The police room, with dark wooden panels sweating faint moisture while brass lamps hiss softly, their pale glow fed not by electricity but by high-pressure steam rushing through thin hollow rods that snake along the walls and ceiling like rigid veins.
Valves tick, gauges tremble, and the air smells of oil and heat as the steam light holds steady, casting long shadows across desks buried in paper and ink.
A burly, bald man in his forties slams a thick palm onto the table and says, "Bell, can you tell me why the killer is not caught?"
Bell, a senior detective with years carved into his posture, keeps his head lowered and does not answer.
Simon, Bell's young partner, straightens his back and blurts, "Chief, it is not our fault, the killer doesn't leave behind any clues."
Chief James fixes Simon with a hard stare, and for a heartbeat, the urge to slap the kid surges up his spine.
He stops himself, remembering exactly which family the boy comes from.
He inhales slowly, steam pipes knocking softly behind him, and says, "All three women killed may be prostitutes, but they were high-class, and their customers were businessmen and members of noble families."
His eyes lock onto both detectives as he continues, "I want the killer caught before there is another murder, otherwise—"
He does not finish the sentence, turns sharply, and strides out as the steam lamps hiss on in silence.
After the chief leaves, Bell and Simon release their breath at the same time and sink back into their chairs.
Simon turns his head toward Bell and says, "The killer must have known the victims very well."
Bell nods slowly and answers, "The killer found where they lived and waited for them along their route."
All three bodies are found in alleyways, the victims intercepted while traveling between home and their workplace, to and fro along familiar paths.
They read through each other's reports in silence, testimonies from the first two victims' family members, relatives, colleagues, and acquaintances stacked neatly across the desk.
Simon exhales and says, "We have everything on the first two victims except—"
"Who they serviced," Bell finishes without looking up.
"Yes," Simon says with indignation.
If they could question the lovers, they might uncover clues that lead them to the killer.
Not a single workplace is willing to release the identities of the clients that the victims served.
Bell closes the file and says, "Let's go."
"We should check the third victim's home, and she worked at the Blue Bird Club," continues Bell.
"The same place as the first victim," Simon says.
Bell nods.
Simon stands, enthusiasm returning to his eyes, and says, "The manager of the Blue Bird Club might finally be willing to hand over their service records."
They walk together toward the door.
Before either can reach for the handle, the door is pushed open from the other side, and two figures step into view.
Jake and Seamus.
Jake gives them a brief nod as they step aside, then walks past without slowing.
Seamus lingers, turning back toward them, and asks, "We heard the killer struck a third time."
Simon and Bell nod, and Simon's renewed enthusiasm fades instantly.
"Still no clue?" Seamus asks.
They nod again.
At that moment, Jake speaks without turning around and says, "Bell, if you can't solve the case, give it to me."
Bell snorts, turns toward Jake, and says, "Everyone knows who has the higher case clearance rate."
He taps a finger against his own chest and adds, "And that's me."
Jake bites out the words, "Not for long."
Bell snorts again, turns toward the door, and says, "Let's go, Simon."
Bell steps through the doorway, Simon follows close behind, and the door swings shut with a soft, final thud.
Their steam carriage, pulled by a wheezing steam automaton, comes to a stop outside a modest two-storey building stained by soot and time.
As they climb down from the carriage, the thin cry of a child drifts from inside the building.
They exchange a brief glance and enter, taking the narrow staircase set in the middle of the structure and moving upward.
On the upper floor, they see a teenage boy sitting on the floor, crying, with chairs overturned and belongings scattered around him.
From the open doorway to the left, the sharp voice of a woman echoes as furniture scrapes against the floor.
They look at each other, and Simon steps toward the boy, kneeling to console him.
Bell strides into the open room and shouts, "What are you doing?"
Inside stands a woman dressed in the latest noble fashion, though Bell can tell at a glance she does not belong to any noble family.
She gestures impatiently as two burly men haul items out of a room, Bell guesses is the bedroom.
The woman turns toward him and says, "Detective, what does it look like? I'm emptying the room for a new tenant."
