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I was awakened the next morning by Atkins who brought me my cup of coffee. He asked me a question as he set it down on the small table next to my bed.

"Do you know, sir, if Mr. Lawrence slept in his room last night?"

I had just been woken up from a deep sleep and was still not fully awake to understand the full meaning of his question.

"Slept in his room? What do you mean?"

"Because, sir, when I took him his coffee just now, as always, I knocked four times and got no response. And his door is locked; it's not his usual habit to lock his door when he's at home."

Atkins is one of the servants assigned to the Mansions, specifically to attend to the residents on the first floor. He is a discreet man and has a good understanding of the habits and customs of those he serves.

"Mr. Lawrence was in his room last night. I was with him until quite late, and I believe he had a visitor after I had left."

I said this, recalling what Turner had told me about his brother coming down the stairs with the package in his arms.

"I think he must be out now—at least, I can't get him to respond. And the door is locked; I have never known him to lock his door when he's inside."

"Perhaps he's unwell," I suggested. "I'll go along the balcony and check. You wait here until I return."

I'm not sure why, but I felt compelled to propose this idea. Maybe it was the way Atkins spoke that struck me, or perhaps it was a sudden impulse. Each floor of the building has a balcony that wraps around it. Lawrence and I have often used it to access each other's rooms—his are the first ones around the corner. I slipped on a pair of slippers and a dressing gown, and set off.

It was a cold morning, with a hint of fog in the air and the remnants of rain. I hurried as quickly as I could. Lawrence's dining room window opened as soon as I turned the handle. I went inside, and what I saw then immediately and clearly confirmed what I had always suspected I would see. I jumped back onto the balcony. Atkins was looking out of my window. I called to him.

"Come here! Quickly! Something is not right!"

He came running to me.

"What is it, sir?"

"I don't know what it is, but—it's something."

Atkins followed me into the room, and Edwin Lawrence lay sprawled on the floor, blood staining the carpet around him. His clothes were drenched, the only clue to his identity amidst the gruesome scene. When we turned him over, his face and head were a horrifying mess of cuts and wounds. It was a sight beyond anything I’d witnessed before, like some savage force had torn him apart.

I turned to Atkins. “Go get Dr. Hume. It may be too late, but he needs to see this. And call the police!”

Atkins hurried off to deliver the grim news, leaving me to survey the room. A pair of white gloves, undoubtedly a woman’s, caught my eye on a nearby chair. I pocketed them along with a familiar portrait from the mantel. The room bore signs of disturbance, but not the chaos of a violent struggle. Furniture was displaced, and bloodstains marked the woodwork and books. A grim discovery lay a few yards from Lawrence’s body—an oddly twisted, blood-soaked collar.

As I puzzled over the collar, Dr. Hume entered the room, shock evident in his voice. “Ferguson, what’s happened here? Is that Lawrence?”

Hume, a man with a penchant for studying obscure brain diseases, was well-known for his eccentricities. His medical expertise and personal wealth gave him the luxury of selective patients, often those with unique ailments or from the nearby Mansions. Lawrence jokingly referred to him as “the Imperial Doctor.”

Hume, still relatively young with a sharp gaze and a penchant for experiments, approached the scene with clinical curiosity. While I harbored no ill will toward him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he viewed everyone as potential subjects for his studies, myself included.

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“Yes,” I replied dryly, “that’s what’s left of Lawrence.”

Kneeling beside the body, Hume’s usually stoic expression was now charged with curiosity. “How did this happen? And when?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

“Who discovered him?”

“Atkins and I.”

“Was he lying like this?”

“No, he was face down. We turned him over.”

“The man’s been mutilated.”

“It almost looks like he was clawed to pieces.”

“These wounds seem too precise for scratches. Looks like narrow blades or spikes were used in some kind of pattern. Flesh torn layer by layer. Fascinating.”

Hume, speaking sotto voce as if to himself, was examining Lawrence’s clothes with nimble fingers, his face now suspicious. “Look at this.”

I peered closer. The body was as marred as the head, riddled with deep wounds.

“It’s clear he was subjected to extreme violence.”

