Within an hour, the Canary Club is flooded with uniforms.
Simon and Bell arrive with patrolmen, their presence cutting through the lingering panic like a blade.
As Simon steps through the entrance, his eyes sweep the hall—and then narrow.
He spots Clive immediately.
For a heartbeat, they hold each other's gaze.
Then Simon turns away and heads straight for the women's bathroom with Bell and the guards.
The club is sealed.
No one leaves.
Minutes pass.
Orders are barked.
Eventually, one of the private rooms is cleared and converted into an interrogation space.
One by one, everyone present in the building is questioned.
Hours drag on.
Finally, Clive is summoned.
He steps inside the room and sees Simon and Bell seated on the far side of a plain wooden table.
A single chair waits opposite them.
Clive sits.
He smooths his coat, straightens his back, and forces his expression into relaxed cheerfulness.
"Hello, Simon."
Bell's eyes flick briefly to Simon, then back to Clive.
"You two know each other?"
Simon nods. "He's the classmate I told you about."
Bell leans back slightly, studying Clive from head to toe, weighing him.
"So," Bell says, "you're the one who wanted to help us."
Clive shrugs lightly. "Help you, and help myself. Being a private detective in this city isn't easy."
Bell's gaze sharpens. "And yet, you just happened to be here when the Stitcher struck again."
He leans forward.
"Care to explain that coincidence?"
Simon's eyes narrow.
A thought he does not want presses forward.
Before law school, Clive studied medicine.
After graduation, Simon joined the Crown as a detective.
Clive became a private investigator.
Medical knowledge.
Anatomy.
Precision.
Opportunity.
His mind tells him it is possible.
His heart insists it is not.
Clive lets out a soft chuckle. "You may think so," he says calmly, "but I'm not your killer."
"Oh?" Bell replies. "Then why are you here?"
Clive tilts his head. "Do you know who the lover of the second victim, Maya, was?"
Bell and Simon exchange a glance.
Simon answers, surprised. "Maya didn't do that kind of work. She was a singer and dancer here."
Clive smiles faintly. "Did you see where Maya lived?"
Simon hesitates. "Yes. Lower district."
"And you believe she could afford that place?" Clive asks.
Simon's eyes widen. "I thought she rented it."
Bell turns sharply to Simon. "You didn't verify ownership?"
Simon stiffens. "I assumed—"
Bell snorts and looks back at Clive. "So. Who was her lover?"
"And why do you care?" Simon adds.
Clive's voice remains even. "Robbie Smith."
Both men freeze.
Clive explains.
Carrie Smith.
The adultery case.
The sketch.
Earl.
The carriage stopped at Maya's building.
Earl's death.
The Canary Club.
Robbie Smith's presence upstairs tonight.
He says nothing more than necessary.
When he finishes, Bell nods slowly.
"Wait outside," Bell says.
Clive rises and leaves the room.
The hallway is tense.
People enter and exit the interrogation room under guard.
Time passes.
Clive waits.
As the hours go on, his frown deepens.
Something is wrong.
When Simon and Bell finally step out, Clive approaches immediately.
"Did you interrogate everyone?" he asks.
Simon hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. "Yes."
Clive's eyes sharpen. "Then why haven't I seen Robbie Smith go in?"
Bell's eyes widen.
Simon's head snaps up. "He's here."
Clive nods. "His carriage never left."
Bell swears under his breath.
They move fast.
The manager is questioned.
The guards are pulled aside.
One guard speaks up nervously.
"Mr. Smith stepped out into the garden earlier. Before the incident."
"And after?" Bell asks.
"I checked," the guard says. "He wasn't there. I thought he'd left."
Another guard adds, "His carriage is still waiting outside."
Silence falls.
Bell turns. "Garden. Now."
They move as a group, but Clive veers off.
He does not take the main door.
He slips through a side passage, past the bathroom, through a narrow service corridor.
A hidden staircase rises along the wall, leading to the upper floor and out toward the rear garden.
He hears a shout.
A guard.
Everyone runs.
Clive emerges into the garden just in time to see a bush being pushed aside.
A body lies beneath.
Robbie Smith.
His eyes are open.
His chest and abdomen are riddled with stab wounds.
Blood has soaked into the soil.
Clive crouches.
The wounds are messy.
Panicked.
Nothing like the Stitcher's precise work.
But no one else sees that.
"This is him," a guard says. "The Stitcher got him, too."
