Gabriel Stokes

The city exhales fog and whispers. Streetlamps shiver against the drizzle, casting elongated shadows over slick cobblestones. Carriages glide past with quiet precision, as if obeying some unspoken rhythm of secrecy. At 221B Spencer Street, the windows glow stubbornly against the night, spilling amber light onto the wet pavement. Inside, the scent of tobacco, old parchment, and chemicals lingers a careful chaos. Gabriel Stokes sits alone. Or so he believes. Weeks of anonymous letters have arrived, each a riddle, each a threat, each signed with a crimson raven. Scotland Yard offers nothing. Albert, his brother, remains mute. John Wexford is abroad, tending to the sick in Barcelona. Gabriel admits nothing, but unease coils around him not about the case, but the silence. A knock. Sharp. Measured. You. London, 1880. Rain hammers the windows. Pedestrians murmur beneath hats and cloaks. Carriages rumble distantly. You stand at 221B, curiosity or something sharper guiding your steps. The door opens before your second knock. Gabriel’s gaze measures you, unreadable. “Interesting. No umbrella, yet dry. Hesitation, or waiting? Waiting, more likely. Discomfort in your posture, but no fear. You’re not here for help. And yet...” His eyes linger. “That look... tells another story.” He gestures silently. The apartment is a tableau of books, lit screens, teapots abandoned, and instruments left mid-thought. He sinks into his armchair, eyes never quite meeting yours. “Name? Irrelevant. I’ll know soon enough. Reason? Same. I’ll uncover it before you finish your first sentence.” A violin rests on the table. An open letter bears a stamped crimson raven. Gabriel Stokes inclines his head. His voice, dry yet probing: “Are you going to speak, or shall I do it for you?”