The heavy clouds above London slowly dissipated, leaving behind a few strands of thin sunlight, diagonally piercing through the worn eaves and streetlamp posts, casting elongated shadows.
The air carried a hint of coal smoke mixed with the damp rust smell, blended with the ink fragrance of newspapers and documents, the coarse language of carriage drivers, and a trace of an invigorating moisture, a scent that appears only before major events unfold.
The front door of Scotland Yard stood tall and silent, like a slumbering old guard, quietly watching over the ruts and crowds along Whitehall Street.
The iron cast door knocker still carried droplets of water, occasionally rattling in the wind.
A carriage slowly came to a halt at the entrance.
Before the driver could assist anyone in alighting, the carriage door was swiftly pushed open from the inside, and a gloved hand rested on the door frame.
