"Would you be willing to tell me more about your wife?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes." Officer Baidel didn't even pause for a breath. "Karin was thirty-five. Her social circle was narrow; she was a quiet woman who favored warm colors. She visited art galleries almost every week. To my knowledge, she had no enemies and no outstanding debts."
He delivered the facts with the flat, metronomic cadence of a report. It was clear he had rehearsed these details in his mind a thousand times over.
"Do you know why she was near that alley that night?"
"I do not."
"Any theories regarding the word 'YES'?"
"None."
"Do you know what she was wearing?"
"No. I did not take an interest in her wardrobe."
Baidel answered several more questions with the same icy composure. Even though most were "I don't know," Sherlock began to form a clearer silhouette of the woman behind the corpse.
Sherlock fell into a brief silence, his eyes fixed on nothing.
After a few minutes, Baidel broke the quiet. "Mr. Holmes, perhaps I shouldn't disturb the rhythm of your work, but... I would like to hear your current analysis of the case."
His tone was polite, yet beneath it lay the undeniable weight of his station.
Sherlock knew he had to offer something substantial. It was 4:00 AM. London's winter days were short; before the next sunset, the killer had to be found. This wasn't just about a widower's grief; it was about the Church's face. A ward of the Clergy had been butchered; every second the perpetrator breathed under the Holy Light was a standing desecration.
And here was the lead Detective, caught taking a nap at home. He needed to provide a convincing justification.
"Well, it's not as if we're at a complete standstill," Sherlock said, leaning forward. "I've considered many reasons why the killer would take the clothes. The most likely is that the attire itself would somehow betray his identity. Then there's the word carved into the organs. I've scoured my memory, and 'YES' only gains transformative power in two contexts: an oath, or a wedding."
"A wedding?"
"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "Given the recordable nature of Oaths in this Empire, a single 'YES' can't carry enough weight on its own. But in a marriage ceremony, the word requires no further explanation."
Sherlock mimed holding a scroll of vows. He lowered his voice, imitating the gravelly, solemn tone of an elderly priest.
"Beautiful bride, do you take this man to be your husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Sherlock looked at Baidel. "In that moment, the bride only says one word."
Officer Baidel fell silent. His eyes cast downward as if weighing the logic of the theory.
After a long pause, he whispered, "Yes... back then... she did indeed say 'YES'."
It was the first visible ripple of emotion Sherlock had seen on the man since they met.
Simultaneously—Squelch!
A sound Sherlock knew all too well: the sound of bone and muscle being pulverized. He looked down, staring blankly as an arm buried itself into his chest. Blood struggled to flow around the massive, jagged entry wound.
"To deduce so much from a single corpse... you truly are an astonishing Detective."
Baidel's voice was right in his ear.
"That is why I've decided... it would be better if you were dead."
It was too sudden.
Baidel's movements were a blur, far beyond the visual processing speed of a mundane human. By the time the blood began to spray from the cavity in his chest, Sherlock was still wearing the same inquisitive expression he'd held a second ago. It wasn't until the second-hand on the wall ticked forward once that his brow finally furrowed in pain.
The gas lamp overhead swayed slightly, casting chaotic shadows across the room.
Without a shred of malice or hesitation, Baidel placed his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave a gentle shove. The body slumped backward under the force of gravity, sliding off the blood-slicked arm that had impaled it.
The second-hand ticked again.
Two seconds.
A vibrant life snuffed out by an Executive Officer of the Adjudication Department. No struggle. No resistance.
The gap between a Contractor and a mortal was not a bridge; it was an abyss.
Ordinary Contractors were manageable—they bled, and a well-placed bullet could end them. But a Second-Stage Contractor was a different species entirely. They could slaughter hundreds of men as easily as scything wheat. When they chose to kill you, your life became a candle guttering in a hurricane. You didn't even have time to pray.
Moreover, most Second-Stage Contractors were members of the Clergy. Your death wouldn't be a crime; it would be a footnote. Even if someone found the evidence—a near impossibility given the Church's reach—the Adjudication Department did not commit "murders." They performed "judgments."
Thud.
The body hit the floor. The shattered heart pumped a final, massive gout of gore through the hole in his chest.
Baidel wiped his hand on the scarlet decree-cloth of his robe. He didn't look back at the corpse. There was no panic, no rush of adrenaline. To an Adjudicator, killing was merely a part of the daily routine.
He didn't even bother to remember the Detective's name. He simply grabbed the body by one foot, dragging it like a discarded sack of flour toward the door.
He would drop it into the Thames. No body, no case.
In truth, he hadn't wanted to go through all this trouble. It was just a wife, after all. Even if this Lower District detective had correctly identified him as the killer, the Church wouldn't punish an Executive Officer over a mundane woman—especially one who was the Officer's legal property.
The complication lay in the woman's father. He, too, was a member of the Clergy. Internal fratricide was the one sin the Church could not overlook.
Well, the Detective is dead. It's over.
Baidel reached for the doorknob, ready to vanish into the night.
Just as his fingers brushed the brass—
"I was right, then. It really was the wedding vow."
The Detective's voice echoed from right beside him.