Chapter 1

I have seen many corpses.

At the docks of South Harbor, I've seen smugglers with their chests torn open by iron hooks.

In the back alleys of Chapel, I've seen pale-faced prostitutes with filthy skirts.

Even during my military service, I've seen young bodies torn apart by artillery fire.

Yet if I were to name the most unsettling corpse I have ever seen, I would speak of the morning in November 1894 when Adrian Blackwood was found dead in the study.

——

That morning, a drizzle had just fallen over London.

The carriage wheels ground against the street, producing a damp, cold, monotonous screech.

When Inspector Alistair Wyle and I arrived at Blackwood House just before dawn, the crowd had already gathered outside the black iron gate.

"Did you see that? The door was locked from the inside."

"If it wasn't suicide, does that mean the devil got in?"

"Shh—I heard Mr. Blackwood had done something shameful himself..."

I strained to listen, hoping to pick up more useful details.

Inspector Ver had already put on his gloves and was making his way through the crowd.

He was in his early thirties yet possessed a calmness entirely out of character for his age.

The Blackwoods' old butler, Mr. Fitch, opened the door.

He was a man nearing sixty with a sallow complexion and a quivering beard.

He bowed to the inspector, his lips trembling violently.

He tried to speak twice, but only a puff of white breath came out.

"Is the body still where it was found?" Inspector Verr asked.

"Yes, sir," Fitch finally managed to say. "I followed your instructions and didn't let anyone touch him. We even broke down the door in front of the constables. God is my witness; everything inside is exactly as it was found."

The inspector nodded.

The heating was turned up too high, creating a strange sense of unease the moment one stepped inside.

We followed Fitch through the entrance hall and up the main staircase.

Along the way, I saw quite a few servants.

They all stood along the corridor, looking terrified yet striving to maintain the composure instilled in them by their upbringing in wealthy households.

The maids clutched the corners of their aprons while the footmen kept their heads bowed.

None dared to meet our gaze for long.

Once we reached the second floor, two police officers stood guard at the door to the north-facing study at the end of the hall.

The lock had been forced open, and wood shavings littered the floor.

A strange odor seeped through the slightly ajar door.

It wasn't simply the smell of blood.

It was mixed with something else: the mustiness of damp leather, the ash-like smell of embers in a fireplace, and an indescribable, stifling stench as if it had been churned over and over again violently.

Detective Ver stopped at the door and glanced at me.

"Ready, Gray?"

"Yes, sir."

The inspector raised his hand and pushed the door open.

The study was deep.

The entire north wall was lined with bookshelves, and a heavy oak desk stood in front of them. The thick curtains were half-drawn, and grayish-white morning light streamed in through the glass, illuminating the room with startling clarity.

It was precisely this clarity that made my stomach lurch the moment I laid eyes on the body.

Adrian Blackwood lay sprawled in front of the fireplace.

No, "lay" is not the right word, as the position was far beyond what a dying man could normally contort himself into.

His entire body looked as though he'd been knocked down from the front and had then struggled to crawl backward in his final moments.

His right arm was bent backward beneath him.

The knuckles were shattered, and the back of his hand was covered in scrapes and dark red streaks of blood.

His left hand was stretched forward with his fingers splayed as if he were reaching to grasp something.

His head was tilted to one side, and the expression remains unforgettable to this day.

It was not just pain, but terror born of utter fear.

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his mouth was half open, and the corners of his lips were split.

The front of his shirt was caved in, the buttons torn off, and his ribs formed an unnatural indentation.

Even before the coroner spoke, I knew there must be multiple fractures beneath the surface. Even more terrifying was the absence of knife or gunshot wounds on his face and the lack of any nearby weapon.

His body looked as though it had been beaten to a pulp—pounded again and again at close range by fists and blunt force.

"God help us..." I murmured.

Detective Ver stood by the door, surveying the entire room.

An inkwell had been knocked over on the desk, spilling ink everywhere.

A chair lay overturned on the floor, one of its legs snapped in half.

There were large, uneven patches of dried blood on the carpet, as if someone had repeatedly moved, fallen, and struggled to get back up in a short amount of time.

After a few seconds, the inspector asked softly, "Has the doctor arrived yet?"

"He's here," Fitch said, swallowing hard. "He's waiting next door. And...and Mrs. Blackwood—no, the old lady—is here too."

The inspector nodded and walked toward the body.

I followed behind him, finding my boots were sinking into mud with every step.

As we drew closer, I noticed more details around the body.

The small bronze horse on the mantelpiece had been knocked askew.

A half-cufflink lay on the floor.

In the corner near the desk were several deep scratches that looked as if fingernails had made them.

"It wasn't a sudden death, nor was it suicide," the inspector said.

He crouched down and examined the victim's hands first, then the injuries to his face.

Finally, he lifted a corner of the crushed and torn shirtfront.

After just a glance, his brow furrowed slightly.

"The ribs are badly broken," he said. "The chest sustained repeated heavy blows."

I recalled the "devil" mentioned by the onlookers outside.