Six o'clock sharp. The last light of day brushed the book spines in thin gold lines.The little library by the dock had turned into a quiet stage—not for prayer, but for method and truth.
Inspector Hayes leaned against the doorway, notebook ready.Across the table stood the four suspects—Albert Cole, Miriam Kane, Simon Wegg, and Rosa Lind.Gear perched on the high window rail, alternating between tasting the Thames breeze and peering inside as I arranged the scene.
"Before we begin," I said, laying objects on a white cloth one by one,"this— the blood-stained carving knife found under the table.This— the clean one from the hidden drawer.Here— the half record from the vent.And here— the other half from Mr. Wegg."I held a lantern behind the papers so the light bled through both halves."Tonight, we let the table and the books speak for themselves."
Gear raised a wing. "I'll interpret the language of wind—today's vocabulary includes 'turpentine aftertaste' and 'page-number flavor.' Freshly prepared."
Hayes arched a brow but allowed a trace of humor to loosen the room.
I counted the seconds in my head, then began piecing the story as one would shelve books in order.
The Reconstruction
"Yesterday morning," I said, "someone arrived early.They walked quietly through the hall, touching several books with fingers scented of turpentine and alcohol—the same mixture used in a pawnbroker's polish."I gestured toward five leather volumes. "See how the glossy streaks all slant rightward—the stroke of a right hand."Hayes bent to look; each sheen curved the same way.
"That person hid the real carving knife under the table—not a common household blade—then left to wait for afternoon."
I stretched the colored string again, from the victim's left side."In the afternoon, the curator entered. Few noticed. The killer stood on his left, struck with the right hand; the blade angled exactly as the blood-spray showed.Then they took the key, locked the door from outside to mimic an unlocked room, and returned through the hall as if nothing had happened."
Gear nodded. "The vent still tastes of hurry."
Ink and Illusion
"Toward evening," I continued, opening the curator's notebook,"a second hand added entries with bluish-black ink—not Mr. Cole's pure black.Every line misspells 'Transport' the same way—'Personsend.'A habit, not a mistake.It sets a false time — making the victim seem alive after three o'clock when he was already dead."
I lifted the clean knife from its cloth."And when someone came asking for a weapon, the killer planned ahead—hiding this spotless blade in a drawer that only a craftsman would know how to open.If searched, they'd present it as 'the library's knife—no blood, no crime.' "
Elimination
Hayes had learned my rhythm. "Then we remove them one by one."
"Albert Cole," I began. "Rope fibers and salt on your sleeves prove the dock, not murder.Your ink is jet-black, your work timed to the warehouse logs.You handle rope, not wood. You transport papers—but you didn't spill blood."
Cole exhaled like a man setting down a crate. "At least my name's off the knife."
"Next—Simon Wegg.""The halves of your record fit in fiber but not in number: 12 and 21.Two different print runs, deliberately reversed to frame you.The café testifies you were writing when the murder happened.You're the pawn, not the hand."
Wegg smiled sadly. "Good news for me, bad for someone else."
"Rosa Lind," I said softer. "The afternoon ink matches the library's bottle.The same habitual misspelling. You added the entries, yes—but the blood angle shows a right-handed stab from shoulder height, higher than you could reach.Your alibi at the candle shop holds. You were a pen for someone else."
She nodded, tears forming. "He told me to finish it quickly… I was foolish—"
"You were used," I said. "Who told you to hurry?"
Her eyes flicked left, toward Miriam Kane, before dropping. "I don't want to accuse anyone."
Hayes scribbled but kept silent.
The Pawn and the Dealer
I turned to Miriam Kane."Everything in this room points to you. The turpentine-alcohol scent from your shop coats the book spines around this table.All streaked rightward by the same hand.Your shop's knives match the weapon.And the hidden drawer—its mechanism sings to those who know wood.Most of all, the shipping records link the missing cargo from the dock to goods appearing in your store. The complaint the curator was preparing would have drawn that line for the council next week."
Miriam smiled coldly. "Turpentine is everywhere. Every antique shop smells the same. You can't nail me with a scent."
