripts Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/ameliapodcast Donations: https://ameliapodcast.com/support Twitter: https://twitter.com/amelia_podcast Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ameliapodcast/ Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ameliapodcast Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Summer's here, and you can now get almost anything you need delivered with Uber Eats. What do we mean by almost? You can't get a well-groomed lawn delivered, but you can get chicken parmesan delivered. Sunshine? No. Some wine? Yes. Get almost, almost anything delivered with Uber Eats. Order now. Alcohol in select markets. See app for details.

Cold tapes. A gripping crime story that will chill you to the bone. You know, life on the base means, well, it's close to six months without light. That does things to people that study that he was doing to watch us and then set off us like mice around this special little experiment how many people are on this base 16 on this one someone amongst them is our killer experience cold tapes the murder mystery podcast game start your investigation where you get your is our killer. Experience Cold Tapes, the murder mystery podcast game. Start your investigation

where you get your podcasts. This episode is dedicated to Cliff Huizinga, who has been an Amelia patron for almost two and a half years and has even snuck onto the show occasionally. In episode 56, for example,

the interviewer's utterance will crack my skull and call me an omelette, was submitted by Cliff as part of a Patreon competition. And if you listened to the Amelia Audio Advent calendar, you'll have heard Cliff's cameo as helicopter pilot Bud. Thanks for all your support, Cliff. And now, on with the show. We must be coming up to Victorian times soon. I've always loved that period. Charles Dickens, Tale of Two Cities, A Christmas Carol, Nicholas Nickleby. I've read them all many times.

Nicholas Nickleby really wasn't as nice a chap as Dickens made him out to be. And Ebenezer Scrooge had an acerbic wit, quite the jokester. Used to have the crowd in stitches wherever he went. But that didn't fit Charles' story that well, so... You're suggesting these were real people? Are you sure you're not confusing

fiction and real life again? Um... Oh. Yes, I might be. Don't worry. You just tell the stories, and we'll try to separate fiction from fact as we go along. Right. Oh, I can tell you about one case, though, that I am confident did actually happen.

Who's the client? Oh, please say it's Queen Victoria. That would be so exciting. No, no, no one so fancy, did actually happen. Who's the client? Oh, please say it's Queen Victoria. That would be so exciting. No, no, no one so fancy, I'm afraid. No, this was a common London cabbie. Although at the end of the day, there was nothing common about him at all. Thank you. The Amelia Project by Philip Thorne and Øystein Ulsbeck-Braga with music and sound direction by Frederik Baden

and sound design by Alexander Danner. Episode 65. Jack. 1888. Come in. Ah, congratulations. Welcome to the... Have we met? I don't think so. Hmm. You look familiar. Anyhow, you found us. It certainly seems like I did. Oh, I mustn't forget. The code word.

I come seeking Janus. Yes. Sorry, it always sounds like something else. But yes, the two-faced god. The god of transitions. Good, good, good. Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Phoenix. This meeting isn't happening. Better that way for sure. If you're not serious about this, you may leave. Oh, I'm very serious indeed.

This is in fact the most serious I've ever been in my life. If you take one more step into this room, there's no way back. Good choice. A new life awaits. Thank Jove. You see, I have done something really extraordinarily dreadful. We'll get to all that. Please, have a seat.

Your name? Carl. Carl Granton. Thanks for seeing me. You name? Carl. Carl Granton. Thanks for seeing me. You're welcome, Mr. Granton. Call me Carl. How was your journey? Fine, although I don't see why I had to travel across London dressed as an old lady. Her secrecy is of the utmost importance.

Of course. I'm just not that used to wearing skirts. I had a hard time not stumbling. I had to pretend I was half-half and half at ten in the morning. Smart move. Thank you for inviting me into your home. No, I don't live here. No, no, no. This is just my office.

Then why can I see dirty plates and cutlery? Well, I work late. I get hungry. There is also loungewear in a heap on the floor. Yes. I often sleep at work. You have the sheet music to Home Sweet Home by John Howard Payne and Sir Henry Bishop lying on your table. Singing helps me think. About home? Would you like a cup of tea?

Call me crazy, but I've never cared that much for tea. You don't care for tea? Are you not an Englishman? Bitter just isn't my taste. I've been known to frequent the chocolate houses when I'm thirsty. Chocolate? So you're willing to pay through your nose, first simply to be let in, and then again for a sip of what looks like mud and smells like a flatulent dog?

