The rain fell harder, as though the sky itself refused to let any truth be found before morning. I sat at the small writing desk in my hotel room, the Turkish cigarette burning down between my fingers, watching the smoke twist upward like prayers no one would answer. The red-orange glow of the ember reminded me too much of the stranger's hair — that impossible, living flame the housemaid had described. Even now, hours later, the image refused to fade. It burned behind my eyes every time I blinked.
By the time the weak grey light of dawn pushed through the curtains, the rain had softened into a cold, persistent drizzle that turned Cardiff into a study in monochrome. Every roof glistened like polished obsidian. Every puddle reflected a fractured sky. I shaved carefully, watching my own face in the mirror — the same sharp jaw, the same watchful eyes — and wondered how many people would one day describe a man with burning red-orange hair standing just behind me.
I needed answers from the only two people whose words had already circled the dead lawyer's final moments. Victor Langford and Eleanor Voss.
The Western Mail building stood like a grey fortress on St. Mary Street, its windows streaked with yesterday's rain. Inside, the newsroom hummed with the frantic rhythm of typewriters and shouted headlines. Damp coats hung everywhere like hanged men. The air was thick with ink, wet wool, and the bitter edge of strong tea.
A copyboy led me through the chaos. At a desk buried under papers sat Victor Langford — mid-thirties, lean, with sharp cheekbones and the permanent shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. He looked up as I approached, pen pausing mid-sentence. His gaze was intelligent, guarded, and carried something else — a quiet protectiveness that flickered toward the desk directly opposite his.
There she was.
Eleanor Voss sat with her back partially turned, typing rapidly. Her dark hair was pinned up neatly, but a few strands had escaped, clinging to her neck like ink strokes on pale paper. Even without seeing her face fully, I could feel the tension radiating from her — the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her fingers struck the keys a fraction too hard.
"Detective Crowe," Victor said, standing and offering his hand. His grip was firm but brief. "We heard you were on the Hawthorne case. Came down from London for a holiday, didn't you? Bad luck."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," I replied. My eyes drifted again to Eleanor. She had stopped typing. Slowly, she turned.
Her face was prettier than her byline suggested — delicate features, wide intelligent eyes — but there were shadows there too. Bruise-like circles beneath her eyes that powder hadn't fully hidden. When she met my gaze, something flickered across her expression. Recognition? Fear? Or simply the weariness of someone who had already seen too much of this city's underbelly?
"Miss Voss," I said. "Your article was one of the first things I saw in Hawthorne's study. He had circled a line of yours in red."
Her lips tightened. "Which line?"
"'Why does it feel so terribly wrong?'"
She looked away for a moment, toward the rain-streaked window. Outside, the street moved in shades of grey — pedestrians hurrying under black umbrellas, horses steaming in the cold. The world felt one shade away from total monochrome.
Victor cleared his throat. "We're under pressure already. The prosecutor's detention made for easy headlines, but some of us…" He glanced at Eleanor again, that quiet crush visible in the way his voice softened. "Some of us think the speed of the arrest is suspicious. Too clean."
Eleanor's fingers traced the edge of her typewriter. "They want us to drop it. The owner came down this morning. Said the story 'serves no public interest beyond today.' Shorten the follow-ups. Focus on the prosecutor's motive. Move on."
I leaned against the desk. "And what do you both think really happened?"
Victor exchanged a look with Eleanor. She hesitated, then spoke, her voice low.
"I think Hawthorne let someone in he trusted completely. Someone who didn't need force. Someone whose presence made violence feel… righteous." She shivered visibly. "The housemaid's description — that red-orange hair like living fire — it's already spreading among the staff. They're calling him an angel. Or a devil wearing angel's skin."
My pulse quickened. The false messiah again. Seductive. Loyal to the death. I could almost see it: that burning hair catching the lamplight, the perfect smile disarming a cynical lawyer in seconds.
Victor lowered his voice. "There's more. Another servant mentioned the stranger left a single Turkish cigarette behind — unlit. No one in the house smokes that brand."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The same faint scent that had lingered in the study. The same brand I myself carried.
Before I could respond, the newsroom door burst open. A breathless messenger boy rushed in, waving a fresh telegram. The entire room fell into a hush as he handed it to the editor.
"Another one," the boy gasped. "Just came through. Brussels. A Belgian diplomat shot dead in his carriage this morning. Same style — close range, no witnesses, rain washing the street clean before police arrived."
The editor read the telegram aloud, his voice flat. "Prosecutor Lang remains in custody in Cardiff… yet the killings continue."
The words landed like stones in still water. I felt the room tilt. If the prosecutor was locked away, then who — or what — had killed again in Belgium?
Victor was already reaching for his coat. Eleanor stood too, her face pale but determined. For a moment her eyes met Victor's, and I saw the depth of his unspoken feelings — a man watching the woman he cared for walk toward something dangerous, powerless to stop her.
"We're going to Brussels," Victor said. "The paper wants eyes on the ground. You coming, Detective?"
I nodded slowly. My holiday was over. Whatever force had begun in Cardiff was already moving across the sea, crowned in red-orange fire, leaving perfect smiles and erased evidence in its wake.
As we stepped out into the drizzle, Eleanor pulled her coat tighter. "Detective Crowe… do you believe in monsters that look like saviors?"
I didn't answer immediately. The rain had begun to fall harder again, turning the street into a glistening black mirror. In one puddle I caught a distorted reflection — my own face, and for one heartbeat, a flicker of burning red-orange hair just behind my shoulder.
I blinked. It vanished.
But the question remained, burning brighter than any flame.
If the prosecutor was innocent and locked away, then the angel with the fiery hair had just struck again — hundreds of miles away — while the rain obediently washed the world clean.
And he was only getting started.