Standing in front of the closed door, I stared at it in bewilderment. It showed no sign of reopening, and I couldn’t just stand there forever.
“Sigh…”
I turned around, still dazed. As I left the garden and turned my head, I saw Herschel Hopkins watching me through a window.
Even from a distance, I could tell one thing for sure: Herschel Hopkins looked scared. I felt an overwhelming urge to rush in and ask, “Is someone threatening you?”
Like godfather, like godson. The thought hit me again. What’s the harm in asking for a little help? Why does he keep so many secrets from me?
But soon, the curtains were drawn, leaving the house looking as eerie as an abandoned place. I didn’t linger any longer.
I pulled my hat down low. All that was left in my hand was a piece of paper with a neatly written name and address.
[Owen Cassfire, 37 Blemich Street.]
Strange behaviour aside, I hoped the information he gave me was reliable. I couldn’t understand Herschel, but I tried to be understanding, assuming he had his reasons.
* * *
[37 Blemich Street.]
The address written in my notebook wasn’t far from here, nor was it far from Bailonz Street. So I chose to walk rather than take a carriage. The coachman, seeing me leave in a hurry, glanced at me with curiosity. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to realise I was a woman, thanks to the hat.
“Shall I take you to Bailonz Street?” the coachman asked.
I felt a bit guilty as I leaned against the carriage.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve remembered another place I need to go to, so I’ll have to turn back from here,” I said, handing him 3 pounds and 1 guinea (21 shillings). It was a generous fare for a short ride, perhaps influenced by Liam’s sense of value.
The coachman beamed, forgetting any inconvenience.
“No need to apologise. Have a splendid day, sir!”
“Thank you.”
The sound of the carriage’s hooves faded away cheerfully. I walked slowly, reflecting on what had just happened.
Herschel had suddenly changed, and the ring from Plurititas warned me of imminent danger. Did this mean Herschel Hopkins was a threat? It didn’t make sense. Despite his earlier hostility, it didn’t seem like he wanted to harm me out of his own will.
Maybe I was too optimistic about the situation. But could Herschel’s frightened expression have been an act? Was he that good an actor?
“Hey, what are you doing in front of someone else’s door?”
A gruff voice startled me. I hadn’t even knocked yet. Deep in thought, I had already reached the door at the address.
A man was peering out through the partly opened door, looking annoyed. He seemed to be in his thirties, with a sharp and sensitive demeanour. His red ponytail was tied messily, strands sticking out haphazardly. He looked like he had just woken up, yawning and scratching his head.
His accent was distinctly Scottish, which surprised me, being used to London accents.
“Is this 37 Blemich Street?”
“Yes, you’ve come to the right place.”
“Are you Owen Cassfire?”
“You even know my name. Are you the police? I’ve been living an honest life.”
Usually, people who say such things aren’t really honest. But his eyes were clear, and his hands weren’t trembling, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Criminals often leave traces that are easy to spot.
Blemich Street was a residential area with modestly priced houses, often inhabited by the young and poor. Some of them made money through illegal means. Thankfully, this man didn’t seem to be one of them.
“What’s this about? Did someone die nearby? Are you investigating?”
I explained, “I’m not the police. Actually, it’s about Greenwich…”
The man’s eyes sharpened instantly. He pulled me inside and slammed the door shut, as if worried someone might overhear.
“That woke me up,” he muttered, pushing his shaggy hair back to reveal his bright golden eyes.
“Where did you hear that name? Have you been talking about it openly?”
“Well, Herschel Hopkins gave me your address.”
The tension in his grip relaxed. He seemed reassured now, knowing the name.
“Liam Moore was the one who told me about Greenwich.”
That’s right. Liam Moore was the one who first informed me about the social club. Even though it was Plurititas who mentioned the club’s name, looking surprisingly youthful for his age.
The man looked half incredulous.
“Did that guy really tell someone about the club? I can’t believe it!”
Damn. Liam Moore, why was your life so unreliable? Why did you have no reputation to speak of? Couldn’t you live a bit more decently?
There was no time to argue about the club’s name, so I began explaining step by step.
“I came here because of the dahlia. Herschel Hopkins said you received a dahlia.”
The man shrugged.
“I did. Yesterday, a white flower with a card was delivered to me. I asked the club members, thinking one of them sent it, but no one did. Strange, huh?”
“It seems that recent events are related to that dahlia. The club members have been targeted by crimes one after another, so Liam has been investigating.”
The man seemed to understand, stroking his chin before sighing deeply. He motioned for me to follow him inside.
“What are you doing? Come in.”
You didn’t say I could come in. Annoyed at his rudeness, I frowned slightly and followed him. The sound of slippers scraping the floor echoed.
The house was small with two rooms. The living room was mostly used for daily life, with only a sofa and a table under a large window. It felt empty, as if it was only used for sleeping.
The man flopped onto the sofa and pointed to a single chair. I took a seat as he began to speak.
“I know he’s missing. I saw the article. London was abuzz with ‘The Detective’s Disappearance!’”
“It’s not exactly pleasant. It feels like they’re turning crime into gossip.”
“That’s London for you,” the man muttered, blinking slowly.
I took off my hat, revealing my hair pinned up high. The man stared at me for a moment before realisation dawned on him.
“Ah! You’re… right. You live with him, don’t you? What’s your name? He often talked about you.”
“Jane Osmond… Wait, Liam talks about me?”
I don’t know what he’s been saying, but this could get awkward. I scratched my ear, trying to hide my embarrassment. The man, watching me with interest, smirked.
“Didn’t William tell you?”
“He didn’t.”
Wait. I asked again.
“…William?”
“Yes, William.”
William? He’s Liam. Well, I know Liam can be short for William, but still…
“…Not Liam?”
“That’s his nickname and alias.”
Great.
It had been a long time since I felt like I knew nothing about Liam Moore. I didn’t even know that the man missing in a pool of blood didn’t go by his real name. Though it was just a nickname.
I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told me his real name. Didn’t he trust me? Was I not close enough to him? I felt a bit hurt. I wanted to grab Liam Moore and demand why I had to hear his name from someone else.