Outside, the bright sky had already darkened to a heavy gray, promising rain, the cold wind stinging his cheeks as he wove swiftly through the crowds. He cut through alleys and side streets with the ease of a man who knew London's veins as his own hand, each step drawing him nearer to a place that could never hold ordinary news.
And the reason for his urgency was simple enough: the call had come personally from Inspector Edward Winslow. A man renowned for his pride, who rarely allowed Arthur into his cases unless they were impossibly complex or dire. For him to reach out directly could mean only one thing: this case was anything but ordinary. The last time Winslow had asked for Arthur's aid, it had been to help dismantle an international criminal syndicate operating in Britain.
Arthur's instincts proved right once again. He found the inspector waiting in a small tavern tucked away on a narrow cobblestone street, their usual haunt for confidential meetings. Edward Winslow, in his late thirties, of average height and a solid build that spoke of quiet strength, sat lost in thought. His dark blond hair fell across his brow, his sharp green eyes clouded with heavy contemplation. So absorbed was he that he hadn't noticed Arthur arrive. Even the untouched coffee before him, unusual for a man known for his caffeine addiction, stood as silent testimony to his distraction.
Arthur took a moment to study him, feeling the weight of the calm before the storm, before clearing his throat deliberately: "Ahem… ahem…" The sound worked; Winslow stirred from his thoughts, lifting his head slowly, his eyes tracing the source until they landed on Arthur's faintly amused smile.
"Ahh, Arthur, my boy, you've finally arrived," Winslow said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Inspector Winslow, it's good to see you again after so long, sir," Arthur replied politely, before leaning in. "So then, Inspector, what's the matter that could have brought you, of all people, to seek out the help of this humble detective?"
Arthur's curiosity was genuine; he knew from experience that Winslow was far too proud to ever ask for help unless absolutely necessary. That alone made Arthur respect him all the more; such dedicated and competent people were rare among the ranks of law enforcement these days. The last time Winslow had sought him out had been to gather evidence against a hidden international crime ring. So Arthur's curiosity only deepened as he wondered what circumstances had forced the inspector's hand again.
Winslow, as ever, wasted no time. "Arthur, as much as it pains my pride to say it, I must ask for your help. This case is extraordinarily complex, riddled with contradictions, steeped in mystery, and of great importance, especially given the identity of the victim."
He then withdrew a thick black file, its glossy cover marked with the victim's name in bold letters: Henry Stewart. Sliding it across the table, Winslow said gravely, "This contains everything we know so far: photographs of the flat, room diagrams, personal effects, copies of encrypted journals, financial records, and the strange symbols discovered among Stewart's belongings."
Arthur took the file in silence, leafing through its pages with a deep intensity, as though searching for meaning beneath the ink itself. After a long pause, he set it down, meeting Winslow's eyes. "I see now why you called me. This case is… indeed tangled and obscure. But we both know this file alone isn't enough. I'll need access to the crime scene."
Winslow sighed, lowering his voice almost in shame. "I know, Arthur. Believe me, if it were up to me, I'd already have you there working your 'magic.' But it's not that simple this time. For reasons I can't fathom, the higher-ups have ordered the investigation shut down, declaring it nothing more than a natural death case closed. Which is something I can't agree with them on. Look at the details: the arrangement of the room, the way everything was left, something about this case is profoundly wrong." He paused, collecting himself.
Then he continued: "But I believe with your skill, skills that put most veteran detectives to shame, you might yet tie the threads together. Especially since, by all appearances, this crime bears the mark of your specialty. Don't you think, oh, so 'great detective'?" Winslow said the title with a deliberate edge, half-challenge, half-provocation.
Arthur smirked, lifting a copy of the victim's encrypted notes from the file. The codes were meticulous, at least as much as a novice could muster:
Xli mw xli tpeci sj xli 🜑… 19/03/19 ercxlmrk lew mtx tvmgi 🜜.
4152 / 97-20-6 xlmw mw xli hiex sj xli gsqtx, f qsri mw csyv fyz.
🜋 evi csy wii xli 🜕 rsx erp] sj xli vmxmepmwx.
🜄 🜂 🜜 xlmw mw xli mrhmgexmsr sj xli fsyxl.
..-. --- .-. --. . - / xli / --- .- - / -- .- .-. -.- xlmw wwe rsx f gsqqerh mr xli xsqiv.
12-7-3-15-9 xli jipp qsrr sj xli qssp wiiw e rix gyvr.
Arthur's golden eyes scanned the jumble of symbols, numbers, dashes, and Morse code scattered throughout it all. To anyone else, it might have seemed nothing but merely a chaos of nonsense, but within minutes, a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Mmm… not bad. Quite clever, in fact. But in the end… still the work of an amateur."
