Morning returned to the docks, the air still thick with salt and coal smoke.But the little library by the river was quieter than yesterday.I arrived early; Inspector Hayes was already there, notebook in hand, steam rising from his cup of tea.He looked far more rested than the night before.
"Your twenty-four hours have begun," he said.
"Then let's start with the facts—before the words," I replied."Ink, shoes, and the routes they took yesterday."
Gear swooped down from the window frame."Ready for duty as vice-president of wind-tasting. I've demoted myself for humility."
Hayes rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
We gathered the four suspects once more—Albert Cole, Miriam Kane, Simon Wegg, and Rosa Lind—before the same teak table, its dark stain of blood still visible.I requested three things from each: their daily ink bottle, the shoes they had worn yesterday, and their exact standing positions from that afternoon.
1 — Albert Cole
Broad-shouldered, rope-scarred hands; he set down a bottle of ink black enough to swallow the morning light.
"I've used this brand for years," he said. "Thick, steady, doesn't smear."
A dip of my stick showed the ink clotted instantly—nothing like the bluish-black used in the curator's afternoon notes.Dry hemp fibers still clung to his sleeve. He didn't bother denying it. "Ropes are mischievous," he muttered.
"Did you enter the reading room yesterday?" Hayes asked.
"No. I waited in the hall, complaining with the guard about the new ship's weighing schedule, then left."
"Do you recall the sound of the door?" I asked. "One click or two?"
He thought a moment. "One—short, from outside. Someone pushed or pulled—I'm not sure. But I heard the latch."
It matched what we'd found: the key left outside.
2 — Miriam Kane
She stood calm, eyes measuring the room as if pricing it.Without being asked, she placed a small bottle on the table."My shop's turpentine and alcohol mix. It polishes antiques quickly."The scent was identical to what I'd caught on the leather covers yesterday.
"How well do you know this knife?" I showed her the carving blade sealed in glass.
She glanced once—sharp, professional."One-edged, fine-tipped. Used to trim crate joints or window frames. Any workshop dealing in repairs owns a few."
"You employ such craftsmen?" Hayes asked.
"Two, on rotation. Neither came here yesterday, so I ran the errand myself."
"Where were you between three and four?"
"By the price-reference shelves. The curator called me into the small room to sign a ledger. Then I left."Her voice was steady—too steady for someone who'd seen blood. I noted that.
3 — Simon Wegg
He laid the half document on the table. I joined it with the torn sheet from the vent.Under the lamplight the fibers aligned perfectly—until the page numbers told a different story.His piece read 12, mine 21, inverted.
"If they're consecutive pages," I said, "they should be 12-13 or 20-21, not opposites."
Wegg frowned. "So someone tore different ledgers and matched them to look complete?"
"Or reversed the numbers to make the holder of the other half appear guilty," I replied."The fonts match, but the ink density differs—printed in separate batches."
Hayes leaned close as I overlaid the headers. The press marks were misaligned by a hair."The forger was good," I said, "but overlooked the easy part—page order."
"I still say the curator gave me my half two days ago," Wegg insisted.
"We'll verify that with the café," Hayes said.
4 — Rosa Lind
She stepped forward, pale but composed, placing a tiny bottle of library ink on the table—bluish-black, identical to the afternoon entries.An ink smudge marked her left forefinger.
"I copied records from two to three o'clock," she said quickly. "Then went to buy candles. Maybe I overwrote some older lines."
"Write these words for me," I asked, handing her a quill and paper: Transport and Warehouse.She wrote in haste; the first word became Personsend—a habitual slip from Thai-style "คนส่ง."I folded the page silently and caught Hayes's eye: remember that pattern.
Gear scribbled in his notebook."Afternoon ink—thinner, lighter. One drop of water added. Not Cole's recipe."
"Gear." I raised a brow.
"I only inhaled the air above the bottle," it said piously. "Moral science."
Reenactment
Each took their claimed position: Cole in the hall, Kane by the price shelves, Wegg near the door, Rosa by the librarian's desk.Inside the small reading room I stretched colored string from left to right—the supposed stabbing angle—tying a knot at rib height.A red-tinted water flask stood in for blood. Hayes volunteered as the victim; I took the attacker's place, right hand poised.
At the pull of the string, red droplets arced diagonally, striking the table's edge—the same pattern as yesterday.Perfect overlap.
Hayes faced them all. "So the killer stood on the victim's left, weapon in the right hand."
Cole nodded; Kane folded her arms; Wegg scribbled eagerly; Rosa swallowed hard.
I wiped the table clean, preserving the original stains. Then, in the hall, I reopened the curator's notebook."Here," I said, pointing. "The word transport misspelled exactly as Rosa just wrote. Hand habits reveal their owner."