I believe hot chocolate is a divine drink, fit for the gods in taste and smell. Not my gods, that's for sure. Besides, on the point of finances, I do tend to enter with shillings and leave with sovereigns. Huh. Gambling. There's always a game going on at White's. Most people who go into White's leave with less money than they entered with. That's normally how gambling works.

Every game has to have a winner. And that winner is you. I don't mean to boast about my merits, but I have yet to enter a game of cards I cannot win. You have an ambitious belief in your own luck. Luck has nothing to do with it. Take my last game as an example. Just over a month ago, I played against a man at White's. He and I got through 13 rounds of draw poker, and I won every single one. Poor fellow. I emptied his pockets that night

and more. He had to borrow money to pay me. Poor sod. Blimey. What's your secret? Or perhaps you'd rather not tell me? I might as well. You couldn't repeat it anyway. No? No. I could read his face. He had the tiniest twitch at the mouth when he had good cards, but twitched the other side of his mouth when his cards were bad. Interesting. Well, I wouldn't suggest we play then. I'm sure you could see right through me. I whistle away, away, my heart's on fire when I'm doing well, and Brahms' tragic overture when I'm doing badly. So, if you're not a chocolate drinker, then I don't suppose any will be on the menu.

No, I've never tried a hot chocolate, and I swear to Jove, I never will. Chocolate drinkers with their brown, stained hands. Yuck! It doesn't have to spell. I'll stick to Verve Clicquot, thank you very much. So it isn't the price you object to. You just want to be half rats. I will pay good money for anything that sparkles in the glass and then continues to sparkle in my head. So, champagne? Only if I decide to help you.

I'll wait patiently. Though with what happened to you in Afghanistan, I don't understand how you can afford such expensive habits. Sorry? My apologies. I didn't mean to pry. How on earth did you know about Afghanistan? Never mind that.

We're here to talk about my misfortune, not yours. Yes. Rather. But when we get to the champagne, do let me know if you need help pouring. Sorry. Go ahead. Um, so what is it you've done that's so dreadful? I seem to have murdered five people.

What? Why? I didn't mean to. Stuff me like a sausage. How do you murder someone without meaning to? Honestly, I don't know. You don't know? No, at the time I was asleep. Please explain.

It was the first of September and I woke up feeling rather alright. The sun was shining through my window and the birds were singing. It felt like it was going to be such a wonderful day. I blink and I rub my eyes and then I notice something on my hands. These dark spots all over my skin. Chocolate stains, was it? No. I realized my hands are covered in blood. Were you hurt? Not a scratch. The blood couldn't have been mine. It might have been a nosebleed. There was no blood under my nose. I hurried into the bath and washed my hands. Then I tried to remember what I'd done the night before. Had you been smothering a parrot? I've heard too much absinthe

can cause blackouts. I don't drink absinthe, and I hadn't been in a fight or anything like that. I'd been at home and playing the violin. Excuse me, you play the violin? Surely that is not the most shocking element of my tale No, sorry, please do continue I had a glass of milk, then I went to bed How curious It could have been a prank Someone pouring pig's blood in your hands I considered that, but I can't imagine anyone who would want to pull such a nasty trick on me

I don't really have that many friends Enemies, then? I have none of those either I pay my rent on time Anyone who would want to pull such a nasty trick on me. I don't really have that many friends. Enemies, then? I have none of those either. I pay my rent on time. I keep to myself. Unhappy customers. What's your profession?

Nowadays I work as a cabbie. You sound a bit posh for a cabbie. There's upbringing and then there's circumstances. What can I say? Life led me here. And I don't mind. I get to ride around London. I've got my own handsome and an old horse.

And only happy customers? I've been angry at many a cabbie. They always seem to take the longest possible route just to up the fare. I know every street in London and I take pride in knowing the fastest way to get from any point of departure to any point of arrival. Well, then, what about the man you beat in draw poker? I'm sure he would have been quite annoyed with you. Enough to sneak into my house and pour pig's blood on my hands. Well, you know, I...

Yes, well, I suppose it is a rather extreme form of vengeance. Besides, if he wanted his money back, robbing me would have made more sense. So, is that it? You woke up once with bloody hands and can't remember what happened? And for some reason you've drawn the conclusion you've killed a number of people? Five. And that wasn't the end of it.

