Detective Holt's office wasn't what I expected.
It was a narrow brick building tucked between a tailor's shop and a fishmonger, the kind of place you could walk past a dozen times without noticing. The sign above the door read A. Holt – Enquiries & Investigations, the paint slightly chipped, the corners gathering dust.
Inside, it smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and the damp chill that came from the river nearby. Files were stacked on chairs, on the floor, even on the windowsill. A single desk sat in the centre — uneven legs, one drawer missing — but it looked like Holt trusted it with his life.
Edward surveyed the disorder with a mix of horror and fascination.
"I read somewhere detectives were underfunded during this era," he whispered.
Dante shot him a look. "They're not underfunded. They're under-respected. Entirely different matter."
I closed the door behind us.
Before Dante could continue, the bell above the door chimed again.
A woman stepped in.
She was dressed neatly — pale blue gown, hair pinned in a soft twist — and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd grown used to handling other people's messes. Her smile faltered slightly when she saw us.
"Adrian?" she asked. "You didn't say you'd be having guests."
Dante straightened. "Ah — right. Yes. These are my… friends. New friends. From the bar last night."
She raised an eyebrow. "You? Drinking? Since when?"
Dabte cleared his throat. "Since… last night?"
She gave a questioning look to Dante, then gave us a polite nod. "I see. Well, I only came to drop off the ledger you asked for. Don't work yourself half to death."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Clara."
She placed the ledger on the desk, gave Dante another glance — one that lingered — then stepped out, the bell chiming behind her.
The room settled again.
Edward leaned across the desk, eyes narrowing. "Who was that?"
Dante didn't answer immediately.
He watched the door a second longer than necessary, jaw tightening ever so slightly before he looked away.
"Clara Whitcombe," he said finally. "Holt's childhood friend. A journalist. Persistent. Observant. Annoyingly so."
There was something restrained in his tone — not quite irritation, not quite regret. Just… distance.
"Enough about her," Dante muttered, a little too quickly. He dragged a hand through his hair and forced his expression back into something brisk and professional. "We've got work to do."
He stepped back, clearing out the desk, papers scrambled all over.
"A phone," he began, voice steadier now, "showed up in my coat pocket this morning. Battery full. No signal. But there was a single message on my screen."
Edward stiffened. "What did it say?"
Dante met our eyes.
"Stop it before it happens."
Silence settled over the cramped office.
"My 'mission,' apparently," Dante continued dryly, though his fingers curled slightly at his sides, "is to prevent a murder in this town. Someone dies within the next few days. I don't know who. I don't know how. Just that it happens."
"What did yours say?", I asked Edward.
Edward nodded slowly. "Be a good acquaintance."
Dante blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it."
Dante let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. "Information wins wars before swords ever do."
There was a faint shadow behind his eyes when he said it — a weariness that didn't match his age. It vanished quickly, buried under composure.
"That's the job," he added quietly.
Edward straightened. "Fine. Then I'll gather patterns. You bring me reports, witness accounts, odd behaviours — anything. I'll connect what doesn't fit."
Dante nodded once. "You'll get everything that crosses my desk."
Then both of them turned to me.
"And Arthur—
"—Kieran—"
"—whatever we're calling you," Dante said, "your part might actually be the hardest."
I frowned. "How?"
Edward gestured. "Because you're the public face. You're the noble here. You have access to the circles we don't — parties, gatherings, the Hay household, all those elite events. That's where rumours spread first."
"And," Dante added, "you have to handle the marriage arrangements. The visits. The formalities. The introductions. Which is… not a small job."
Right.
The wedding.
The official meet.
Elizabeth Hay.
I swallowed.
"So my job," I said slowly, "is to attend luncheons, smile politely, pretend I enjoy small talk… and secretly hunt for signs of impending homicide."
Edward beamed. "Yes. You've summarised it beautifully."
"That's not beautiful," I muttered. "That's social warfare."
Dante leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. "Look at it this way — in most drawing rooms, scandal travels faster than the plague. Add tea and a few bored aristocrats, and you won't even need to ask questions. They'll confess crimes accidentally between compliments."
"Marvelous," I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "I always dreamed of risking my life over pastries."
Edward clapped a hand on my shoulder with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Think of it as assigned roles in a very poorly funded theatre production. I analyse the clues. Holt prowls the shadows. And you—"
"Trip over carpets and insult someone's aunt?" I offered.
"—dazzle the elite," Edward corrected firmly.
"I do not dazzle."
Dante tilted his head, studying me as though evaluating a suspect. "You managed to get yourself engaged within what — a day? Against your will, perhaps, but still. That's not incompetence. That's talent."
"That's misfortune."
"It's efficient misfortune," Holt replied.
Before I could protest further, he stood and crossed to the board he'd propped against the wall earlier. He removed the map entirely and replaced it with a fresh sheet of paper. With deliberate care, he pinned it to the centre.
Then he uncapped his red pen.
In slow, deliberate strokes, he wrote across the page:
MURDER?
The word looked almost violent against the white.
He began pinning smaller slips beneath it — Town Hall, Hay Estate, River Docks, Unknown Victim — arranging them with sharp, precise movements.
"This," he said, stepping aside so we could see, "is where everything begins. Not with a body — with possibility. We track movements. Rumours. Arguments. Anyone acting just slightly wrong."
Edward nodded, eyes gleaming. "Find the pattern before it forms."
"And find the murderer before he becomes one," Dante added.
He looked up at us.
"Agreed?"
Edward nodded with conviction.
I exhaled and nodded too.
Dante folded the map, his voice steady.
"Then let's begin."