Rosa went pale. "I only… copied from his notes—wanted the records neat."
"And," I continued, "the mismatched page numbers show someone built a trap: fake halves to cast suspicion on Wegg."
"The curator gave me that half, I swear," Wegg said.
"We'll see," Hayes replied. "Half-truths are still deliberate."
The Hidden Drawer
While we spoke, Gear had grown oddly silent atop the bookshelf.It tilted its head, inhaled. "The pine scent here is stronger than yesterday."
"Where?" I asked.
It tapped the underside of the librarian's counter. "Right at the join. Smells of cloth soaked in polish."
I knelt. A faint line ran against the grain. Sliding my letter opener along it, I heard a tiny click.A shallow compartment appeared—barely the width of a hand.
Inside lay a folded white cloth. Within it—another carving knife, spotless.Its blade gleamed new, reeking of turpentine and alcohol.
The room fell silent except for the Thames outside.I raised the knife for all to see.
"Which means," Hayes said softly, "there were two blades.One bloodied beneath the table, and one hidden clean—by someone who knew this counter's trick."
"Someone inside," I added, "or at least familiar with this desk."
All eyes turned instinctively to Rosa. She stepped back."I—never knew about that drawer!"
"Don't jump to blame," I said. "Pawnshops hide things too." I turned to Kane. "Have you ever opened this desk?"
"I don't touch library property," she said coolly. "But any good craftsman can smell a false panel. Not me."
Gear raised a wing. "Scientific note: the pine scent here is fresh—wiped recently."
"Polished to look new, ready to be shown to someone," I said. "And that's the rule—If someone hands you a clean knife during questioning, remember: there's always a dirty one elsewhere."
Wegg chuckled. "I'm writing that down."
"Credit the chief wind-taster," Gear added solemnly.
Hayes straightened. "So, this morning we have: two ink shades—two hands; reversed pages—intent; two knives—preparation; and the blood angle—right hand, left side."
I nodded. "This afternoon I'll trace each route.Wegg—to the café, confirm time and debt; Cole—to the dock warehouse; Kane—I'll inspect your repair shop; Rosa—show me the ledgers you copied."
"I'll send officers with each," Hayes said. "Six o'clock, we reconvene.By then, I expect a story—and a name."
Investigations
The Café:The owner, a cheerful woman, recognized Wegg instantly."Two coffees, one walnut cake—unpaid three days running.He sat writing by the window from three to after four."Hayes jotted times. "His presence overlaps the murder, but not necessarily his innocence."
I lifted the half-record to the light. "This proves only that his half predates the crime."
The Docks:Workers confirmed Cole delivered documents at two-thirty and returned to loading crates.His ink matched the black signatures on dock logs—nothing like the bluish shade."He may cheat on cargo weights," I murmured to Hayes, "but not on murder. Exclude him."
Miriam Kane's Shop:Glass cases glittered with restored antiques.In the repair section, pairs of carving knives identical to the evidence lay in neat rows.Kane didn't flinch; she polished one expertly, the smell of turpentine blooming again.
"Anyone borrow a knife last night?" I asked.
"No. Cabinet keys stay with me. And those knives? Common stock."
"You handle them well," Hayes noted.
"It's my trade," she replied. "If I feared documents, I'd burn books, not people."
Blunt—too blunt. I wrote that down.
Back at the Library:Rosa laid out the ledgers she'd copied yesterday.The ink—identical bluish tone. Within, the words warehouse and transport alternated with the same habitual misspelling.
"You wrote too fast," I said gently. "You tried to help him finish before handing records to the reporter."
Tears shimmered. "He said not to release them until complete. I just wanted things tidy."
"Do you know how to open that hidden drawer?" I asked.
She shook her head violently. "No!"
I half-believed her. Opening it required knowledge—and intent.
Gear fluttered once. "Afternoon wind report: Wegg—truth with coffee; Cole—salt, no ink; Rosa—ink and language quirks; Kane—pine scent and knowing hands."
"And two knives," I added, "the sign of staging, not impulse."
Hayes checked his watch. "Six o'clock we gather here again.By then, tell us who locked the door from outside."
"Very well," I said. "I'll let the table tell it."
As we dispersed, Gear whispered,"Wind from Kane's shop tonight—strong with pine.If anyone hides the missing half, the air will betray them."
"Don't shout 'Turpentine!' in the street," I warned.
"I'll whisper politely," it promised.
The sun dipped behind the warehouses.Through the library windows, golden streaks slid across the book spines—each polished in the same right-handed motion.I laid a hand on the table that had heard blood confess last night.Tonight it would hear reason instead.
By six o'clock, every witness would return.And the table, the books, the ink, the pine scent, and the page numbers togetherwould name the one who had stood above the law for a moment yesterday—and would stand level with the truth tonight.