What? What happened? I proceeded to go about my business as normal. But my first customer was this church bell who wouldn't stop talking. She went on and on about the awful news she'd read about in the paper. There's been a murder, she said. A truly horrible one. An Arlott's been found mutilated down Buck's Row. Buck's Row?

You probably heard about it. Yes. Go on. I try to think nothing of it. I attempt to convince myself that the incident this morning didn't happen, that it was only a bad dream. But then a week later, the same thing happens again. Exactly the same. I wake up and all my clothes are soaked with blood.

My old deer stalker is lying next to my bed, though I can't remember putting it there. And the hat's got blood on it too. If my memory serves, this incident must have corresponded with the second Whitechapel murder. It did. Then comes the 1st of October. Another two women are murdered. Prostitutes like the first two. Imagine, two in one night, and again I wake up fully dressed, covered in blood.

And you can't remember anything from these nights? I cannot. No, but you said five. That's only four. Have you read the papers today? It happened again? I only just managed to scrub off the blood before I had to leave to get here on time. Now, this one is even more gruesome than the rest, they say. Well, then why come to us now? Not before.

I only found out about you a few days ago. Plus, the peelers have just started asking questions around my neighbourhood. I'm expecting a knock on the door any day now, and then I'll be grinning at the daisy roots before you know it. But the police would have no proof tying you to the murders. I was asleep when I did it. I could have left behind any number of clues. It's only a matter of time before the peelers find something that points in my direction. Now, first of all, we don't know it was you who did it. Then where did the blood come

from? Somebody might be trying to frame you. Every one of these mornings there has been mud on the wheels of my handsome and I clean my handsome every night when I come home. But the mud could be from anywhere. It could be, but it wasn't. It was from Whitechapel. Oh, come on now, how do you know? I know the colour and smell of every type of mud in London. That's impressive. Well, maybe somebody borrowed your handsome whilst you were asleep. My horse won't listen to anyone but me.

And before you suggest they had their own horse, her hooves were covered in exactly the same mud as the wheels. Are you sure it was blood, though? It could have been some sort of paint. I know it was blood. How? I tested it. You tested it?

You might not believe this, but in my spare time, I dabble in chemistry. Chemistry? I wasn't always a cabbie. I apprenticed at an apothecary. But I fell out with the chemist. He was a quack and I told him so. Upon which he threw me out and made sure everyone knew I wasn't fit for the trade. I couldn't get another apprenticeship if I begged for it.

But you haven't given up on your dream of working at an apothecary? It is not the apothecary work I am interested in. It's the science. I have found a reagent which is precipitated by hemoglobin and by nothing else. Come again? I have discovered a reagent which is precipitated by... Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.

I'm not going to get it even if you repeat it a hundred times. Suffice to say, I can prove if something is blood or not. I see. Well, it might still not have been you. There's no murder weapon. I found my old surgical knife under the bed. Covered in blood. Fine, I give up. You're Jack the Ripper.

I'm sorry. Now you Fine, I give up. You're Jack the Ripper. I'm sorry. Now you know why I'm here. I need a new identity. I don't want to be a murderer. Yes, but how is a new identity going to help? Don't you craft new lives? We do, yes, but I can only work with what I've got. And in your case, I can't see how giving you a new name and a new profession will stop you from brutally murdering prostitutes. But... Say we make you a postman in Trowbridge.

Chances are you'll wake up again, caked in blood, reading about gruesome murders in the local paper. So, you can't help me. I can't live with this, you know. I don't know what else to do. If I am going to keep killing, you know. I don't know what else to do. If I am going to keep killing, then I'd better just off myself.

The sooner I am gone, the better. If I give myself up to the peelers, they'll have me dancing upon nothing by the end of the month, I'm sure. No, no, no. No need to go to such extremes. Let us first try to figure out what's really going on. If we can solve that mystery, then perhaps we can do something about it. You think that's possible? Ha! For the Brotherhood of the Phoenix, nothing is impossible. The game is afoot.

Fine. Then how do we go about it? I have a theory. We seem to be faced with some kind of sleepwalking. Yes, that seems the most likely option. The question is, what's causing it? Do you bear any resentment to women at all? Prostitutes? None at all.