“Is that all you see?” Hume’s impatience was palpable. “Don’t you notice the sharp object thrust through him from back to front, and vice versa? How did it bypass his clothes entirely?”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“You seem denser than usual, Ferguson. If I were to stab you now, it would pierce your clothing, leaving a mark. But his clothes remain intact, despite multiple thrusts. Was he naked when attacked?”

“I see what you mean now.”

“Good. Are these Lawrence’s clothes?”

“I can confirm that; he wore them last night.”

Hume looked up sharply. “Last night? At what time?”

“Around half-past eleven, I’d say, when I left.”

“Half-past eleven? He could have died within an hour after that. Odd.”

“Why odd?”

“Was he alone when you left?”

“Yes.”

“Did you part amicably?”

The question caught me off guard.

“Why do you ask?”

“Someone will ask. It’s suspicious to have quarreled shortly before his death.”

“We didn’t quarrel.”

“No? Then what happened? Your hesitance speaks volumes.”

“I’ll cooperate with any official inquiry.”

“So you have information? And you question my right to ask?”

“What constitutes your right?”

“Do you know if anyone saw him after you did?”

“I believe his brother did.”

“Believe? Based on what?”

“The night-porter mentioned it to me last night.”

“When?”

“Between two and three.”

“Before two, or even one, he was likely dead.”

“I found this collar on the floor.”

I handed Hume the bloodied collar.

“A collar?” He inspected it, then met my eyes with suspicion. “Philip Lawrence’s name is on it.”

“Philip is his brother.”

Hume’s look turned hostile. “What’s your implication?”

“I’m stating facts. I found it and picked it up.”

“What else have you discovered?”

I danced around the question, wary of revealing too much. I wasn’t about to mention the gloves or the photograph, knowing Hume could turn confrontational if provoked.

“I haven’t checked. The collar caught my eye; it was hard to miss.”

“Then let’s examine it together. In cases like this, even small details can hold significant clues. Let’s see what’s in this waste-paper basket. Sometimes, a single scrap of paper can hold damning evidence. Ah, here’s something.” Hume read aloud from the paper scrap he found: “‘Such men as you ought not to be allowed to live.’ Strong words, especially from a woman with such bold handwriting. I feel like I’d recognize that handwriting again, wouldn’t you?”

He handed me the scrap, and the distinct, feminine handwriting was unmistakable. The words matched his reading. Hume continued, piecing things together.

“If someone tore up this letter to hide its content, they did a sloppy job. Another fragment is clear: ‘To-night I will give you a last chance.’ Last night, perhaps? If so, someone missed their final opportunity. And here, part of a signature, ‘Bessie.’ I know a Bessie.” He smiled, a hint of irony in his expression. “It’s unlikely, but not impossible, that a woman is involved.”

“It’s hard to believe a woman could be behind such violence.”

“How do we know the extent of the violence? Some women are as capable as men. It’s about the weapon used. A deadly instrument like this could be in anyone’s possession, male or female. You’re mistaken if you’re trying to link Philip Lawrence to this. I know him well; he’s of impeccable character, unlike you. I don’t know enough about you to make that judgment.”

“You’re making unwarranted assumptions. I’m not trying to link anyone.”

Can we be real here? Are you being completely honest? Is there something you’re not saying? My role here is semi-official. I need to figure out how this man died. Yet, you dodge my questions, questioning my authority, while conveniently dropping hints about Philip Lawrence and brandishing a collar with his name as if it’s a trophy. Let me warn you, dragging Philip’s name into this will backfire on you.”

“Listen, Hume, calm down. I don’t get why you’re so hostile. And let’s not overstate your role here. You’re just the first doctor I could find. Your job is medical, not judicial. So far, you haven’t exactly been Sherlock Holmes about it. Some might find your questions rude. I know it’s just your style, not malice.”

“But let me be clear: I don’t know Philip Lawrence, never met the guy. However, since he left the building hastily this morning, and now his brother’s dead here, he’ll have some explaining to do, despite your defense.”

Hume’s sudden change puzzled me. He stepped close, glaring unfriendly.

“I call your bluff.”

Quietly spoken but resolute. I debated knocking him, then Atkins arrived with a policeman. It was time.