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As I stepped out of the house, a man strode toward Philip Lawrence’s door as if he intended to knock. Seeing me descending the steps, he halted abruptly—it was young Moore. His presence sent a surge of energy through me; his hat was tilted sharply to one side, a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. Something about his demeanor and speech hinted at a few drinks.

“What are you doing here? Answer me! Seems like you’re involved in everything.” He spoke loud enough for Piccadilly to hear.

“Could you lower your voice a bit, Mr. Moore?”

“I can ask, but I won’t listen. This is a public street, and if you lay a hand on me—hey, let go! Help! Police!”

As I approached, he leaped back, yelling in a way that would attract attention. A passerby, a respectable-looking worker, glanced at us.

“What’s going on?” Mr. Moore seemed unfazed.

“Nothing yet, but there will be if he touches me.” The man continued on his way.

“You’re quite the character,” I remarked. Moore flicked cigar ash with a mocking laugh.

“Not all of us can be as smart or as big as you. Your size is your only charm, you giant. You belong in a sideshow, not on the streets.” I was unsure how to handle him. In a private setting, I could have taught him some manners, but on the street, he had the upper hand. He seemed eager for a public spectacle, while I preferred to avoid drawing a crowd’s attention. Before I could respond, he continued: “You’re quite the piece of work. All the lies you and Adair fed me this morning about Eddie Lawrence—got me thinking my sister killed him! What’s your game? I almost wish she had!” He laughed loudly. “Bessie killing Eddie Lawrence—now that’d be a joke! I wish she had! You hear that? I wish she had! Chew on that!” He swaggered off. I let him go, attributing his wild words to alcohol. I wondered why he was headed to Philip Lawrence’s; that much was clear before I interrupted him. But getting any sense out of him in his current state was futile.

I arrived home and sensed someone in the bedroom beyond as soon as I entered the sitting room.

“If that’s Hume again—”

It would have been trouble for him if it were, but it wasn’t. It was Inspector Symonds and a colleague. I realized with a sinking feeling that I had left the room in disarray, with all my belongings scattered as Hume and I had left them. The cloak was still on the bed, a constant reminder. Why hadn’t I disposed of it somehow? Burned it, torn it into shreds—anything would have been better than letting it linger. The two men were examining it closely.

“What are you doing here?”

A lump formed in my throat. They caught me off guard, and I knew physical resistance wouldn’t help.

“We’re doing our duty, Mr. Ferguson. We have a search warrant. Shall I read it to you?”

“What are you searching for?”

“Anything related to the murder of Edwin Lawrence. We’ve found what seems to be crucial evidence. Whose cloak is this?”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“Cloak? Oh, that’s my cousin’s, Miss Mary Ferguson. She was here recently and left it behind after a nosebleed.”

“Did the nosebleed cause these stains?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“She must have bled a lot. Did a blood vessel break?”

“No, it wasn’t that severe.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. She’s had nosebleeds all her life.”

“When was she here?”

“A week ago, maybe more.”

“Odd that the blood is still wet in places.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t that long.”

“I’ll need her address to return it.”

“I’ll handle it myself, thank you.”

“Are you certain it wasn’t worn by Miss Bessie Moore when she left Edwin Lawrence’s room last night?”

“I swear it wasn’t.”

“You’ll have a chance to say all that in court. But think carefully about the consequences of lying under oath. We have witnesses who will prove not only that Miss Moore wore this cloak but that you knew about it.” He began to roll up the cloak.

“You can’t take it, Symonds—it belongs to my cousin.”

“Your cousin’s? Listen, Mr. Ferguson. I hear you’ve lived abroad, but here, obstructing the law for a suspected criminal only harms them. A witness caught lying damages the defendant’s case. I know Miss Moore wore a cloak when she visited Lawrence. Mrs. Peddar confirms she didn’t have one in her apartment. What happened to it? It was in your room. I found it. Trying to claim it’s your cousin’s does more harm than good.”

His words felt like a noose tightening around me. I tried to gather my thoughts but felt increasingly befuddled. “You’re mistaken, Symonds.”

“I haven’t stated my position.”

“You police often make mistakes. Let me save you from another.”

“How kind.”

“I killed Edwin Lawrence.” They exchanged glances, skeptical smiles appearing. The colleague chuckled.

“That’s a weak story,” he remarked.

“I killed him.” Symonds eyed me shrewdly.

“What’s your aim?” “Nothing, except facing the consequences. Life’s meaningless now with this burden.”

“To shift blame, I assume?”

“What? You’re obsessed. I killed him. Take me. End of story.”

“Not quite. Explain the blood on Miss Moore’s cloak.”

“I don’t know.”

“Not from your cousin’s nosebleed?”

“Damn it, Symonds!”

“Thanks, Mr. Ferguson. That’s a tough sell. You expect us to believe you’re well-informed on one thing but clueless about another?”

“Believe what you like. I’ve confessed. If you won’t arrest me, I won’t argue.”

“You seem to be grumbling already. Explain the blood on the cloak. Maybe your story will make sense of your guilt, and then we’ll happily arrest you.”

I wished I had Hume’s help to concoct a believable story. I’m a terrible liar, always getting caught. I could feel their skeptical eyes on me, urging me to speak. I had to say something. “I’ll spill everything. Holding back won’t help.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“She saw me do it. She tried to save him. Blood stained her cloak as he fell.”

“But he fell forward, not back, as you claimed.”

“Well, maybe he did fall forward. I was a mess, not paying attention.”

“What weapon did you use?”

“A knife from West Africa.”

“Can I see it?”

I didn’t have it. I threw it in the river.

“Too bad. Doctors said fifty knives were used.”

“My knife had multiple blades.”

“All the same length?”

“No, different lengths.”

“But in one handle?”

“Yes, a unique handle.”

“So you’ll need to sketch this knife of yours for everyone to understand. Was Miss Moore already there when you entered?”

“Yes, she came to help.”

“Did she pause to explain?”

“No.”

“You seem to know a lot about some things but not others. How long after you arrived did the murder start?”

“I attacked him immediately.”

“Describe the crime in detail.”

“I stabbed him in the chest and face.”

“Did Miss Moore do anything?”

“She tried to stop me.”

“Physically?”

“Yes.”

“You’re getting aggressive. I believe you now. But you’re not great at this story. We need to figure out the cloak stains.”

“Aren’t you arresting me?”

“Not yet. Let’s see how this unfolds.”

“I’m not good at this.”

“You’re no fiction writer. Let’s wait and see what happens.” The Inspector left with the cloak. I felt foolish, having achieved nothing. Morley’s praise of my persuasive manner seemed absurd.