How's your relationship with your mother? She's passed away, poor thing. She was a lovely woman. So you're not living out a revenge fantasy, and it's not a subconscious Oedipal complex. Oedipal complex? As in Oedipus, King of Thebes? Yes, it's just a theory my friend Sigmund is working on. No, no, I think I need to know more about you. What do you do when you're not riding a cab or gambling in a chocolate house? Apart from the chocolate houses, I don't really attend the social circle. Oh? Why not?

People don't like that I know so much about them. What do you mean? I'll show you. I'm sorry about your loss. We're the Italians, close friends of yours, and... What? How is the business going without your strongmen at hand? Giovanni and Santo. I'm sorry if I upset you.

I just needed to prove my point. When people learn I can do that, they'd rather not have me around. But how did you know about Giovanni and Santo? The same way I knew that you'd been to Afghanistan. I looked at you. You ride me like a pony. What did you see? The same way I knew that you'd been to Afghanistan. I looked at you. Rightly like a pony. What did you see?

I'll have to think about it to explain that. Observation with me is second nature, you see, from long habit. The train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of any steps in between. Really? There were steps like that, though. The train of reasoning ran, here is a gentleman who has just come from the tropics, Really? Why was Clearly in Afghanistan. He is not a military man, though, for he doesn't stand like one. So why was he in Afghanistan? Yes, why was I?

To help a general disappear. You even know it's a general? That is a guess, really. It could have been a diplomat of some sort, but that would not have brought you so close to the front lines. It was not a lower ranking officer, for they could not have afforded your services. Hence, it was most likely a general. Blimey! And my two colleagues? From your build and thin fingers, it is easy to see that you are not the fighting type. I can imagine making people disappear is a tough business, where you can get into all sorts of trouble, plus there will be the

odd corpse to carry around to replace the person who is about to live on, best to employ some henchmen. There are three coat hangers in the hallway, but only one with a coat on it, yet marks on the floor from two sets of heavy boots, not yours, the boots were of an Italian make, only really popular with Italians and only available on the continent. You clearly lost two men in a recent disappearance that went wrong. I'm sorry for your loss. Yes. Thank you. That was very impressive.

Oh, I don't know about that. Some people are good at falconry or racquetball. I am good at this. No, no, no. Anyone can improve their skills or racquetball. I am good at this. No, no, no. Anyone can improve their skills at racquetball with enough practice. But no normal person would be able to do what you just did. I guess I've never been quite normal. I can see why people don't like being around you.

It must get lonely. It's fine by me. I prefer my own company. My own studies. So you just stay at your lodgings? I like to go to the theatre. I enjoy being entertained. Oh, you do? What do you like to see?

Operas, maybe? Ahem. Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. I will attend the opera, yes, and I adore a good violin recital, Opera, yes. And I adore a good violin recital, but I must admit I have a particular interest in conjurers and magicians.

Magicians, you say? I like figuring out how their tricks are done. Using your skills of deduction? Yes. I see. Oh dear. Oh no. Did you by any chance go and see any hypnotists lately? As a matter of fact, I did. Three weeks ago or so, I went to the Egyptian Hall at Piccadilly to see a hypnotist named the magnificent Eugene Bechtraff.

And he brought you on stage. How did you know? Do you also have powers of deduction? I was there. I thought I'd seen you before. Tell me what happened. If you were there, you saw what happened. Why did you volunteer to go on stage? I was curious what he did to the people being hypnotized. What happened behind that screen? Yes, the screen. What did happen? I remember him whispering something in my ear, but for the life of me, I cannot remember what.

Then the next thing I know, I am standing in the middle of the stage and everyone is laughing at me. To this day, I do not know what I did. He had you clucked like a chicken. He must be good. I have no idea how he did that. Normally I can work it all out. I'm so sorry, Carl. There was no way we could know this would happen. What are you talking about? There is no Eugene Bechterew.

I'm sorry? About a month ago, a man approached us desperate to escape. He had accrued large gambling debts. Debts that would ruin many lives, not just his own. His creditors threatened to go after anyone he cared about to get their money. This man, he had had problems with gambling before. It ended his first marriage, estranged him from his family. But for a few years, he'd had his habit under control. Things were looking up.

He had a lovely fiancée, a job. Then suddenly, he lost control again. And although I don't know for certain, I assume the moment he slipped back into his old habits and started the fateful downward spiral must have happened at a certain chocolate house. This is a joke, surely. Don't sell me a dog. I am not. We took on his case.

