The carriage moved steadily through the rain-slicked streets of Cardiff as I started talking.
I didn't know where to begin, so I began at the beginning. The words came out slowly at first, then faster, like a dam finally cracking under weeks of pressure. Lila sat opposite me in the warm glow of the small lantern, her opera cloak still draped around her shoulders. The golden light caught the side of her face and made her eyes look darker, sharper, more attentive. Outside, the rain drummed a constant rhythm on the roof, turning the world beyond the windows into nothing but black glass and silver streaks.
"I came to Cardiff for a holiday," I said, my voice rough from disuse. "A simple rest. Fresh air, long walks, no corpses. That was the plan. Instead I stepped off the train and walked straight into a dead man's study."
I told her about the big house on Cathedral Road. The smell of cigar smoke and blood. Reginald Hawthorne sprawled across the Persian rug like a discarded coat. The newspaper open on the desk, Hawthorne's red pencil snapped beside Eleanor Voss's circled sentence. The rain that had already washed the garden path clean before anyone arrived. The housemaid's trembling description of the tall stranger with burning red-orange hair who had been let in without question.
Lila listened without interrupting. The carriage wheels splashed through puddles, sending soft jolts through the frame. The horses' hooves made a steady, wet clop that blended with the rain. I kept talking, describing the way the world had drained of color the moment I stepped into that study — everything turning sharp black and white, as if the rain had taken the life out of the scene along with the evidence.
I told her about the Brussels telegram arriving while I was still in the newsroom with Victor and Eleanor. The diplomat in the open carriage. The second maid's almost identical description. The strand of red-orange hair I had found on the door handle, still glowing faintly even now. The Belgian police who had laughed at me when I showed it to them. The way they had looked at me — half pity, half suspicion — as if I were inventing a glamorous phantom to explain why the case refused to close.
The carriage turned onto a wider avenue. The lantern swayed gently, throwing shifting shadows across Lila's face. She remained perfectly still, only her eyes moving as she watched me.
I kept going.
I described the weeks that followed. The return to Cardiff. The endless walks through the same streets, questioning the same servants, returning to the same crime scenes. The way the rain always seemed to arrive exactly when it was needed, erasing footprints, washing blood into gutters, leaving nothing but clean gravel and polished cobblestones. The growing silence around the case — no new killings, no new witnesses, only the same fading descriptions that grew shorter every time I asked for them again.
My voice grew rougher as I spoke about the doubt that had started to creep in. The way mirrors had become uncomfortable. The way ordinary men in dark coats now made me look twice. The way Inspector Davies had begun watching me with open suspicion, hinting that I was seeing things that weren't there. The way even Victor and Eleanor's articles were being shortened and buried deeper each day, as if the press itself was being gently leashed.
The carriage rocked softly as we passed over a set of tram tracks. Rain lashed the windows harder for a moment, then eased again. Lila's expression never changed, but I could see her listening with every part of her — the slight tilt of her head, the way her fingers rested motionless on the edge of the seat.
I told her about the family of five.
The screams I had heard while walking only a kilometer from the prison. The modest house with the open windows. The father in his armchair, throat cut. The mother on the floor. The two children huddled in the corner. The grandmother near the doorway. The blood mixed with rainwater on the floorboards. The neighbor's description of two ordinary men in dark coats — no red hair, no angelic smile, just two men who had moved quickly and silently.
I described how the scene had felt both familiar and completely wrong. The precision mixed with brutality. The open windows letting the rain in at exactly the right moment. The way the killings had been carried out with speed and efficiency, yet left enough chaos to look like rage.
My hands were trembling by the time I finished describing the bodies. I clasped them together in my lap and kept talking, because stopping felt impossible now.
The carriage continued through the night, the lantern light warm and golden inside while the world outside remained cold and monochrome. I was still talking, unloading every detail I had carried alone for weeks, every question that refused to leave me alone.
And Lila kept listening, her eyes never leaving my face.