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The aftermath of the incident passed for me in a blur of pain and painkillers. I was rather out of it when help found us; our car having swerved off the road several miles away from the village when a passing farmhand spotted us on his way to work. He drove us the the farmhouse where a hysterical Del managed to at least convey that we really, really needed the police.

A country doctor, lovely chap that he was, saw to my face. The wickedly sharp blade had cut me from just below my left eye in a diagonal slash across my muzzle. While he was a good sort, he was unable to stop it forming that singular scar that gave me quite the reputation. It has always been a rather slender little thing, barely noticeable for the most part. But where it met my lips it caused a near perfect diamond shape where the skin refused to heal correctly.

I have never been a vain woman, and in the days that followed I had to be all the stronger for Del. She was quite undone by everything that happened. This caused her first breakdown and her longest period of convalescence. I would be a liar to say that the sight of the ugly wound, unhealed and clotted with blood and sutures didn't make me have my own little collapse the first time I saw it. Time, the great healer that it is, has helped me and my scar come to a nice living arrangement. However Del never approved of my habit of blowing smoke out of the gap in my lips. My 'Blowhole' she used to call it.

What I do remember of the final chapter in this adventure was that it was all rather a damp squib. Pulp novels and movies would have you believe that we would be lauded as heroines for destroying this ghastly cult. But obviously reality is never quite as neat or likely to dispense medals or throw ticker-tape parades.

First we spoke to some local policemen, then some rather more senior policemen. I initially tried to go with a more believable story; that we had been the victims of a cruel attempted assault by bohemian elements at a party. Obviously when the policemen went to check they could find all the more ghastly evidence and go from there. However, poor Del told them the whole truth, as she understood it. Warts and all. In the end, I had to support her.

I'm sure that they thought us mad at first. But soon the policemen sent to the village and the Marcell house came back with pale, anxious faces and whispered tales for their superiors.

Next we spoke to some rather nasty detectives and doctors. I am privately sure that all the talking was what aggravated my wound enough to make it heal oddly. We then spoke to some men from the army. And finally we were forced to tell our sorry tale to some men that wore black suits and inscrutable expressions. Neither of the men were introduced to us. They simply came in, sat, and one of the doctors made us repeat ourselves for the umpteenth time. When we were done they got up and left.

The penultimate visitor was the strangest. Del, who by this time was very much worse for wear, was sleeping in the small house we were being kept in. We were not under arrest, per say, but we were definitely not being allowed to tour the town either. I was sat downstairs, sipping tea and wincing when an ancient Rabbi in a bathchair was wheeled in without preamble or comment. The young man that had been pushing him asked me to repeat my tale. I was rather taken aback, but complied. The young man listened and translated into Polish for the elderly man. He nodded and listened, wincing and grimacing. He shifted his stick-thin body beneath the blanket at the description of the monster, and said something that his companion did not translate for my benefit.

When I was done he gestured for me to come closer. He took one of my paws in both of his, and looked up at me with his cloudy brown eyes. With a soft snort he leaned back in his chairs and smiled before his helper wheeled him away. And that, apparently was that. I could still feel the rather dry heat of his bony paws around my fingers for quite some time.

Finally it was over.

Del and I were lead into the dining room where a bulldog was sat, fiddling with some documents. Without hesitation or waiting for us to take a seat he began to talk.

"Ladies, let me please inform you of the facts," he placed particular emphasis on the last word. "You have both been cruelly assaulted by an anarchist group that was part of a cell operating out of the small village of Greycap." He took a deep breath and glared at us both. "This group was wiped out when a stockpile of mustard gas and explosives they had built up in the Marcell house detonated on the night of the attack. We believe that the gas had been leaking for some time causing psychotic behaviour in the members of the group, as well as blisters and boils and other physical ailments."

"Look here," I said, mumbling the words a little because of my bandaged muzzle. "I know what we saw and it wasn't..."

At this the bulldog slammed a fist heavily on the table, causing me to wince and Del to cry out. "We believe that the gas had been leaking for some time causing psychotic behaviour in the members of the group, as well as blisters and boils and other physical ailments" he repeated. Slowly, and deliberately. He looked us both in the eye one after the other and continued. "Exposure to this gas may have also caused some hallucinations in the pair of you, leading to mild delusions. These were fed by the wild tales of the anarchists until you imagined the monster you saw."

I was about to argue again when I saw the look in his eyes. I gritted my teeth and held my tongue. Under the table, Del took my paw and I gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"The group has been taken into custody," the man added. He cleared his throat and forced a smile. "And that's the end of it. On behalf of his majesty's government, please accept this reward for your cooperation." he held out a slip of paper. I went to take it and he pulled back slightly. "For your cooperation...you understand?" I gave a curt nod and he handed it over. The number on it was...large. Large enough that any immediate trouble my sister and I were in was, if not cured, then at least postponed for the time being.

Del and I goggled at the cheque for a moment as the government man stood, adjusting his tie and putting his hat back on. "Your car is outside and you are both free to go," he said, with an air I took to mean he would rather we vanish as quickly and quietly as possible. He tipped his hat and left us in a stunned silence that we soon broke with a discussion as to how we could use the money. Indeed, the pair of us were actually rather chipper as we left for our home.

I remember brooding a little at first, even as we broke the good news to the servants that the house would not need to be sold. I felt like I had been bought. I had, obviously, but by the government. I later learned of the methods of the Undertakers, enough to know that paying my sister off was actually a more preferable option for all concerned. But at the time it felt like a betrayal of the truth.

I found myself pacing a lot. Del, bless her, was starting to show sings of strain and stress again, and I was confident that a doctor would need to be called for to care for her mind. The money, a welcome bonus as it was, was still not enough to ease our money worries in the long term. And what was I to do about this new, dark world to which I had been exposed.

It was while I was sat in the library that the answer came to me. I was sipping some tea, fortified by more than a little whiskey, when I glanced at the shelves. There, in my line of sight, was a copy of my father's collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. In a flash I was on my feet. I knew what I could do with this puzzle; solve it. I was almost certain that such darkness was a lot more rare and refined than the daily sinfulness of mankind. And if, in solving these smaller puzzles I learned more of the bigger picture, then so be it. A little extra money in rewards would also not go amiss.

And the rest, dear readers, is history.

It has felt good to put this troy on paper for the first time. I feel a weight has lifted from my shoulders, one that I didn't realise I was carrying. Looking at the first of the dusty old trunks from the attic filled with these bad memories makes it settle back onto my old bones though. I suppose I will continue this silliness and bury a few more of these ghosts in ink and paper.

As for the Marcell house there is one small post script. The story about anarchists was in all the papers for a week or so after the incident although I cannot recall any trials being held. Then the mansion and the village were quietly bought by the army as a weapons testing ground and barracks. I believe they used it as a proving ground for new designs of flame-throwers. Or at least that was the explanation they gave to the papers at the time.

Now they just use it as a storage ground for chemical weapons. Defoliants mostly. It must be dangerous stuff given the number of men they lose a year to training accidents. Make of that what you will.

Emelia Pointer-Stonehouse