The official report told one story. But the constable on duty confided in Yvette—whispers at the station suggested another.

  "Plain as day, our golden-keyed Mr. Chatam fled to escape justice," the officer said, tapping the case file. "Only last month, a Goodwood telegraphist was convicted for tipping off bookmakers about race results—made a filthy profit, he did. And Chatam's landlady swears he smuggled out every valuable before vanishing. Thieves don't work miracles on busy high streets without rousing suspicion."

  Horse-mad Albion had gambled on races for generations. By tradition, results took days to travel from London to distant towns—leaving a window for late wagers even after races concluded. The telegraph's invention shattered this. Companies forbade operators from leaking results, but greed trumped rules. Coded messages, distant accomplices—the scheme was simple, until someone got caught.

  And Ascot's Royal Racecourse made Chatam's flight damning.

  "We checked the telegraph office," the constable added. "Window smashed—but glass outside? That's backwards unless done from within." He spread his hands. "We're calling it robbery—buys time to hunt the real culprit, and keeps the lottery and telegraph bigwigs off our backs. Another operator-turned-thief? Public trust crumbles faster than a stale biscuit."

  Thief. The word struck Julie's heart like a blacksmith's hammer. Her fingers twisted into pale knots.

  Yvette touched her shoulder. "Police only have scraps. Let's hear the landlady's tale."

  No. 12 had seen better days. Faded lace curtains framed windows streaked with soot, and the brass doorknob had lost its polish. Inside, a sour-faced woman in an overlarge cap berated a scullery maid over chipped china.

  "—and that Dutch layabout still owes fourteen shillings!" The landlady's voice carried. "Saints preserve us from foreign idlers—!"

  Yvette cleared her throat. Instantly, the woman's scowl melted into a merchant's smile.

  "Ah! Visitors! Are you—" Her eyes flicked to Julie's red-rimmed ones. "Oh. You're here about Chatam."

  A ledger thumped onto the table. "Gone without a word, the wretch! And left stones in his trunk to trick me!"

  Yvette's brow arched. "Stones?"

  "Every cleaning day, I check the weight of tenants' cases—standard practice! Never peek inside, mind. But that sly devil swapped his silverware for river rocks!" She crossed herself.

  Odd. Telegraphists earned double wages—enough to rent a whole house. Why penny-pinch here?

  A drawling voice interrupted: "Now, now, dear Frau Hoffmann—let's not begrudge the unfortunate."

  A lean figure lounged in the doorway—chestnut curls artfully mussed, cravat loosened just so. Handsome, if one overlooked the ink stains on his fingers.

  The landlady's manner thawed noticeably. "Herr van Something, your rent—"

  "Paid in full!" He tossed coins that rang like church bells on the table—then caught her grasping hand. "I told you my luck would turn."

  Yvette bent to retrieve a fallen paper: a pawn ticket for one gentleman's wool coat, reclaimed that very morning.

  The man—van Something—snatched it back with surprising heat.

  The landlady pocketed the coins with practiced speed. "Your things are gathering dust upstairs. Not that they're worth—"

  "Excellent! You're an angel!" He vanished up the stairs.

  The landlady sniffed. "Artist, he claims. Changes jobs like gloves."

  Moments later, a cry echoed down:

  "Frau Hoffmann! Where is my locked trunk?!"

  Boots hammered the steps. Van Something reappeared, wild-eyed.

  For the first time, Yvette saw genuine fear on his face.

  The landlady squared her hips defiantly. She had no fear of tenants demanding explanations—not when this one had skipped out on rent. Selling his belongings to cover the debt was perfectly legal.

  "Thought there’d be treasure in that box, did you?" she scoffed. "Just a few moldy books—hardly worth the lock. Sold them with the crate, but the damn things weren’t even worth the wood they were packed in." She patted her apron pocket. "Got the receipt right here. Every penny accounted for."

  "You—you sold them?!" The chestnut-haired man’s fingers twitched as he paced like a caged animal. "Who bought them?"

