The November fog crept under the door of Arthur Holloway’s office, carrying with it
the damp chill of the London streets. Arthur, a private investigator whose optimism
had long since been eroded by the city's grime, stared into his lukewarm tea. The
knock on his door was hesitant, timid—not the sound of the usual clientele.His
visitor was Lady Eleanor Vance, her fur coat a stark contrast to the threadbare
state of his office. Her eyes, shadowed with worry, held a plea he had seen a
hundred times before. Her husband, Lord Thomas Vance, a prominent figure in the
city's financial circles, had vanished two nights ago."The police believe he's
simply taken an impromptu trip, Mr. Holloway," she said, her voice trembling
slightly. "But Thomas is a man of routine. He would never leave without a word. He
was last seen leaving his club, The Olympian, after a late-night game of
bridge."Arthur took the case. The fee she offered could keep his lights on for a
year. His first stop was The Olympian, a stuffy establishment that smelled of old
leather and entitlement. The doorman confirmed Lord Vance had left around midnight,
looking agitated. Inside, Arthur spoke with Sir Reginald Pembroke, Vance's bridge
partner."Thomas was off his game," Sir Reginald admitted, swirling the brandy in
his glass. "He'd been receiving threats, you see. Some business with a new shipping
venture. He believed someone was trying to sabotage his company from the inside."
He mentioned a junior partner, a ruthlessly ambitious man named Alistair Finch,
with whom Vance had recently had a fierce argument.Arthur found Finch at his modest
flat in Pimlico, a far cry from the Vances' Belgravia mansion. Finch was nervous,
his initial denial crumbling under Arthur’s pointed questions. He confessed to the
argument, but not to anything more sinister."The Lord was a fool!" Finch spat, his
fear turning to anger. "He was about to sign a deal that would have ruined him, a
fraudulent contract set up by a competitor. I was trying to warn him, but he
wouldn't listen. He accused me of trying to usurp him." Finch claimed he had
followed Vance from the club, hoping to reason with him. He saw him get into a
black car, not by force, but willingly. He saw the face of the driver."Who was it?"
Arthur pressed.Finch swallowed hard. "Sir Reginald Pembroke."The pieces clicked
into place. The concerned friend, the inside man. The "sabotage" was real, but the
saboteur was the one pointing the finger. Lord Vance hadn't been kidnapped by a
business rival; he had been betrayed by a friend, likely lured away under false
pretenses to be forced into signing away his fortune. Arthur left Finch's flat and
walked out into the fog-shrouded night. The city had a new secret to keep, and it
was his job to drag it, kicking and screaming, into the light.
