A response to RJ Clarken's "Monday Musings" in Flashy Fiction.
Harold Haslewood huffed, his breath coming in rattling heaves, as he glanced over his shoulder while clutching a folded copy of The Illustrated Police News under his elbow like an uillean bagpipe. A hand-sized man with dragonfly-like wings that caught the moonlight in a pale purple-blue translucence, flitted from oak bough to honeysuckle leaf following Harold. Fleeing underneath the Chapel's arch of the Tottenham Cemetery, he thought maybe the unholy creature -- hopefully a mere figment of his imagination -- might not pass through the white-stoned relic that glowed compared to the surrounding dark forest leaves. But no, he couldn't evade the creature that zipped through the center of the arch. Collapsing onto a bench, he closed his eyes knowing that the fairy now flitted between tombstones landing briefly on the stones, its wings glowing with the only flash of color in the cemetery.
When the fairy creature landed on the bench, Herald squelched the desire to swat at the fairy with his newspaper. Who knew what trouble that might cause. "What do you want?"
With a twitch of its wings the fairy flew to the edge of the back of the bench and balanced as the light wind blew across the cemetery to rustle the poplar leaves. "I have news you can use."
Harold opened the newspaper. "I have all the news I need in this paper. No flickering half-truths from the semi-world. Go away."
"I need you Harold."
How did it know his name?
"I have fascinating information that must not be suppressed. I need your help to solve an injustice. The newspaper you hold doesn't understand the truth, look at it."
Harold had been reading at the pub, he knew the cover illustration with a drawing of Dr. Forbes-Winslow's conjuration. Harold let the folded paper fall open, to display the psychiatrist in a towering turban wielding a wand as he tried to conjure the truth.
"It's all lies, the imbeciles in Scotland Yard won't solve this crime. But you, can be famous, your name living on for hundreds of years as the man who brought the tip that solved the Whitehall murders."
The fairy creature was right about one thing, the constables were imbeciles. They abused their power and accused his son of poaching. "Why should I help them? I don't care about fame."
"You will have the fame, but there is a better reason." The fairy jumped into the air its wings flapping as it hovered before Harold's nose. "One of Scotland Yard's sergeants is guilty of the murders."
"Really?" Harold's nose flared as he leaned forward, the fairy floating backwards to maintain the same distance between the two of them.
"Yes, a Sergeant Thicke who lives in the Whitehall District and has been trying to shirk the blame for the murders on old friends such as the Leather Apron."
It would feel good to smear Scotland Yard's name with the bitter entrails of the blame of this case. His chest contracted, it wasn't going to be that easy. "Why would they listen to me?"
"Because you'll have the facts that will be undeniable, because we've watched the murders and know how Sergeant Thicke has hidden his trail.
Harold rubbed his hands as he thought about the letter he would send to Scotland Yard tomorrow.