  "Some rag-and-bone man passing through. Not a local." Her smirk sharpened. "Should’ve paid your rent if you cared so much. Next time, don’t vanish without settling debts. Your room’s taken now, but the telegraph clerk’s old place next door’s free—if you’ve got upfront payment." She jerked a thumb toward the yard. "Your junk’s piled by the firewood. Take it or leave it—I’m not running a storage house."

  A muttered curse. Then he was gone, face stormy.

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  "Good riddance," the landlady sniffed to Yvette. "Swindlers like him always come to grief. And that box? Probably stolen—never saw it before he slunk in here months back."

  "Did he live beside Mr. Chatam?"

  "Aye—Zott’s his name. Cropped up half a year ago, already banned from every gaming hell in town for suspected cheating. Tried luring that poor telegraph clerk into cards, thank God he had sense." She leaned in, eager to gossip now that Zott was out of earshot.

  "Any tension between them?"

  "More like Zott pestering Chatam for games. But the clerk? Decent fellow—quiet, punctual with rent. Unlike some." She shot a disdainful glance toward the door.

  "Before he vanished, did Chatam act… unusually?"

  "Other than working late? Not unless you count his cold—though burning the lamp till dawn’ll drain anyone’s health. Knew he was overdoing it—the glass chimneys were black with soot every morning."

  Yvette slid coins across the table. The landlady’s eyes gleamed as she pocketed them.

  Outside, Julie wrung her hands. "I’ve dragged you here for nothing, Ives. The truth’s plain—Chatam needed money, and I… might’ve been part of why."

  Yvette raised an eyebrow.

  "He once asked what income my father expected for a suitor. I think that’s why he took this post—higher wages." Her voice cracked. "And now the landlady says he struggled with rent. If he was saving for… for us… What if he—"

  "Enough." Yvette squeezed her shoulder. "The law presumes innocence. Go home. Let me dig deeper."

  At the station, she watched Julie’s train vanish into sooty London fog before turning back toward town.

  Zott’s type wouldn’t hoard money—not with taverns waiting.

  She found him in the second pub she tried, slumped in a corner with a half-empty bottle—no trace of a windfall, only the desperation of a man fleeing ghosts.

  Activating her pocket watch, she sifted through his recent hours—then froze.

  A tattered tent. A crone with a crystal ball. Coins flung in anger.

  Interesting.

  "Piss off," Zott growled as Yvette approached.

  "Apologies." She feigned absorption in the air behind him. "But the aura here… something unresolved lingers."

  His bloodshot eyes focused, recognizing her from the boardinghouse. "You—!"

  "A hobbyist medium," she said smoothly. "Here because you’re marked by the dead."

  Zott’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Another scam?"

  "How sad." She stood to leave. "To mistake help for trickery."

  "Wait!" He grabbed her wrist. "What do you know?"

  "Only what the spirits show me." She lowered her voice. "A missing man. A grudge over stolen property."

  Zott recoiled. Chatam’s name went unspoken, but his face confessed everything.

  "Books," Yvette pressed. "Why would a ghost care more for those than his diamond ring?"

  "You think I understand?" Zott wrenched his collar open, revealing finger-shaped bruises. "First the notes appeared. Then this. I rigged my room—matchsticks in the hinges. Nobody came in. But the bruises got worse." His laugh bordered on hysteria. "Tell me, clever boy—what living man strangles you without breaking a door?"

  Zott recounted his ordeal with a face etched in terror, teetering on the brink of hysteria. Yvette thought wryly: the saying was true—pitiable, yet detestable.

  He lived next to Chatam, the telegraph operator—a man who, though not wealthy, always paid in cash, never on credit. Zott was certain he had savings squirreled away. But Chatam kept his money in the bank, and every attempt Zott made to break in and steal had failed.

  Then one day, Zott saw him filling out an installment payment slip. Coupled with Chatam’s recent delays in paying rent, suspicion took root. The man owned no property, rarely gambled or drank, and never visited brothels. Where did his money go? Probably some luxury purchase.

