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As I made my way back to my apartment, it felt like a war zone inside me, with conflicting thoughts and emotions battling for dominance. I never imagined that I could be so thrown off balance by the events of the past few hours.

I’m no stranger to tough situations. My life has been a series of struggles in far-flung corners of the world, where survival meant fighting tooth and nail. In places where life is cheap, taking out someone like Edwin Lawrence might have seemed as routine as dealing with any other threat. I’ve earned the nickname “Fighting John” for good reason. I’ve defended my life and, when necessary, taken lives to protect myself. I learned early on that sometimes, violence is the only solution.

But women? That’s a different realm altogether. I’ve never been close to them. I’ve always felt they’re better than me, which kept me at a distance. Women were like sacred ground to me; evil had no place near them. So I kept my distance—until that night.

Now, who knows what fate had in store? Ever since I saw her in the moonlight at my window, my world has been turned upside down. It sounds ridiculous, yet it’s true. What could she see in someone like me—an adventurer stained by the world’s grime from every corner? What right did I have to even think about someone like her—a young woman, beautiful in every sense, miles above my station, adored by the town’s elite? It was madness, especially for me, in my autumn years.

But she called me “John.” In her moment of need, I took advantage of that. But that moment would pass, and I’d be just another face in the crowd. I might watch her perform at the theatre, but she wouldn’t spare a glance my way. That would be a dark moment for me. But as long as she’s okay, everything’s alright.

But would her troubles blow over quickly? Alone in my room, I tried to think, but fear gripped me. I was foolish to let her go back to Hailsham Road. Who in their right mind trusts Inspector Symonds? I’ve dealt with the police enough to know they’re either incompetent or corrupt. If they laid a finger on her, what could I do? In this country, even standing up to a cop is a crime. And Miss Adair—how could she doubt her angelic innocence? It’s maddening to think of the girl living under suspicion when trust is what she needs most.

Why did I let her go back to Hailsham Road? She would’ve been safer with Mrs. Peddar, or—forgive me for thinking it—safer still with me.

The doubts swirling around were like a storm cloud, and I couldn’t help but wonder what fueled them for Miss Adair and the Inspector. The surface looked murky, and if certain details came to light, it could get even murkier. Now that a dozen people knew she was in that room, she could end up in the witness box, forced to spill everything. She had gone there with ill intentions, he ended up dead while she was around, and then she vanished without a word to anyone about what happened. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the kind of conclusions an unfriendly critic could draw from those facts. I couldn’t bear to think about the risks she faced until the whole truth came out.

“What is the truth?” I blurted out, not realizing I was speaking aloud until my bedroom door swung open, and there stood Hume, glaring at me like I was the intruder.

“It’s you, huh? Come here!” Hume’s tone made it seem like I was the one out of place, not him. His sudden appearance caught me off guard, leaving me staring for a moment before I moved closer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Come, and you’ll see.” He gestured for me to enter, and as I stepped inside, I was met with chaos. He had ransacked my belongings—drawers pulled out, cupboards open, everything scattered across chairs and tables. On the bed lay my pyjamas and a towel, and prominently displayed was the plum-colored cloak.

When I saw that damning piece of evidence in his hands, my anger surged. “You scoundrel!”

I lunged for him, but he brandished a revolver, aiming it at me. “Stop right there! I’ve dealt with your kind before, John Ferguson. Try anything, and I’ll spare the hangman the trouble.”

I’d faced tougher foes in my time, men unbound by civilization’s rules, handy with a pistol. The way he held his gun told me he wasn’t quite a pro yet. I dodged, disarming him with a swift strike, sending the pistol flying. I grabbed him, lifting him off his feet and shaking him until he went still.

“Now, Dr. Hume, why shouldn’t I end you?”

He struggled to speak through the pain. “You can—kill me—if you want. Killing’s—your expertise.”

“And snooping into a man’s life, like a thief? That’s your style, isn’t it? However, since you’re here, let’s have a chat before you go.”

I let Hume drop to the floor, struggling for breath like a fish out of water. His revolver, though stylish, wasn’t the kind you’d carry for serious business—a real gun should punch through an inch of wood from yards away, not just scratch a man’s skin. Locking the door, I waited for him to regain his composure.

“Ready when you are, Dr. Hume.”

I observed him as he recovered. His eyes followed me around the room, startled when I picked up his weapon. Gradually, he regained his breath and sat up.

“You’re like a museum exhibit, Ferguson.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“You’re a marvel of strength.”

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“Keep that in mind.”

“I’ve just realized it. I might have to revise my beliefs about Hercules and Samson.” He straightened his clothes. “I don’t mind your physique; it’s enlightening, showing what a man’s capable of. It’s a shame you’re— Are you just foolish, or is there more to you?”

He stood, still adjusting himself. Pointing at the plum-colored cloak, he asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s what I’ll strangle you with.”

“Is that so? I don’t doubt your skill, but why go to such lengths?”

“You need to assure me that no one outside this room will ever know about this cloak—and that won’t be easy.”

“You want me to keep quiet about what I found?”

“It’s not a request.”

“Ferguson, you’re insane.”

“You’ve said that before. You’re an expert. You should know not to mess with a potentially homicidal lunatic. Tag me with that label.”

“But you’re mad about the wrong thing.”

“What’s the right kind of madness?”

“That cloak belongs to Miss Moore.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’d give my life to protect her.”

“Say that again.”

“To protect her, I’d give my life. It sounds dramatic, but it’s true.”

“Hume, I may be crazy, but not as much as you think.”