"I don't rely on scent alone," I answered. "It's fresh, not stale—wiped after the murder. The gloss angles prove one hand touched them continuously.That same hand hid a clean knife where a woodworker would. You had the skill and the motive."
Gear nodded. "The air agrees. Turpentine newly polished, not yesterday's scent."
"Next evidence," Hayes said calmly.
"At the table's edge," I showed, "small scratches curve rightward—made when a chair was pushed back hard after the stab. Their height matches a woman of your build, in low-heeled shoes.Rosa's marks sit lower. The table remembers."
Miriam laughed once. "You measure people by scratches now?"
"The table is the most honest witness here."
Hayes lifted his pen. "Motive?"
"At her shop we found purchase records whose numbers mirror those on the dock's missing-cargo list.The inspection committee was due this week.She had to keep the documents buried."
Miriam's hands tightened. "Those papers would ruin me. I just wanted him to stop."
"Then you chose a dirtier method to cover dirt," I said.
Confession of the Room
Silence fell. Hayes closed his book. "Miss Kane, anything to say?"
She exhaled, smiling as if weighing a lie. "He threatened my business. I only wanted to scare him—"
"But you prepared two knives, two halves of a record, and a second hand to forge his notes," I cut in."You locked the door from outside and walked back in like nothing happened."
Hayes signaled his officers. Miriam looked toward the exit and smiled."The world will manage without him—or me."
"The city has laws," Hayes said. "And today the table is our witness. Miriam Kane, you are under arrest for murder."
The click of handcuffs was soft as a page turning. She did not resist. To Rosa she murmured, "You write well — just too fast," then laughed once.
Rosa wept silently. Hayes spoke gently. "Miss Lind will be questioned for obstruction, but her cooperation matters."
Wegg bowed to the table. "Tonight's headline: Table Defeats Human."
Cole put on his hat. "I'll tell the dock workers not to fear books for a drop of blood."
Aftermath
I turned to Hayes. "The witness who saw a man in a black coat…"
He smiled slightly. "Half the dock wears one. You fit the description—but not the crime.You've cleared your name within a day."
Gear fluttered down to a chair back. "Wind report: one drop of turpentine, two of afternoon ink, half a page reversed, and a full measure of truth." It puffed steam with pride. "Requesting one taste of victory air."
"Air only," I said automatically.
Hayes turned to me. "Mr. Duskborn, on behalf of the department—an official offer.Work with us as special consultant."
I touched the thin envelope in my coat—barely coins enough for rent and Gear's repairs.The offer landed on the table with better timing than any station clock.
"I accept," I said. "So long as I can defend truth in the quietest way possible."
Hayes extended a hand. "Then allow me your bird's motto— Air only."We shook hands, men of the same method.
Books stood still; the reading table restored to order.The gleam on its surface—left by one woman's fingers—would fade beneath next week's dust.I placed the two halves of the record together as a reminder: half truths help no one for long.
At the window, the two children from yesterday pressed their faces to the glass and gave a thumbs-up.Gear bowed grandly, then eyed the ink bottle on the table, swallowing loudly.
I mouthed, "Don't."
It snickered. "Just a taste of justice ink." Then blew a gentle puff over the label."Certified by Chief Wind-Taster."
We packed the evidence boxes. Hayes sent the team away.The library breathed again—no longer a chamber of cries but a house of quiet.I pocketed my lens, my notebook, and the last sliver of silence.Inside the ink bottle, the bottom was dark as morning truth—ink that never lies to time.
As we stepped outside, the damp air from the river brushed my cheek."Tonight," Gear whispered, "we celebrate—with cake that smells of no turpentine."
"Gladly," I said. "Tomorrow, a new post."
"What title this time?" it asked, eyes wide.
"The quiet man who makes tables speak." I smiled.
Gear laughed, a long soft fooo—its version of champagne."Deal. Tonight we taste the wind of cake; tomorrow the wind of another case."We walked side by side along the wet pavement that reflected lamp-light.The city breathed—exactly as it should.