A cold breath from the Thames swept through the alley — slow, rhythmic, like the breathing of something unseen.For a brief second, I stood in nothingness before the ground of a new world accepted my weight.The soft whoosh of the door — the one I called "the breathing gate" — faded with the mist.The air tasted of salt and coal.
"Landing complete!" Gear, my mechanical raven, bobbed its head twice."Today's wind flavor — half salt, half printer's ink. Five stars, if you ask me."
Before us stood a short brick building with a faded sign: Dockside Reading Room.Dusty curtains veiled tall windows, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed inside.Before I could ask where the door had taken me, a scream split the air —a woman's voice — followed by a shout: "Murder!"
Gear and I turned just as the library door burst open, bell jangling in protest.Two constables rushed out. One caught sight of me — black coat, black hat, rain-soaked hair — and froze.Exactly as the witness had described.
"Arrest him!" the younger officer barked. "The witness saw a man in a black coat like that before the body was found!"
I raised both hands slowly, showing they were empty."My name is Duskborn. I'm merely passing through."Gear let out a tiny hiss of steam — the kind that sounded suspiciously like, 'passing through dimensions.'
The older officer stepped forward, stripes on his shoulder marking rank."I'm Inspector Hayes," he said evenly. "What business have you here, Mr. Duskborn?"
"To listen to the city breathe," I replied — the closest thing to truth I could offer."And if someone's dead, I'd like to see the room. It might help you find your answers faster."
The young constable scoffed. "Help? The witness said you—"
"Give me twenty-four hours," I cut in calmly. "If I can't clear my name by then, you can cuff me and take me wherever you wish. For now, let me and the bird read the room."
Inspector Hayes hesitated — the kind of pause only professionals make.He glanced at my shoes, spotless for a supposed killer, then at the bird."And the raven?"
"Consultant on wind," Gear said proudly. "And I solemnly swear not to blow on evidence without permission."
"Our terms," I added, "I work under your supervision. Gear touches nothing. No blowing, no poking, no tasting — except the air."
Hayes sighed. "Twenty-four hours, starting now. Do anything suspicious, and you'll be in cuffs. Go on."
The reading room was strangely quiet.Two narrow teak tables stood by the window.On one lay the curator — face down, blood seeping from a wound beneath his ribs, staining papers brown.
Hayes gestured at the door."The key was found outside. Not a locked-room case. The killer stabbed him, stepped out, and shut the door behind."
I crouched, eye level with the table.The wood was rough from years of use, but along the entrance edge lay faint white streaks.I touched them — fine grains, gritty.
"Salt," I murmured. "And here—" I took out a small lens."Fibers of coir rope. Someone from the docks touched this table not long ago."
Gear leaned over my shoulder. "Let me taste—"
"Air only," I warned gently.
It pouted dramatically, then exhaled toward the window."Understood, Inspector. I'll limit myself to the flavor of the sea breeze."
I moved to the other side of the table.A new scent brushed past — not soap, not paper glue, but pine oil mixed with alcohol — the smell of old furniture cleaner.I lifted a leather-bound book. Under the slanting light, greasy fingerprints gleamed across the cover.
"Someone with oil-stained hands touched several books," I said. "The scent's still fresh."
"Pine oil," Hayes muttered. "Pawnshops use it to make antiques look new."
"My thought exactly."
I examined the curator's logbook.The early entries were written in solid black ink, but later lines turned bluish, thinned — a different pen or diluted ink.I flipped back a page. Morning entries were uniform. Afternoon — different shade."Morning and afternoon don't match," I murmured.
"Meaning?" Hayes asked.
"Someone added to the record later — to set up a false timeline."
Hayes frowned but jotted it down.
The wound itself was narrow, deep, angled rightward.No long drag marks — a single thrust.Blood sprayed diagonally toward the right.
"The killer stood on the victim's left and was right-handed," I said.Hayes nodded, noting it.
Under the table lay the weapon: a wood-carving knife, one-sided edge, pointed tip.The blade bore small nicks — a craftsman's tool, not a sailor's knife.
"Anyone could own one. Crate makers, repair shops, pawnbrokers," I said.
Gear sniffed the air sharply."There's something in the vent — old paper, dry glue."It perched by the vent but didn't touch. "Permission to sniff closer?"
I nodded. Hayes watched silently.Gear tilted its head. "Folded paper. Half a sheet."
Using a ruler, I fished it out carefully — a torn shipping record, half missing.Numbers and dates intact.
"The other half," I said, "is somewhere — and very important."