“You’re crazier. If you don’t believe me, why should I confide in you? But there are moments when men spill their secrets illogically. Maybe this is one of those moments for me. Miss Moore is the only woman I’ve ever loved. It’s a cliché, but it’s the truth.”

“Why tell me this?” “What’s the deal with that cloak in your closet?” “Why were you snooping in my wardrobe?” “I wasn’t searching for that. I was looking for something to accuse you with. And I stumbled upon this, and those. This is a towel. It’s got blood on it. Look! Fingerprints in blood. You wiped your hands on it when you left Lawrence’s room last night.”

“That’s your interpretation. I see.”

“Those are the pajamas you had on. They’re stained too. Check the front of the jacket and the pants.”

“What conclusion are you drawing from this?”

“I’m not sure. I had an idea, but now I’m not.”

His voice dripped with disappointment. He glanced at the bed. I thought for a moment before speaking.

“You’re right, Hume. The cloak belongs to Miss Moore.”

He spun around. “Are you planning to hang her now instead of Philip? Or both of them?”

“Enough about hanging. We need to understand each other before you leave. The cloak is Miss Moore’s. It’s soaked in blood.”

“I see.”

“I believe it’s Edwin Lawrence’s blood. You can easily verify it with a microscope. The stain on my pajamas came from her cloak. The towel had her handprints, not mine. I tossed the water she used to wash her hands out onto the street. It was red. Her hands were soaked, and there were smudges on her face too.”

“Ferguson!”

“Those are the facts. I’ve never avoided a fact I didn’t like; I confront it. And because I’ve faced those facts, I know they don’t point to her as the killer; I know she didn’t do it.”

“How can you be sure?”

I chuckled. “Because I know her; maybe you don’t.”

“I’ve known her most of my life.”

“And I only since last night, when she appeared at my window with bloody hands.”

“But how can you be certain she didn’t do it, unless you know who did? Do you?”

I chuckled again. “I don’t. Lawrence outsmarted me; I suspected it last night, now I’m certain; but I wouldn’t have killed him just because he was clever; at least, not like that. You’re not great at judging character if you think I would.”

“I don’t care about you or your character. I’m worried about her. She might have done it in a moment of insanity.”

“Maybe she could have; but she didn’t.”

“Then what was her behavior in his room all about?”

“You’re a mental expert; you should have a better idea than I do.”

“It’s because I’m a mental expert that I’m concerned. Symonds suspects her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrests her within twenty-four hours. If he finds this cloak, he’ll hang her.”

“No, he won’t. And if Symonds is as foolish as you think—he might be, since you seem to know foolishness—she won’t stay locked up for long. I’ll get her out.”

Hume had been pacing like a restless ghost. Now he halted, glaring at me like an angered beast. “If you think brute force can beat the police, you’re delusional.”

“As luck would have it, I’m not delusional in that way, because I don’t believe that at all. I have other plans to free her.”

“What kind of plans?”

“I’ll confess.”

“But you said you didn’t do it.”

“Neither did I; nor did she. But if Symonds needs a scapegoat, I’d rather it be me than her. Going to the gallows for her would be a worthy sacrifice.”

Hume stared. His breath seemed strained, as if I were shaking him again. “What are you saying?”

“Don’t worry about Miss Moore, Hume. I’m certain she’s safe.”

“You only met her last night.”

“But that feels like ages ago. So much has happened since then, it’s as if I’ve known her forever.”

He turned his face away, studying me from the corner of his eye; it was the first time he avoided looking at me directly.

“Is that how it is? I understand.” He moistened his lips. “A case of giving up everything for her.”

“You’ve got it, Hume.”

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that evidence starts to align in a way that falsely implicates you in Lawrence’s death. What then?”

“I don’t know what’s clouding your judgment in this case, but something seems off. If you were thinking clearly, you’d realize that the truth will come out sooner rather than later.”

“Does that mean you’ll walk away unscathed?”

“I can’t guarantee banners flying, but I’ll walk away.”

“With her?”

“That’s not for you to assume.”

“And what gives you the right to say what you’ve been saying, knowing she means everything to me? For over a decade, I’ve catered to her every whim, helped her rise in a career I despise because she loves it, celebrated her fame even though it pulls her further away from me with every cheer! And now you come in, claiming to have known her forever after just one night, boasting about sacrificing yourself for her. Do you honestly think she’d want your sacrifice if she were herself? You claim to know her but think that? Ridiculous! But if you’re so eager to be a scapegoat, I’m game.”

“You’re willing?”

“She won’t be. But if we piece together bits of evidence, line by line, we could paint your guilt so vividly that no jury would miss it, and no judge would spare you. Shall we work on that plan together?”

“You’re quite generous.”

“She might be in jail by tomorrow; Symonds might be filing for a warrant as we speak. If you believe you can free her by confessing, you’re mistaken. They’ll need solid details. You’ll have to lay out exactly how you planned and executed it, trying to frame her in the process.”

“Your story will need backup from independent evidence. I could provide some truths that would incriminate you. Your attempts to hide your presence in the room will look suspicious, and there’s the witness who saw you fleeing as if chased by demons. The evidence on the towel and pyjamas, among other things, won’t help your case. And with a bit of creativity, we could craft a convincing narrative that would exonerate her without a doubt. Shall we get started?”

I fell silent.

“There’s someone knocking at my door.”

The pounding on the door grew urgent.

“Seems like it’s urgent. Maybe it’s Symonds. If so, you might as well confess now. I’ll back up what I know. Then she won’t have to worry about arrest at all.”