He seemed like such a lost soul, yet he had such a striking personality. Bright, intense eyes, and a most fascinating subject of interest for his pastime. Let me guess. Hypnotism. Hypnotism. I mean, he had never pursued it professionally, but in his new life, he'd like to give it a go as a vocation. So you set him up as the magnificent Eugene Bektarev. He named himself after the famous hypnotists Eugene Azam and Vladimir Bektarev.

I normally never disclose information about past clients, but under the circumstances... So you are suggesting this gentleman hypnotized me into killing these women as revenge for leading him back to gambling? He got a whole new life out of it, one in which he got to pursue his dream, no less. Well, I suppose the mind of a vengeful person doesn't quite work like yours or mine. But

there is also the matter of everything he lost. When we faked his death, he had to leave behind his new fiancée, whom he loved very dearly. I do remember he was very upset about that. Why didn't he hypnotize me there and then? At White's? That was before everything went out of control. I mean before the game. To win. Ah, well, I mean, that was too noisy. Too many people watching.

Yes, you see, in preparing for the stage show, I learned that he needs the most particular of circumstances to be able to hypnotize Hence the scream I can't believe this It is true I don't doubt that you had such a client But Eugene Bektarev is not the same person that I played draw poker with at White's just over a month ago Oh? Why are you so certain?

I saw them both up close I would have recognized him My perception and memory is second to none. I have already proven this to you. I always remember a face. Oh, but you wouldn't remember this one. Why not? My colleague. He is a surgeon. He is a master at changing faces.

A surgeon? No, I saw this man up close. There was no sign of any sort of operation. You wouldn't have seen any. We're the best in the business. A master at changing faces. After he was done with our client, no one could have recognised him. The magnificent Eugene Bektarev

appeared with a completely new visage. I'll be damned. So, what do we do? Can we find him? Get him to reverse what he's done to me? I'm afraid that's impossible. You said for the Brotherhood of the Phoenix, nothing is impossible. I realise he's probably miles away, perhaps even in another country. And even if we could find him, he wouldn't voluntarily reverse what he's done. I don't think he would have, no. But we can threaten him. That won't work. Why wouldn't threatening him work? I'm not one for unnecessary violence, but if the

situation calls for it... Well, I don't have any henchmen anymore. I'm sorry about your loss, but we can find a new henchman, or actually blast the henchman. I'm a decent boxer. I'm sorry about your loss, but we can find a new henchman or actually blast the henchman. I'm a decent boxer. I'll punch him up myself. Challenge him to a fight. Threatening him won't work. Why not? He's dead. What?

The show at the Egyptian Hall went beyond all expectations. Sold out several nights in a row. Bektarev made a fortune. But, though we had provided him with a new identity, we hadn't managed to remove the old one. What do you mean? Well,

once he got his share of the takings, he drank himself up the pole and proceeded to gamble away the whole lot. Lost more than he had earned. Proceeded to shake a flannan and was knocked dead by some half-hour gentleman. That might not be true. He could have faked his death again. Oh, no man fakes his death in this city without me knowing about it.

So I'm screwed, then. I will have to go on forever killing poor nightflowers who have done nothing to me. You might as well hang me here and now. Now, now, come on, now, no. We need to get you a hypnotherapist. You think this can be reversed by someone else? Only by an exceptionally good hypnotherapist. Yes, we need the very best. Luckily, I may just happen to know the right person. Who?

I'll write to my friend Sigmund right this minute. We'll see if he's in London any time soon. Even if he hasn't planned a trip, I'm sure a case like yours will interest him enough to make him change his schedule. What happens until he arrives? It could still take weeks and I might commit more murders. We'll lock you up. Yes, I suppose that is the only way. Once all that is out of the way, you can go straight back to your old life, as if nothing ever happened. I don't think we need to bother with a new identity, do we?

Not bother? The whole city of London is looking for the Whitechapel murderer. Even if I stop killing now, five murders have already been committed. That's true. Then there's the question of salvation. Salvation? I need to cleanse myself of these deeds. The guilt is killing me. But if I got a fresh start, a new life, if I could only redeem myself somehow,

but there is no way to do that, is there? Hmm, I shall have to think. Tick, tock, pick a lock, kiss a horse at tea time. Suck me like an egg. I think I've got it. Yes? What if you could counteract your accidental evil deeds with conscious good ones? What do you mean?