In the hall, Hayes gathered four people present during the afternoon:Albert Cole, dock clerk, hands rough with rope burns;Miriam Kane, pawnbroker, sharp eyes, faint scent of pine oil;Simon Wegg, local journalist, messy hair, notebook always in hand;and Rosa Lind, library assistant, pale, with a faint ink stain on her finger.
I addressed them calmly."A man in a black coat isn't rare in a London drizzle.But let's read each of you instead of the witness."
Hayes folded his arms and nodded.
Albert spoke first. "Every Wednesday I deliver shipping records here for archive. I waited fifteen minutes for the curator, didn't see him, so I left."
Rope fibers clung to his sleeve. His ink was pure black — not the bluish kind.
Miriam crossed her arms. "I came at half past three. Checked antique price books for a client. I saw no quarrel, just someone writing. Then I left."The smell of pine oil on her coat was undeniable.When I lifted the carving knife earlier, her eyes flicked to it instantly.
"That knife," she said softly. "Looks like what my repairman uses for wooden crates. But they're common."
"Common in your world," Gear muttered, "but specific in this room."
Next was Simon Wegg."I'm a reporter. I'd been requesting port records. The curator said, 'Not complete yet.' I was frustrated, yes. But here—"He produced a folded sheet. "He gave me half the list two days ago, told me to wait for the rest."
I matched it with the torn paper from the vent — perfect fit."Good," I said. "At least we know it's genuine."
"Where were you between three and four?" Hayes asked.
"In the café by the corner — two coffees, one walnut cake."
"Receipt?"
"Pending," he admitted.
Lastly, Rosa Lind clutched her small notebook."I help copy records. Ink always stains my fingers."She showed me her hand — bluish-black ink, matching the altered entries."I left to buy candles. I—I wouldn't hurt anyone."
I nodded but said nothing.
Hayes turned to me. "So? You noted salt, pine oil, ink shades, and blood angles. What do you make of it?"
I walked through the evidence aloud."One — the key outside means the killer left calmly.Two — salt and rope fibers point to dock hands.Three — pine oil marks the pawnbroker's trade.Four — carving knife from a repair shop.Five — two shades of ink, implying tampering.Six — blood spray confirms right-handed stab.Seven — greasy fingerprints on book covers.Eight — the torn record, now whole."
Gear raised its wing. "Nine — the air tastes like lies, one spoonful."
"Gear."
"I said air, not anyone," it replied sweetly.
Hayes exhaled. "You've got twenty-four hours. What next?"
"I'll test a simple hypothesis," I said."The right hand that stood on the left.Who had reason, opportunity, matching tools — and the wrong shade of ink."
Hayes nodded. "You think someone hid the paper to frame another?"
"Exactly. Hidden too obviously. A trick of haste."
Wegg frowned. "Are you accusing me?"
"I'm accusing no one," I said. "Only pointing out that half-truths travel faster than whole ones."
Before leaving, I sealed the knife and paper in glass jars, labeled them properly."Evidence," I told Hayes. "People lie; objects don't."
"And who will you question first?" he asked.
"The one with the strongest scent," I said, turning to Miriam."Your shop uses pine oil with extra alcohol, doesn't it?"
She smiled faintly. "Sharp nose, detective. It's efficient. Everyone uses it."
"Not everyone leaves it behind like a signature."
Gear scribbled in his "wind-tasting log.""I'll note the brand for scientific accuracy," it said solemnly, earning Rosa's nervous giggle.
Hayes closed his notebook."Enough for tonight. Tomorrow morning, we reenact the scene. Each of them stands where they claimed to be. Let wind, light, and direction tell the story."
"Agreed," I said. "And I'll need each person's ink for comparison."
"Granted."
Before stepping out, I paused at the vent again.Cool air brushed my fingers — someone had disturbed it recently.Gear perched by the window."I'll keep watch here tonight," it declared. "If the pine scent grows stronger, I'll shout 'Turpentine!'"
"Not 'Murder,'" I warned.
"I conserve my words."
We left as rain thinned into mist.The children outside peered through the glass."Will the library be closed?" one whispered.
"Not if the truth opens first," I said.
Gear nudged my shoulder. "Summary of the day, sir:One — salt and coir, dockside link.Two — pine oil, pawnshop.Three — dual ink, second hand.Four — half paper, missing truth.And five — cake tomorrow morning."
I laughed. "Solve the case first, then we'll talk cake."
"I'll taste only air until then," it sighed, releasing a soft puff of steam.
As we walked away, the Thames breathed with the city — steady, secretive.Twenty-four hours.That's all I had to prove the man in the black coat wasn't the killer.And I intended to let wind, ink, and wood grain speak louder than any witness.