He pulled a pen from his coat, circling numbers and rearranging them according to the sequence of pages. "Here Caesar +4. Each letter is shifted forward by four. A simple trick, enough to fool the untrained." Tracing his finger over the dotted codes, he added, "Morse for the sensitive parts, cryptic symbols for key words… smart, but the repeated patterns give it away."
Within minutes, he had decoded it fully, reading aloud as though it were plain English:
"This is the place of sacrifice… 19/03/19, everything has its price, blood. Sequence 4152 / 97-20-6 marks the covenant, a pact with the devil—Brothers of the Shadow, marked by the goat, not the ritualist alone. Full moon, the gate, the blood, the signs converge on that night. Forget the goat's mark, it's not in the tower. 12-7-3-15-9, the full moon watches the gate, and the blood will unlock the seal."
Arthur slowly closed the copy of the notebook, his eyes gleaming with that rare spark that only appeared when he had found a case or puzzle truly capable of challenging him. Yet, despite this, his excitement quickly dimmed. As thrilling and filled with mysterious details as this case was, he was fully aware of the confrontation that lay ahead. If the cryptic and obscure writings in the notebook hinted at anything, they suggested he would have to face a group of lunatics tied to a devilish cult at least, that was the case if any of the notes about pacts, demonic contracts, and other irrational scribbles in the victim's notebook could be trusted.
Arthur set the copy of the notebook aside for the moment, his voice calm but sharp as he said, "To tell you the truth, this file, no matter how much evidence it contains, will not be enough to reveal the real identity of the killer." He paused for a moment, his amber eyes focusing intently, before adding, "But it will certainly help me understand the victim's thought patterns, perhaps even allow me to anticipate the next move of the cult the victim was in contact with."
"A cult, you say? What do you mean by that, Arthur?" asked Inspector Winslow, with concern lacing his voice.
"I mean that, while I am certain, based on all the evidence we have gathered so far, that this case is far from simple. I even suspect that the victim himself may have been in contact with some major criminal organization. And now you tell me it might be linked to a cult? Are you sure about that, Arthur? This is no laughing matter," he continued, his usually sharp voice now laced with worry.
"Inspector, of all people, you should know me well enough to understand that I am not one to joke around about such matters like this," Arthur replied with complete seriousness. His voice held no hint of humor or lightness as it had before. Cases like these left no room for jokes. From personal experience, Arthur fully understood the danger and madness they could face if his suspicions proved true. If the victim really had been in contact with a cult as he suspected, such organizations were usually composed of lunatics who wielded significant power and influence. They often sought to communicate with what they called their 'gods,' who, in most cases, were merely demons, venerated and worshipped through horrifying rituals that chilled the bones. This was far from promising news for them; on the contrary, it was deeply worrying and hazardous.
After a lengthy discussion, Arthur left the tavern with slow steps, the bitter winter night air biting his face. He made his way to where he had parked his car, lost in thought about the conversation he had had with Inspector Edward Winslow over the past few hours, and what this complex and thorny case could mean for their careers, especially for the inspector, who was clearly defying higher orders by continuing to investigate the case, despite a strict decree from superiors forbidding any further pursuit, which could result in demotion or even dismissal.
For Arthur, the consequences made little real difference. At most, they might tarnish his reputation slightly, particularly if this cult possessed the kind of power and influence he suspected them to have. Then, if they could pressure the central police forces in the capital to halt the investigation, ruining Arthur's reputation and career as a detective would be neither difficult nor out of reach for them. Not that Arthur truly cared about his reputation or fame; as he had never become a detective for fame or recognition, but only for justice for his loved ones who had perished in the Leonharth tragedy five years ago.
Walking through the fog-draped streets of London, Arthur felt a strange chill —a deeply familiar yet unsettling feeling born from his long experience as a detective. It was that instinctive sense of danger tracking him. His almost inhuman intuition warned him of the looming threat. Glancing down the dimly lit street under the glow of the lamps, it seemed to him as if London itself had gone silent, as if everything around him waited for his next move. The feeling that there was something… or someone… watching him.
Unknown to Arthur, his intuition at that time was correct. As in that moment, in the corner of one of London's countless alleys, a shadow observed the young detective's movements from afar, staring intently before melting back into the darkness, as if it had never existed at all, like a fleeting mirage.
Usually, such a feeling made Arthur proceed cautiously, and if the situation seemed to be out of control, he might have called in favors from those indebted to him or even abandoned the case entirely. Yet, for some reason, he felt compelled to continue solving this case himself, as if some unseen force was driving him forward!