What if you could do that to such a measure that not only would you achieve balance, you would end up with a surplus of good deeds? How do you see that happening? How do I counteract five gruesome murders? What kind of identity would that be where I could exact that measure of good? What if you came back? Yes. As? Yes.

A detective. A peeler? I had something rather different in mind. Something new. What? A consulting new. What? A consulting detective. What's that? Well, it would be a person who aids the police or anyone who needs it in solving a particularly difficult crime. A person who would use their intelligence to see connections that are missed by others.

It would be someone with an uncanny ability for deduction. Someone like you. A consulting detective. others. It would be someone with an uncanny ability for deduction. Someone like you. A consulting detective. As a detective, I reckon you would be able to look at all the facts and deduce the only trajectory that could possibly lead to that very outcome.

You could use your background in chemistry to aid your investigation. And your knowledge of the mud in London, for that matter. I know a thing or two more than that, which might astound some people. My knowledge in certain areas is... I don't like to toot my own horn, but it's encyclopedic. You might just start a revolution in forensic science. And this will redeem me, you think?

In your new profession, you will be solving crimes and putting criminals behind bars. Through that work, you will be solving crimes and putting criminals behind bars. Through that work, you will be saving lives. Many more lives than the ones you have unwillingly taken. And this will make the gods look down upon me less harshly when the day comes? I should think so. Then I'm all dedicated to your plan. You like it?

I think it's bang up to the elephant. It excites me. Greatly, even. Oh, goody. So when can we begin my transformation? I suppose this face surgeon of yours should do some work on me. Hold on. First we need to establish how you're going to pay. I can't. You can't? No, I haven't got any money. I'm just a cabbie. Then why on earth did you come here? Out of desperation. I'm just a cabbie. Then why on earth did you come here? Out of desperation.

Though once I came inside, I knew you'd take my case. How? Oh, of course. Deduction. You are living out of your office. You just lost half your team. You need my business, any business, to get back on your feet. You are too good.

So what do you propose? Well, as a consulting detective, I'll need some sort of headquarters. How about here? Here? We can go halves on the rent. These digs aren't too bad, and with your expensive champagne habit, you need someone to share the rent with. Well, I guess 221B Baker Street is a decent enough address for a consulting detective. Besides, you could do with a front for the Brotherhood of the Phoenix. And what better front than being the trusty companion of a new master detective? Excuse me, are you proposing that I become your companion? Only as a front, you see, and it might turn out to be quite fun.

You can help me with my cases, then I consult on your disappearances. Well, this is quite the surprise. First you come in here desperately begging for my help, now you're asking me to partner up. Well, what do you say? I suppose some additional company would be nice. The disappearance business can get rather lonely. Now, please don't misunderstand.

I don't mean to take the place of your friend. In fact, I'd rather look forward to meeting him. Yes, I'm sure the two of you would have a lot to talk about. Medicine and science and whatnot. Great. I think we've settled on something. Huh. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope.

I always smoke ships myself. That's good enough. Let me see, what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? Confess? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together. Ha! Interesting idea. Yes, well, let's see. Oh, I keep a bullpup and a skunk, and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken.

Afghanistan? Afghanistan, Egypt, the Americas, all over Europe. My nerves have been shaken in so many places I struggle to keep track. I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present. Do you include violin playing in your category of rows? Well, that depends on the player. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods.

A badly played one... Oh, that's alright. So, who are you? Jameson? Masterson? Richardson? What? Watson. That's much better. Sorry, you need a new name if you are to be my companion.

Now, hold on a minute. I'm the one who gives people new identities. Right now it's me. People will be coming in and out of here all day. I'll need to call you something. Watson is simple, to the point. I like it. You shall be John Watson, and I shall be... Sherlock. That is an uncommon name. Are you naming me after... Alfred Sherlock. Yes, the violinist.

Of course. And your surname will be Holmes, after Oliver Wendell Holmes, the physician. Sherlock. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. He fits me. Like a tailor-made jacket. We haven't figured out how to kill you, though.

Oh, a bout of yellow fever. Oh, that's good. Yes, the bleeding from the eyes and mouth looks terrifying. Nobody would take a second look at your face. Which makes it very easy to find a replacement corpse. Excellent. Nobody knew me that well anyway.

I'll organise for the corpse to appear at your lodgings tomorrow morning. Now, we can't rest on our laurels. We've got to change me into this homeless character. I should probably start my studies as soon as possible. I think anatomy, perhaps, and criminology.

