London, 1874. The city moved like a restless beast, its lungs filled with smoke, its veins clogged with carriages and soot. Gas lamps burned dimly through the fog, throwing pale halos across cobblestone streets slick with last night's rain. Amid the noise of merchants, the clatter of iron horseshoes, and the distant shriek of factory whistles, a young man of twenty strode with quiet confidence. His name was Edmund Harrow, and though the world did not yet know it, he had just begun his first walk into legend.
Fresh from his examinations, his appointment papers still stiff in his coat pocket, Edmund crossed the threshold of the East End police station. The place smelled of ink, damp wool, and stale tobacco. Constables milled about, some casting sideways glances at the boyish face beneath his brimmed hat. He was young, far too young by their measure to wear the word "detective," and yet his dark eyes held a steadiness that unsettled even the seasoned men.
At the superintendent's desk, a gruff man with a beard yellowed from pipe smoke leafed through papers. Without looking up, he muttered, "Harrow, is it? You'll want a start. Nothing large, mind you. See if you can make sense of this." He slid a thin file across the table.
Edmund took it carefully, eyes scanning the report: A boiler accident at the Tallowby Textile Factory. One man dead. Case considered closed. Widow insists otherwise.
The superintendent leaned back. "She's making noise, the poor woman. Claims her husband didn't die by chance. No proof, only grief. Still—go have a look. You're new, your boots are clean. See what dirt you can find."
Edmund inclined his head. He asked no further question, though inside, curiosity sparked. A case already dismissed—why hand it to me unless there is something more?
---
The Tallowby Factory loomed like a sleeping monster at the edge of the district, its tall brick chimneys coughing black breath into the sky. The clamor of looms and presses shook the ground as Edmund walked past workers spilling out for their noon break. Their faces were gray with lint and exhaustion.
The foreman, a heavyset man with a balding pate, met him at the entrance. "Detective? Didn't expect you. Thought the matter settled."
"I'm here to confirm," Edmund replied. His voice was calm, measured, yet carried an authority that belied his youth. "Show me where it happened."
The boiler room was a cramped, suffocating place, walls stained with years of steam and rust. A great iron tank loomed in the center, its valves hissing faintly. Edmund knelt near the blackened patch on the floor where the worker had fallen. His gloved fingers traced a strange burn pattern—scorched cloth, yet skin untouched in places where fire should have bitten. His mind noted it, storing the detail quietly.
"Terrible accident," the foreman said, wringing his cap. "Pressure built too high. Poor fellow didn't stand a chance."
"Indeed," Edmund murmured, though his eyes narrowed. Accidents seldom left such deliberate marks.
---
He spoke to the men. One swore the boiler burst suddenly, another claimed it hissed for hours beforehand. Their stories wove together poorly, threads fraying under scrutiny. When Edmund visited the widow, she clutched his hands with trembling fingers.
"My husband knew something," she whispered. "He told me—he had proof, hidden away. He said he'd bring it to the inspector, but he never returned." Her eyes welled with tears. "He was afraid of the foreman."
Edmund pressed gently. "Do you know where this proof might be?"
She nodded weakly. "In his locker, at the factory. A ledger."
---
That night, Edmund returned to the factory. The foreman hesitated when he requested the locker keys, his face paling, but under the detective's unyielding stare, he relented. Inside the narrow tin compartment, amid gloves and tools, Edmund found it: a small ledger, pages filled with neat columns. Numbers. Names. Missing sums.
Embezzlement.
The victim had discovered theft in the factory accounts. And worse—on the final page, a note scribbled hastily: "If anything happens to me, look to him. He fears discovery." The name scrawled beneath made Edmund's blood quicken.
---
The next morning, in the foreman's office, Edmund laid the ledger on the desk. "You'll want to explain this."
The foreman's hands shook as he tried to laugh it off. "Worker nonsense. Baseless scribbles."
Edmund leaned forward. "Then why was the boiler's release valve tampered with? I examined it myself. The pin was removed deliberately. That takes knowledge. Knowledge you have."
The man's face drained of color. Sweat pearled on his brow. He opened his mouth, but no excuse came.
"You sabotaged the machine to silence him," Edmund said quietly. "But fire cannot hide truth forever. It only leaves marks, and I have read them."
The foreman collapsed into his chair, muttering broken words until confession spilled out like oil.
---
Days later, the newspapers carried the headline: Young Detective Exposes Factory Murder. The widow wept when she heard the truth laid bare. The superintendent, surprised and begrudgingly impressed, shook Edmund's hand.
But in the quiet of his boarding room, Edmund did not celebrate. He sat at his desk, candlelight flickering, and opened a leather-bound journal. His pen moved carefully, deliberately.
"The world wears accidents like masks, but beneath them lie hands and motives. A detective must look where others refuse. Truth is never hidden—it is only ignored. — E.H."
He closed the book, set it beside his bed, and stared at the shadows dancing on the wall. He was only twenty, yet already he felt the weight of what lay ahead. Somewhere deep in the city, beyond gaslight and smoke, waited crimes far darker than this.
And Edmund Harrow would be the one to find them.