Transcript of the last entry found in the diary of Captain John. H. Fiske-Bowen, 21st December 1887.
I sit in stillness, the heavy silence of a full moon night. I sit in my study, in my battered and well-used Queen Anne Chair. I sit. I sit with a loaded army issue Webley in an uneasy palm. I sit, waiting.
A night like this, still, clear, all of nature bathed in milky moon light, any sound would carry through air on such a night. There is none. All of nature…and yet I awaited someone, something that was…was not of nature, not as we wish to believe nature to be.
Where had it started? How had it st..stop, what was that? The panes cooling in the winter air. I deceive myself. I know, true well, how it had started. When I was young and brave. Naïve and rash. Ignorant and foolish. That fresh faced army officer, new to Injia (sic) and full of the desires of youth. He seems like a stranger to me now. So full of greed and adventure, a desire for riches and fame, and honour feeding my very hunger for life. Honour. How ridiculous that word seems to me. It stutters and refuses to be formed on my lips. I sit here knowing that my only defence, the revolver clutched in an aching hand offers no solution, no protection against that which will be upon me soon. And Honour? That ceased to be a comfort or a protection a long time since. A footfall upon the stair? No, the boards settling…but I hear it again, definite this time, palpable, a foot and nearer. There is no other in this house.
The ruby I had taken. Stolen. It sits on my desk. I stare at it. Contained within that infernal, beautiful, voluptuous jewel, all my shattered hopes, all the tragedy of my dissolute life. Beyond it, the study door. Stout English oak, the only thing between me and that, that which now scratches and fumbles at the lock.
Had we only left well alone, honoured the old temple and its ancient gods. The gods we scorned and ridiculed, full of the brash arrogance and ignorance of our birthright.
The door begins to creak. Five empty chambers in my hand, those bullets used long ago. Greed you see? It even compels you to turn on those you trust, those you live with, confide in. Those you stole with. They wanted their share and I could not bring myself to sell and give it to them. Such a, an intoxicating gem. The door opens.
Only one bullet in this gun and it will not stop….stop that. Just the one bullet, but it is all I will need now.
NB: No trace of his body or a ruby were ever discovered : Inspector
G. Travis. Scotland Yard. Appen/(the revolver was later found, oddly it