Bell curses quietly.
Patrolmen fan out.
Everyone's belongings are searched.
A bag is opened.
Charlie's medical bag.
Inside, wrapped in cloth, is a scalpel.
Blood stains the blade.
Charlie goes pale.
"No," he whispers. "That's—"
Simon grabs his arm.
"Charlie Wells," Bell says coldly, "you're coming with us."
Charlie does not resist.
He is led away.
Clive watches in silence as Simon and Bell escort Charlie toward the waiting patrol carriage.
The night air feels heavy, pressing against his chest as the door slams shut and the carriage hisses to life.
Clive follows.
He knows, with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt, that Charlie is not the Stitcher.
The fourth victim dies while Charlie is at the same party as him, drinking heavily, barely able to stand straight.
A drunk man might lash out, might kill in rage or panic, but he cannot perform careful incisions, cannot cut flesh with measured precision, cannot stitch a body together neatly.
And the fifth victim—
Clive's jaw tightens.
Charlie is in the room the entire time, checking on the women with Linda, never leaving, not even for a bathroom break.
Robbie Smith's death is messier still, nothing like the Stitcher's work.
Charlie cannot be responsible.
The carriage stops at the station.
Clive steps down and follows Simon and Bell as they drag Charlie forward.
Charlie's face is pale, eyes wide with disbelief.
"I didn't kill anyone," Charlie says hoarsely. "I swear it."
Bell doesn't slow. "The murder weapon was in your bag."
"I don't know how it got there," Charlie protests, struggling weakly. "I didn't kill anyone."
Clive quickens his pace and calls out, "I don't know about the earlier murders, but he couldn't have killed the fourth, the fifth, or Robbie Smith."
They stop.
Bell and Simon turn sharply.
Charlie looks at Clive as if a rope has been thrown to a drowning man.
"I didn't kill anyone," Charlie says again, anger and desperation mixing in his voice.
Bell studies Clive for a long moment, then glances at Simon.
"Put him in a holding cell," Bell says.
Simon hesitates, then pulls Charlie away.
Charlie twists his head back. "Clive—"
Simon drags him out of sight.
Bell turns and points at Clive. "You. Follow me."
He doesn't wait.
Clive follows.
They enter an office room, worn but orderly, filled with files, maps, and the smell of old paper.
Two men are already seated behind a desk.
One, younger and sharp-eyed, looks up with interest.
"Bell," he says, "I heard you caught the killer."
The other, a little older, snorts. "Or maybe you just got lucky."
Clive speaks before Bell can respond. "Charlie is not the killer."
Both men turn their attention to him.
The older one narrows his eyes. "And who are you?"
Clive steps forward calmly. "My name is Clive Holmes. And you two fine detectives are?"
The younger man straightens slightly. "Seamus Field."
He gestures to his partner. "And that's Jake."
Jake folds his arms. "What makes you so sure Charlie isn't the killer?"
"I don't know about the first three murders," Clive says evenly, "but the last two couldn't have been done by him."
Bell sits down heavily and interlaces his fingers. "Explain."
"I met Charlie last night at a party," Clive says. "We drank together. A lot. He was barely conscious by the end."
Seamus frowns. "And the fifth victim?"
"Charlie was with me," Clive continues, "and with the nurse, checking on the women. He never left the room. Not once."
Jake exhales through his nose. "Convenient."
"True," Clive says. "But verifiable."
Bell watches Clive carefully.
Then Bell begins asking questions.
How long has Clive known Simon?
Why was Clive in the Canary Club?
What exactly was he investigating?
Clive answers truthfully, carefully, revealing nothing unnecessary.
At last, Bell leans back.
"We'll keep what you said in mind," Bell says. "You can go."
Clive remains standing.
He wants to leave with Charlie.
But he cannot.
Not yet.
He has done all he can for now.
To free Charlie, he must catch the real killer.
He turns and walks toward the door, mind already racing.
Faces from the Canary Club surface in his memory.
Patrons.
Staff.
Guards.
Musicians.
Businessmen.
Then one face stops him cold.
He has seen that face before.
Somewhere else.
Not in the club.
Not in the police station.
Bell taps the desk sharply. "Mr. Clive. You're free to go."
Clive blinks and turns back.
"Detective Bell," he says, "may I have a word with Charlie?"
Bell's expression hardens. "Why?"
Clive meets his gaze. "Because I think I know who the killer is."