Well, my friend can teach you anatomy. But before we start all that, I would like to offer you a toast. Finally. The champagne. I've been looking forward to this. Yes, me too. Here we are. So, you know, with your extraordinary powers, I wouldn't be surprised if you were going to be rather famous. Perhaps I should serve as your chronicler, if time permits. You know, my friend A.C. Doyle could proofread.

He could even help us get the stories published. That is a great idea. Extra income. Yes. Maybe I should ask him if he'd be willing to publish under his name. Keeping you out of the limelight, even better. You know, I think you and I will get along just fine.

I think so too. Now what should we toast to? The way you've helped me out of this conundrum with such speed and elegance makes me think we should toast to hard work, maybe. Or to finding unlikely solutions. Ah, it was nothing. No, to me, the interview process is rather like your process of deduction, you see. It doesn't seem complicated.

Instead, it all feels rather, um, rather... Elementary. Yes, indeed. Elementary. Then we'll toast to that. Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary, Detective Holmes. Stay tuned for the epilogue, but first, the credits. This episode was dedicated to Cliff Huizinga and featured alan bergen as the interviewer jonathan sims as carl granton and julia c thorn as alvina

the episode was written by eustine ulspich braga with story and audio editing by philip thorn sound design by alexander danner and music by fred Frederick Barden. The episode was directed by Einstein Braga and Philip Thorne, production assistance by Marti Parzival, and graphic design by Anders Pedersen. Thank you so much to all our patrons, without whose support none of this would be possible. And a shout-out to our super

patrons, that's Celeste Joes, Heat312, Rodney Dulleghi, Jem Fiddick, Orban Assant, Amelian Allison, Stephanie Weitenhiller, Raphael Eduardo Vifas-Varastaki, Ashlyn Brand, Alison Thro, Thank you. To become a patron, go to ameliapodcast.com and you can also find us on Twitter, Tumblr and Instagram. And now, the epilogue. Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary, Detective Holmes.

Wow. Wow, indeed. Jack the Ripper and Sherlock Holmes in the same story? Well, if the Americans buy this, I've lost my faith in Uncle Sam forever. Cole, come with me. What? Just come. Hang on.

Okay. I think we're out of earshot and out of view. Why did we leave them? Do you remember Professor Smith Holmes at the Academy? Of course. One of the best lecturers MI5 has ever seen. I served as a prefect for a while, so I spent a lot of time with him.

One night, I had to call at his quarters rather late to deliver some papers. He invited me in, offered me wine. I sat down, we talked. He was... rather inebriated. Why are you telling me this? He told me and made me promise to never tell anyone that his great-grandfather was Sherlock Holmes. What? He was lamenting how everyone was under the impression that the great Mr. Holmes had been a character in a story and

not a real man with a significant impact on the history of investigation. He was drunk. I mean, he was having you on, obviously. Was he? I thought so at the time, but... with what we've just heard... Well, if Sherlock Holmes was real, why keep that a secret? Professor Smith Holmes said that late in life his great-grandfather had gone to extreme lengths

to remove all traces that could prove who he actually was. That Sherlock Holmes had existed for real. He took a new identity as a retired weaver or something. Apparently there was some dark secret in his past that led him to this drastic measure. One that he didn't even tell his children about. Well, if he really was Jack the Ripper, he wouldn't want that to come out. Exactly. And if, in addition to that, Holmes was co-running the Victorian version of the Amelia Project... The Brotherhood of the Phoenix.

Holmes would easily have known way too much about them and there would be a risk of exposure. Perhaps this interviewer guy, Watson, made Sherlock erase himself from history to ensure the secrecy of the organisation. They might even have forced Holmes to do it, threatening to expose that he was the Ripper. From the surgeon's story, they seem quite chummy, though. Holmes might have simply offered to do it out of loyalty. I suppose. Still, all this is hearsay. There's no proof.

But there was. What? Professor Smith Holmes showed me an old telegram. Out of context, it didn't really mean much. What did it say? I don't remember verbatim, but something along these lines. I concur. Stop. Better publish in my name. Stop.

Will keep secret. Signed, A.C.D. And yet, despite all these stories and even proof, we're not one step closer to any useful information about the Amelia Project, are we? Who are they? What do they want? What's their endgame? Well, let's crawl back and listen. Maybe we'll find out. Maybe.