Ned was lost in thought as he escorted his sister home to Dean Street. The air outside was biting cold, but at least the snow had finally stopped. As soon as they reached the narrow house that held Meg’s family upstairs and the pub downstairs, she hurried off to prepare for the evening crowd, while he stopped by for a quick chat with his brother-in-law.

He knew he was delaying unnecessarily and that he should finally hand over the notebook to his colleagues at the nearby station. It was tempting to throw it into Blackwood’s face, but he knew it wouldn’t get him anything. The evidence was still too thin.

Still undecided, he pulled up his high collar and wandered down the street towards the French coffeehouse. Three days ago, they had found the actress’s body in the backyard, just a few hours before he was suspended. Now, customers came and went as if nothing had happened.

Regardless of the cold and a murderer on the loose, Soho was brimming with people looking for pleasures they wouldn’t find in more respectable neighbourhoods. Street vendors shouted their wares, selling hot cocoa, roasted chestnuts, and pamphlets promising everything from salvation to revolution.

A street urchin ran past, brushing against Ned's coat. He automatically checked for his wallet, then realised that the child was hurrying to watch a new spectacle across the street, where two prostitutes were battling over a lucrative corner spot, tearing at each other’s hair and threadbare cloaks. An enthusiastic group of spectators was cheering them on, while an enterprising lad started taking bets on which one would win.

Ned was tempted to put his money on the older one when a strange shimmer of gold caught his eye. It seemed to come from a man in a badly patched brown coat and the flat cap of a working-class man walking ahead of him. Ned squinted, then decided it was just a trick of the flickering gaslight lamps.

Still, there was something off. Despite his shabby clothes, he moved with the confident stride of a nob, not the comfortable strut of a Soho lad dodging muck in dirty alleys. Ned glanced down at the man’s feet. The polished leather boots cost more than a factory worker could earn in months.

It was only a matter of time until the pickpockets and cutthroats noticed as well. The street urchin was already moving away from the cheering crowd to follow the man. Ned told himself that it wasn’t his business. If the fool thought it was a good idea to go slumming in a bad disguise, he certainly deserved a lesson.  

The man took a sharp left turn into the narrow street behind the coffeehouse that led right to the last murder scene. Ned wondered if this was one of those degenerates who sought to escape their privileged life by seeking thrills in following sensation and gore.

Not even sure what he meant to do, he followed after him and almost bumped into the urchin again at the corner. The boy raised his head to look at him with large dark eyes, then ran back to the main street.

Ned went further in and stopped at the backyard of the coffeehouse. The man he had followed stood in the middle of it and shoved the muddy snow aside with his boot. He pulled off his gloves and crouched down. Light came from the empty hands as he examined something on the ground.

Ned frowned. So it was not a trick of the street lamps after all.  But how was that possible?

Curious, he took a step closer. The man glanced over his shoulder and quickly rose to his feet. The light went out, yet his amber eyes shone unnaturally bright in the half-dark as he turned to face Ned.

“Good evening, Sergeant Kelly. May I inquire why you are following me?”