Two days later, a banging on the door woke Ned from a disturbing dream about wolf eyes and champagne.

“Edward Joseph Kelly. You get up right now, you useless lump!”

“Keep your voice down, Meg. You’ll get him in trouble with the landlady.”

Ned groaned into his pillow. A man cursed with older siblings could never know any peace. London was simply not big enough. Maybe he should just move to Manchester. Or better yet - the colonies.

The door swung open, and his oldest brother and sister burst in.

“Good morning, Meg. Good morning, Patrick,” Ned said with a pointed sigh.

“Morning? It’s past noon, you laggard,” Meg said.

“Ma said you didn’t come to New Year’s dinner because you had to work overtime, so we just came to see if you need anything,” Patrick added cheerfully.

“Yes. Some peace would be nice,” Ned muttered.

They ignored that and made themselves at home. Meg sat on the only chair, while Patrick let himself fall onto the bed next to him. As always, he smelled of the newsroom - ink, paper dust and cigarettes.

“Give your favourite brother the latest scoop,” he demanded.

“If Francis wants a scoop, he can ask himself,” Ned replied dryly. 

Patrick elbowed him in the ribs. “Come on, Ned. One more exclusive, and they’ll promote me to senior reporter. I need a leg up.”

“The only headline I can give you right now is ‘Detective Sergeant suspended for insubordination.’ Though I would be obliged if you didn’t run with that one.”

“Bloody hell, Ned, what have you done?” Meg exploded.

“Language, sis,” Patrick reprimanded absentmindedly, but kept staring at his brother. “What happened? Did that bastard Blackwood tear you a new one again?”

Ned rubbed his eyes and shrugged unwillingly. “I wanted to talk to the Earl of Ravenstone. The second victim – the MP - was killed shortly after he left Ravenstone’s townhouse on Boxing Day. But Blackwood insisted that it was unconnected. One word led to another and … eh…  I may have called him a coward. In front of the Chief Inspector.”

“You sure know how to pick your moments, little brother,” Patrick said with a sigh.

Meg’s face darkened. “I’d like a word with that Ravenstone bastard myself.  He keeps calling for more raids on Soho pubs to root out ‘revolutionary elements’. It’s going to ruin honest businesses.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Honest businesses? I’ve seen more anarchists in your pub than at any political rally.”

She huffed and picked up the notebook from the table to hurl it at her brother.

“Don’t! That’s evidence,” Ned cried out.

“Isn’t it against the law to take evidence home? Especially if you are suspended,” she said.

 “I haven’t logged it in yet. I’ve spent the whole day and a better half of the night trying to make sense of it,” Ned admitted.

“Let us help then,” Patrick suggested with suspiciously shining eyes.

“Is that my brother speaking or a reporter out for a scoop?”

“Your brother. But if I find something that helps reinstate you, you owe me.”

They sat around the table. Ned’s tiny room suddenly felt even smaller with the three of them hunched over the notebook like conspirators.

Patrick flipped through the pages. “Names. Symbols next to each one. Some have question marks, too.  Is it some kind of code?”

“Three of the names are our victims,” Ned said. “The captain, the MP, the actress. And the symbols next to their names match what the killer drew on the bodies.”

“So whoever has this list knows who’s next?” Patrick asked.

“Maybe. But not in this order. There are a dozen names before the captain’s.”

Meg squinted. “A boat for the captain seems obvious. Is that sword next to the MP?”

“He served in the army before he went into politics. But I can’t make any sense of the spiral next to Lilly’s own name.”

She turned the page and tapped at the end of a column.

“Most of the symbols are repeated multiple times. But these two are the only ones that appear once. A paw print and a … wreath?”

“I think it is a crown. But yes, I noticed that, too. I guess I should start with the paw print. There can’t be that many people named Sing in London.”

Patrick leaned forward and squinted at the list, then started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Ned asked suspiciously.

His brother tapped on the crown and the name next to it. “You owe me, little brother.”

“St Clair,” Meg read and frowned. “What about it? There must be a few dozen nobs of that name around.”  

“Sure. Like Henry St Clair. The Earl of Ravenstone.”