Simon enters with the teenage boy beside him and says, "A day hasn't passed since the girl died, and you want to empty her home."
The woman sneers and replies, "Kindness won't fill the stomachs of my workers or me."
She turns back to the men and says, "You two, continue."
"Wait," Bell shouts.
The woman turns, irritation clear on her face, and says, "What is it now, detective?"
Bell says, "According to the new law passed by the House, a victim's belongings cannot be touched without police permission."
The burly workers freeze and drop what they are holding, the objects hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
The woman's face tightens with shock before she stiffens and says, "I didn't hear anything like that."
Simon says calmly, "It doesn't matter whether you heard it or not; you three have committed a crime."
The woman curses under her breath and leaves in a hurry with her workers close behind.
Bell and Simon quietly return the scattered items to their places while carefully searching the room.
Before leaving, Simon turns to the boy and says, "She won't come back for the next few days. Do you have anywhere to go?"
The boy shakes his head as tears continue to fall.
Simon looks toward Bell.
Bell sighs and asks, "Are you hungry?"
The boy shakes his head again.
Bell presses five pence into the boy's hand and says, "Stay here, someone will come tomorrow to arrange a place for you."
They leave the house, close the door behind them, and walk down the stairs.
The glow of the setting sun washes over the street as they step outside.
Bell says, "Let's get some food, then we visit the Blue Bird Club."
They climb into the carriage, and under the driver's control, it hisses forward, speeding away down the street.
—---
In the business district, where polished stone meets soot-stained brick, one narrow street hosts a freshly painted building with a crisp signboard that reads Clive Detective Agency.
Inside, the scent of new paint still lingers, mixing awkwardly with old wood and dust.
Behind a simple desk sits a young boy with black hair and eyes carrying a faint violet hue, staring at the empty doorway.
He mutters to himself, "A week since I opened the agency, why isn't anyone coming?"
Resting his chin on his hand, he stares at the wall as if it might offer answers.
"In a few days," he murmurs, "I'll have to look for other work just to feed myself."
He sighs deeply, the sound echoing louder than it should in the quiet room.
At that moment, the door rattles and creaks open.
An older woman, around forty, steps inside, her face layered with heavy makeup that tries hard to chase away age.
Clive straightens instantly and rises from his chair.
The woman looks around once, then fixes her gaze on him and asks, "Are you the detective?"
Clive nods with a practiced smile and gestures toward the chair.
"Ma'am, please sit," he says politely.
She sits opposite him, adjusts her gloves, and states without warning, "I am married."
Clive freezes for half a breath, eyes widening before he recovers.
"I'm sorry, madam," he says smoothly, "I assumed, looking at you, that you were unmarried."
The woman blushes visibly beneath the makeup and asks, "Really?"
Clive nods earnestly, leaning forward just enough to sell the compliment.
"Madam," he says, "how may I help you?"
She introduces herself as Carrie Smith, her voice dropping as if the walls might listen.
She explains that she suspects her husband is seeing another woman.
Her fingers tighten around her handbag as she says she wants confirmation, not excuses or comforting lies.
She wants Clive to find proof and, most importantly, the address of the woman her husband is visiting.
Clive listens quietly, committing every detail to memory.
She slides a small pouch across the desk and says, "Ten silver pounds when the job is done."
She opens it briefly, revealing a single silver pound, and adds, "This is the deposit."
Clive nods, takes the pouch, and assures her he will handle the matter discreetly.
Carrie Smith stands, gives him a final measuring look, and leaves without another word.
When the door closes, the office falls silent again.
Clive turns the silver pound over in his palm, watching how the light catches its edge.
This case does not excite him, nor does it challenge his mind.
Yet hunger is a sharper motivator than pride.
He knows the woman will not believe words alone, only evidence that wounds.
With a quiet breath, he pockets the coin.
He takes his hat from the hook, settles it onto his head, and grips his walking cane.
The cane taps softly against the wooden floor as he moves toward the door.
As he steps outside, the noise of the business district washes over him.
Clive's eyes narrow with resolve as he heads
into the street, already planning how to uncover a truth he does not care for but must nonetheless find.