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It was hard to accept the direction all the evidence pointed. I had locked my bedroom door, retrieved the plum-colored cloak from the wardrobe, and tightly rolled it up. The dried blood had sealed the folds shut, making it tough to open. As I spread it out on the bed, discolored and stiff as cardboard, I couldn't shake off the horror of what had stiffened it and the association with the fair-faced girl, so truthful and innocent.

She had been in Edwin Lawrence's room during the murder, that much was clear. What had she been doing there? What role did she play? Why didn't she raise the alarm and instead fled? The answer to that last question, I believed, held the key. The shock of what she witnessed must have overwhelmed her, causing a temporary loss of memory—a neurosis of sorts. If only she could recount what happened, her innocence would be evident.

That was my personal conviction, but the physical evidence pointed elsewhere. Time was ticking, danger looming. If others learned the facts as I knew them, an eager policeman might arrest her hastily. Aside from the risk of tampering with evidence, the accusation itself could devastate someone already in such a fragile state.

It was clear she had witnessed something extraordinary. This wasn't a typical murder; it was too gruesome, too elaborate. She must have been so close to the scene that she was drenched in the victim's blood. My observations, though not legally significant, hinted at something bizarre—a presence in the room that wasn't human. It brought to mind Poe's tale "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," where the culprit turned out to be a giant ape. Whatever I had seen wasn't an ape, but I was convinced it wasn't something ordinary either.

In one aspect, my observations fell short. I had witnessed Lawrence and his attacker, heard the woman's laughter, but despite scanning the scene, I hadn't seen anyone else. Yet evidence suggested two more people were there: my overnight visitor and the dead man's brother.

I'll confess, I doubted the brother's guilt. Philip Lawrence seemed unlikely to commit such a crime. Still, Turner's statement about seeing him near his brother needed an explanation.

But what mattered now was understanding why a young girl was in Edwin Lawrence's chambers late at night. As I inspected the cloak, I found a pocket in the lining, containing an addressed envelope. The writing was familiar—it matched the scraps from Lawrence's waste-paper basket. The envelope wasn't mailed, and the vague address led to “George Withers, Esq., General Post-office, London.” I opened it, feeling a need to uncover the truth.

The letter read:

"Dear Tom,

I'm confronting that scoundrel tonight. He better be careful, or something will happen. I'll make sure he knows. I'll write more tomorrow.

B."

Two things struck me: the letter lacked a date or address, and "George Withers" seemed an alias for receiving communications. The "B." signer likely matched the "Bessie" on the scraps, making the "E" found by Mrs. Peddar likely "Elizabeth." The puzzle of the "M" remained.

The letter hinted at hostility toward Lawrence last night, implying something did happen to him, as predicted. I hoped it wasn't as dire as implied and that she wasn't involved. But the letter didn't reveal her identity.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Then I remembered the photograph from Lawrence's mantel. It bore the name of a top London photographer. Eureka! I could get details about the woman from the photographer, especially if I explained the circumstances.

Filled with that idea, I hastily rolled up the plum-colored cloak. Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

"Who's there?"

"It's me. I need to talk to you."

It was Hume's voice. Luckily, I had locked the door; otherwise, he might have barged right in.

"I'll be there in a moment."

I returned the cloak to the wardrobe, pocketed the portrait and the letter, then headed to meet Hume.

He stood by the window, hands behind his back, staring at me as I entered with a sharpness that bordered on rudeness. There was a hawk-like intensity about him, as if he was ready to strike at any moment. I never enjoyed his company much, but this overt hostility was new. It felt like a malicious spirit from Lawrence's death had possessed him, driving him to antagonize me. His first words confirmed his intent to be unpleasant, but I resolved to ignore it.

"No wonder you bristled at my questions about your last encounter with Lawrence."

"Oh? Come on, Hume, take a seat. Try not to look so serious. This Lawrence situation seems to have affected you more than me, oddly enough."

"It does."

"Considering I thought I was closer to him than you."

"It seems so. How much did you owe him?"

"Owe him? Hume, you're asking odd questions today."

"Are they? When someone's suspected of a crime, motives come into play, you know?"

"I get your point, but there's more to your questions, isn't there?"

"You'll see. Before we're done, I'll be clear. So, how much did you owe him?"

"Nothing."

"Stop lying."

"Hume, that's twice today you've called me a liar, and twice I've held back from knocking you out."

"That's true. Maybe it'll be my turn next. I know you're not the type to hold back."

Hume leaned in, looking even more predatory.

"Ferguson, I'm a pathologist, a student of mental disorders. I've been watching you with interest. I believe you suffer from memory lapses."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

I was starting to wonder if Hume had lost his mind. He continued, calculating his words.

"If you were to kill me now, I think you'd forget it as soon as I was dead. You might never remember it again."

"Hume!"

Hume's words felt like icy daggers piercing my bones.

"Now I'll explain why I believe you lied about owing Edwin Lawrence nothing. Look at this." He held out a small locked diary. "I found it in his room after you left. It's unusual for him to have such a diary, but it contains regular entries, including one from last night after you were with him."

Hume read from the diary:

"Have been playing cards with Ferguson, winning heavily. F. is an unusual type—dangerous. Would rather not have a row with him. He hinted I hadn't played fair. It's eighteen hundred and eighty that he owes me. Money will be useful.'"

Hume paused, letting the words sink in.

"That's the last entry. He must have been killed shortly after writing it. It sheds light on your parting terms. Do you still claim you owed him nothing?"

His words hit me hard. I had forgotten the card game in the chaos of events. It wasn't pleasant to have it thrown back at me like this.

"I still say I owed him nothing. But the money I would have paid him will go to his estate."

"Agreed. You're indeed unusual, Ferguson. Now, in confidence, I think you used some means to cause Lawrence's death."

"Hume!"

"I know you were there when he died."

"You know I was there?"

"I suspected it before; now I'm sure. A servant saw you fleeing from Lawrence's room this morning, just after the murder. She says you were drenched in sweat, odd for a chilly morning in pajamas."

I struggled to keep calm. Could it be real, not just a vision?

As I processed Hume's words, a man entered.

"Are you Mr. Ferguson?"

"Yes."

"I'm told you're Mr. Edwin's friend. I fear my master's been murdered!"