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But it wasn’t Symonds at the door. Instead, a messenger-boy showed up, a rather impudent one at that.

“Are you Mr. John Ferguson? I’ve been knocking for ages. I thought nobody was home.”

“Well, I hope the wait wasn’t too much trouble. Yes, I’m Mr. John Ferguson.”

“No response.”

He shoved an envelope into my hand and turned to leave. I grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait a second! Who’s this letter from?”

“I said there’s no response.”

He squirmed in my grip.

“I hear you loud and clear. But if you can spare a moment, it might be important. Please, come in.”

I ushered him inside and shut the door. He shot me a glare.

“I was told not to wait if there’s no response.”

“Good job following orders.”

The envelope had a typed address, as did the message inside.

“Just because Edwin Lawrence is dead doesn’t mean the £1880 is off the table. You can’t evade debts with murder. A knife in the back doesn’t erase what’s owed. Get the money ready—cash only, no checks. Be prepared to pay when asked. If we have to ask twice, things will get serious.”

Signed, “The Goddess.”

“Who sent this?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t read it.”

“You might have an idea who sent it, though.”

“I doubt it. I just got back from Finchley. As soon as I got in, they gave me this. All I know is there was no answer.”

The messenger sounded irritated, as if he had a bone to pick. He was a young lad, with sharp black eyes and a feisty demeanor.

“Did you see who dropped this off at the office?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you from?”

“Victoria.”

“What’s your name?”

“George Smith. But I fail to see how that’s relevant to you.”

“That just shows your narrow perspective. Because, Mr. George Smith, even though there’s no response to this note, you might hear about it again. Goodbye.”

The young man left with a hint of disdain. I read the letter again. Hume, curious, couldn’t resist asking.

“What is it?”

“I was debating whether to share this with you. No harm in it, I suppose.” I passed him the paper. He read it with interest. “What do you think?”

“I should be asking you that.”

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“Here’s one thing I gather—that whoever typed this letter did a fine job of hiding their identity. With a handwritten letter, you might get clues about the sender; but with a typewritten one, it’s a mystery.”

“‘The Goddess.’ Does that name ring a bell for you?”

“I’m pondering. ‘The Goddess’? I don’t recall anyone who’d call themselves that. Let me see it again.” He handed the paper back. “This implies someone else is getting involved—a mystery person for now.”

“But who knew about your debt to Lawrence, not to mention other details?”

“Exactly. It’s puzzling!”

Hume scrutinized me, as if trying to decode a puzzle from my expression.

“If someone demands the money from you, what will you do?”

“I’d hand them over to Symonds right away. Can’t you see what that request implies? Lawrence was murdered right after our card game. How could anyone know what he claimed to win? No one saw him after the game except his killer.”

“Miss Moore and you saw him.”

“Are you implying she or I wrote this?”

“I see your point. Whoever wrote this had to have killed Lawrence because it reveals information only his killer would know. There’s some merit to that inference. But if it’s that obvious, wouldn’t it be incredibly reckless to send you a letter like this?”

“‘De l’audace’—you know the wise man’s saying. I’m not saying it’s crystal clear. Actually, I think it’s more mysterious than you realize. Assuming the letter’s writer killed Lawrence—and I bet that’s the case—the real question is who wrote it. It’s signed ‘The Goddess.’ I think ‘The Goddess’ was the author. Now, who’s ‘The Goddess’? That’s the puzzle.”

“Are you intentionally talking in riddles? Can you explain?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself. I’m not suggesting anything supernatural, but it’s pretty strange.”

“Supernatural? You should tell that to the police. The law doesn’t entertain supernatural theories in crime.”

“Maybe not. You say it was a man, Symonds thinks it was a woman; I think you’re both wrong—that Lawrence was killed by neither. Who or what is ‘The Goddess’? Find that out, and you’ll find the criminal!”

He smirked skeptically.

“I wonder if you think you can outwit me.”

I chuckled. The man was sour, eager to throw a jab my way. His attitude had never been friendly, and now that a woman was involved, he seemed even more determined to see me hang. Whether I’d prove my innocence didn’t matter to him, as long as he got his way first.

Before I could respond, someone burst into the room. It was Turner, the night-porter, looking like he’d been in a scuffle. His uniform was rumpled, and he held a handkerchief to his nose.

“Philip Lawrence just took off down the service stairs.”

We stared, not immediately grasping the situation. Our minds had been elsewhere, tangled in our own issues. Turner, seeing our confusion, continued in a rage.

“Yes, Philip Lawrence just bolted down those stairs, and let me tell you, he’s not a pleasant chap! I was outside, having a smoke, when he showed up. ‘Mr. Lawrence,’ I said, ‘I heard about your brother; it’s awful news.’ I hadn’t been informed till just then, and it hit me hard. But did he say a word? No, he swung at me like a madman, smacked me on the nose, and knocked me flat. I was dazed, but I saw him sprinting down the street like he had a train to catch. And he better run, with manners like his!”

Hume and I exchanged puzzled glances, absorbing the unexpected turn of events.

“Are you certain it was Mr. Philip Lawrence?” I questioned Turner.

He shot me a resentful look. “Am I sure? Do you think I’d accuse a gentleman like that if I wasn’t positive? No way!”

Hume stepped in. “Are you saying Mr. Philip Lawrence attacked you without any provocation?”

“I don’t know what you call provocation. All I said was it’s sad about his brother. What’s wrong with that?”

“You didn’t say or do anything else?”

“I didn’t do a thing—he did it all, and I’ve told you everything.”

“Turner, I know Mr. Philip Lawrence well. He wouldn’t just attack without reason. Either you mistook someone else for him, or you’re not telling us the full story.”

Turner, surprised, removed his handkerchief, revealing a trickle of blood on his waistcoat.

“Well, isn’t this something! You think I’m lying? Ask anyone who knows me—they’ll vouch for my honesty. I say he hit me for no reason, then ran off. If I catch him, I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine, but not before warning him. And, Dr. Hume, just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean I’ll let him treat me like that. I don’t think much of you siding with him either.”

I patted Turner on the shoulder. “That’s it! Speak up for yourself. I believe you completely. Mr. Philip Lawrence acted like a coward because he is one. He was scared of you, and for good reason, as Dr. Hume knows.”

“You—you——” Hume started but didn’t finish, his expression saying more than his words.

“Well, Hume, go on. If you act badly, expect consequences. Finish what you were going to say.”

Hume stayed silent, then left the room without a word or a glance.

“He looks like he wants to hurt someone himself,” Turner remarked once Hume was gone.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” I wondered how much Turner would’ve liked to see me hang at that moment, given the chance.