The Policeman of Secrets

Chapter 1 Part 1

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Chapter 1

Mr. Snow’s intruder on that strange winter’s evening had been described as the policeman of secrets. All but three of those who had named him as such were now dead. But protecting secrets was indeed his calling, as would soon become apparent in the adventures that were to follow.

In fact, the uninvited guest—discovered sleeping in some comfort beside a roaring fire, a half-finished glass of Solomon Snow’s best port by his feet—preferred to call himself a confidential investigator. When he found himself in the company of fine ladies, as he often did, he became a gentleman adventurer.

That last description suited him well, especially when one considered his appearance.

When first sighted, moaning softly in his sleep as Solomon stood amazed in the center of the parlor above his shuttered bookshop, he was clad in a long black coat of uncertain material. It was well worn and fell to the tops of mud-splashed boots styled in a fashion popular many years before. His dark trousers had a sharp tear along one leg that was spotted with blood, and Solomon was surprised to see what could only be a flute, glinting in the firelight, tucked into a sheath fixed to the broken seam of one boot.

Solomon’s eyes rose, taking in one hand clad in a dirty tan glove and the other missing its smallest finger. The stranger wore a pale ivory-colored shirt of an eastern design that had clearly suited him for some time, and a dark red scarf surrounded his throat.

Above the crimson was a face that was perhaps on the rugged side of handsome, framed by long, unkempt black hair. The complexion was that of someone who spent most of his life outdoors, and an old scar almost surrounding his left eye stood out harshly against the skin.

All in all, a surprising person to be found in one’s home on a January night. But Solomon felt no fear, only a great curiosity. It would be a rare thief who would take time to light a substantial fire in the grate and then rest when he could have easily skulked away.

Solomon softly kicked a shard of ice from his sodden boots. In an instant, the man rose, moving from a seemingly disturbed sleep to full wakefulness and pulling a wicked-looking knife from his sleeve. Solomon could not fail to notice a skein of new blood along the blade.

“Wait,” he began, a treacherous tremor in his voice. “I—”

“Ah, Mr. Snow, you have returned,” said the man pleasantly, halting his apparently imminent attack. His speech came in a deep tone with a strange, neutral accent. Solomon did not take him for a foreigner, but he was clearly well travelled. He stared back hard, his sharp blue eyes seeming to bore into Solomon’s very soul.

The shopkeeper must have passed inspection, for the intruder quickly tucked the blade back into its hiding place.

“Sir, how do you know me?” said Solomon. “What are you doing in my private quarters? The shop is closed. If you are looking—”

“I’m afraid I made use of your hospitality.” The traveler turned, an expansive wave taking in the fire and the chair he had pulled as close to the flames as possible. Solomon noticed a wet red stain along one of its arms where the fellow had been resting, but he kept his peace. “I have been quite busy this long day,” the man went on, “and your parlor was so inviting. I fear I could not help myself.”