  So on the night Chatam vanished, Zott seized his chance. Assuming the telegraph operator was out fixing a line fault—and knowing the landlady went to bed early—he picked the lock (clumsily) and slipped inside. Nothing of value lay in plain sight, but a small locked box in the cabinet caught his eye. Too lazy to fiddle with it, he swiped the whole box and spent the night cracking it open.

  Inside were old handwritten books, ancient as parchment—utterly useless to him. But in the corner gleamed a ring.

  Gold band. And at its heart, a stone so dazzling it stole the breath.

  A diamond.

  Once, diamonds had been dull, too hard to polish. But by the 1600s, Europe had fallen in love with them. Pearls had ruled the Renaissance—now diamonds reigned supreme.

  Zott knew this was fortune smiling on him. But under Albion’s law, stealing goods worth over 40 shillings meant the gallows—and this ring was worth a hundred hangings. True, judges and victims often lied to keep thefts just under the limit. But for a healthy, jobless thief with such a haul? No mercy.

  He had to fence it and flee.

  Problem: Zott was broke. Couldn’t even afford a train ticket (hence pawning his winter coat). So he slunk to a backstreet dealer—the kind gamblers whispered about. In London, he’d get more, but here? Survival came first.

  Bag now heavy with cash, he crept toward the station—only to overhear travelers’ chatter.

  The telegraph station was attacked? Chatam missing? Possibly murdered?

  Regret slammed into him. Even the money in his pocket felt tainted. He should’ve haggled harder—that bastard dealer had fleeced him. Maybe he could squeeze out more... threaten to rat the man out...

  But as he spent two days arguing, things turned strange. Marks darkened on his neck—like someone choked him nightly.

  "You sleep soundly?" Yvette asked.

  "Light as a cat. Even a draft wakes me—learned that in Salvation Army flophouses. Sleep deep there, and you’ll wake nude."

  Those "flophouses" were coffins with straw bedding, crawling with lice. Yet lines stretched for them—winter in Europe killed the homeless.

  And now a man who’d survived thieves’ dens was being choked unconscious nightly?

  A ghost?

  Yvette had heard tales from Winslow—thought them just stories. But the mortician once said: some with awakening powers attracted spirits as kids. Sensitive souls, unstable magic... they saw ghosts, and ghosts saw them back.

  Had Chatam died, drawn to Zott—or his stolen ring? Odd, though... if it was Chatam, why ignore the diamond? Likely meant for Julie’s engagement.

  Maybe the ghost knew: no weddings for the dead. But then why demand the books each dawn?

  Either way, Zott was trapped. He’d stolen the ring—a hanging offense. The police would kill him faster than any specter.

  "Ever try staying awake? I’d be too scared to sleep."

  "I—I tried," he rasped. "Too tired... kept passing out..."

  "You seem oddly calm."

  "I’m terrified!" Zott wailed. He’d bought church charms, mediums’ trinkets—all useless. Now Yvette was his last hope, and her indifference panicked him.

  Her smirk didn’t help. Felt like a cat toying with a mouse...

  "Fine," she sighed. "Rent a clean inn room. Scrub it spotless—especially under the bed. Three wipes, minimum."

  "Ghosts hide there? Need holiness?"

  "No. I’ll be hiding there to watch your nightly visitor. So clean it better than your sheets."

  ——

  Zott bolted to the town’s best inn, scrubbed the floor till it gleamed.

  Night fell. Yvette slid under his bed.

  Bored, she eyed shoes passing the door crack.

  "Let’s tell ghost stories." (Her voice muted beyond three meters.)

  Zott agreed—then regretted it.

  Her tales weren’t stories. They were horrors from futures untold: knocking under beds, upside-down heads peering up... Gothic fiction paled in comparison.

  His heartbeat shook the floorboards.

  Then—suddenly—it slowed. Breathing evened. Asleep.

  A presence.

  Her focus snapped to the door. A shadow. Shoes. Close. Too close.