Matthew Crosby and the Satanic Cult

Victorian London, 1873. A string of ritual murders is forming a pentagram across the city map. Comedian and writer Matthew Crosby has stepped out of his bathtub time machine and into a proper murder mystery. His cover identity? French detective "Inspector Pompidou." His qualifications? Absolutely none. His modern object of choice? A fidget spinner, because "it wouldn't freak people out. It would draw people in."

Matthew brings the energy of a man who'd happily time-travel to the Black Death and give everyone "the old razzle dazzle." His approach to Victorian detective work involves paying a newspaper boy to suppress the news, sizing up crime scenes for their property value, and the kind of confidence that only a fake French inspector armed with a spinning toy can muster. When Game Master Claude accidentally throws a certain fictional detective into the mix, Matthew doesn't question it — he embraces the space-time paradox and asks to share an opium pipe.

Victorian London was a city of fog, gaslight, and genuine public fascination with the occult — seances were mainstream entertainment and secret societies thrived in the shadows. It was also, crucially, a city without CCTV, background checks, or any reliable way to verify whether "Inspector Pompidou" was a real person.