The sound of rain tapping against the windows of Scotland Yard created a rhythmic beat as Frost sat hunched over his desk, deep in thought. The cold, damp air of the city seemed to seep into every corner of the room, but Frost barely noticed it. His mind was a storm of theories and possibilities, each one more troubling than the last.
Blake was across from him, rifling through files, his frustration mounting with every page. "We've gone through these a hundred times," he muttered, tossing another folder aside. "If there's something we're missing, it's hiding damn well."
Frost remained silent, his gaze fixed on a single piece of paper. It was the profile of a man named Charles Rookwood, an unassuming banker who had been interviewed early in the investigation. At the time, Rookwood had seemed irrelevant—a minor figure with no apparent connection to the Black Hand. But now, something about him gnawed at Frost's mind.
"Blake," Frost said quietly, "do you remember Charles Rookwood?"
Blake looked up, frowning. "Rookwood? The banker? Yeah, we talked to him a few weeks back. He didn't seem connected to anything—just another upper-class businessman with no interest in criminal activity."
Frost nodded slowly. "Exactly. But think about it—he's connected to several people we've been watching. He was at Lord Bentley's last party before the murder, and he has dealings with Theodore Blackwood. What if Rookwood isn't as innocent as he seems?"
Blake's frown deepened as he considered Frost's words. "You think he's involved?"
"I think he might be the key we've been overlooking," Frost replied. "Someone in plain sight, just as Thorne said. We've been so focused on the obvious suspects, but maybe Rookwood has been flying under the radar this whole time."
Blake leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before nodding. "It's worth checking out. But if Rookwood is involved, we need to be careful. He'll know we're onto him the moment we start asking questions again."
Frost stood up, his decision made. "Then we won't ask questions. We'll watch him—discreetly. See if he leads us to anything."
Blake nodded, grabbing his coat. "I'll get a team together. We'll set up surveillance on his house and his office."
As Blake headed out to organize the operation, Frost felt a renewed sense of purpose. For too long, they had been chasing shadows, following dead ends. But now, they had a lead—a real lead. And if Rookwood was involved, then the Black Hand was closer than they had ever realized.
***
The rain continued to fall as Frost and Blake sat in an unmarked carriage across the street from Rookwood's townhouse in Mayfair. The wealthy banker lived in a grand, three-story home, its windows glowing warmly in the evening light. From the outside, it appeared to be the epitome of upper-class respectability.
But Frost couldn't shake the feeling that something was hidden beneath the surface.
They had been watching the house for hours, and so far, there had been little activity. Rookwood had returned home from his office earlier in the day, and since then, no one had entered or left the building.
"How long are we going to sit here?" Blake asked, his breath fogging the cold air inside the carriage.
"As long as it takes," Frost replied calmly, his eyes never leaving the townhouse. "If Rookwood is connected to the Black Hand, he'll make a move eventually. We just need to be patient."
Blake grumbled something under his breath, but he settled back in his seat, resigned to the long wait.
The hours dragged on, the rain turning from a drizzle to a downpour. The gas lamps lining the street flickered in the wind, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones. Frost's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but he forced himself to stay alert, knowing that one moment of inattention could cost them everything.
And then, just as Frost was beginning to wonder if they had wasted their time, a figure appeared at the door of Rookwood's house.
Frost straightened in his seat, his hand instinctively going to the pistol at his side. "Blake," he whispered, "look."
Blake leaned forward, squinting through the rain-streaked window. "Is that...?"
"It's Rookwood," Frost confirmed. "And he's not alone."
Behind Rookwood, a second figure emerged from the house—a tall man in a long coat, his face obscured by the shadows. The two men spoke briefly, and then Rookwood handed the man a small package wrapped in brown paper.
Frost's heart raced as he watched the exchange. This was it—proof that Rookwood was involved in something shady. But who was the man he was meeting with? And what was in the package?
"We need to follow him," Frost said, already opening the door of the carriage.
Blake nodded, pulling up his collar against the rain as they slipped out into the street. They stayed in the shadows, keeping their distance as they followed the mysterious man through the winding streets of London.
The man moved quickly, his long strides carrying him deeper into the city's darker districts. Frost and Blake kept pace, their eyes locked on their target as he led them into a maze of narrow alleys and side streets.
Finally, the man stopped in front of an old, run-down warehouse on the edge of the East End. He glanced around, checking to see if he was being followed, and then slipped inside through a side door.
Frost and Blake exchanged a glance. "This could be it," Blake whispered. "We could be walking right into the Black Hand's lair."
Frost nodded, his grip tightening on his pistol. "Stay close. We don't know what we're walking into."
With their weapons drawn, they approached the warehouse, moving silently through the shadows. The door creaked as Frost pushed it open, revealing a dark interior filled with the faint scent of damp wood and oil. The only light came from a few flickering lanterns hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the crates and barrels that filled the space.
They moved deeper into the warehouse, their senses on high alert. Frost could hear the faint sound of voices coming from somewhere up ahead, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.
Suddenly, a noise behind them made Frost spin around, his pistol raised. But it was too late—a figure lunged out of the shadows, knocking the weapon from his hand. Blake was tackled to the ground by a second assailant, and before Frost could react, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his throat, dragging him to the floor.
He struggled, gasping for breath as the world spun around him. But the grip on his neck tightened, and his vision began to blur.
Just before he lost consciousness, Frost heard a voice—cold and mocking.
"Welcome to the abyss, Detective."
***
When Frost awoke, he was lying on a hard, cold floor, his hands bound behind his back. His head throbbed with pain, and his vision was still blurry from the lack of oxygen. But as he blinked and tried to focus, he realized he was no longer in the warehouse.
He was in a small, dimly lit room—stone walls, no windows, and a single door. Blake was beside him, also bound and unconscious, his face bruised and bloodied from the struggle.
Frost gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up despite the pain that shot through his body. Whoever had captured them had taken them to a new location, and judging by the damp, musty smell in the air, they were underground.
As he assessed their situation, the door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside.
It was Charles Rookwood.
The banker smiled at Frost, his expression cold and calculating. "Good evening, Detective Frost. I must say, I'm impressed that you managed to follow me this far. But I'm afraid this is where your investigation ends."
Frost glared up at him, his mind racing as he tried to figure out a way out of this mess. "What do you want, Rookwood? What is the Black Hand planning?"
Rookwood chuckled, shaking his head. "You've been asking the wrong questions, Frost. It's not about what we want—it's about what we already have. And soon, all of London will bow to our power."
Before Frost could respond, Rookwood turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door to slam shut behind him.
Frost leaned back against the cold stone wall, his mind spinning with questions and doubts. They were trapped, with no idea where they were or how to escape. And if Rookwood's words were true, the Black Hand was already moving forward with their plans.
But one thing was certain—Frost wouldn't give up. He would find a way out of this, and he would stop the Black Hand.
No matter what it took.
To be continued…