The dawn had yet to fully awaken the streets of London, and a shroud of morning mist lingered between the window bars and eaves.
At 5 a.m., as the night was gradually receding, in the Baroque townhouse at No. 15 Lancaster Gate, the maid Becky had just risen.
She first stretched lazily, then swiftly like usual, changed into her housekeeping dress, wrapped her shawl tightly, and rubbed her drowsy eyes as she went downstairs, preparing to clean the stove and cook the morning porridge before daybreak as usual.
But when she turned the corner of the stairs, she suddenly stopped. The dining room on the first floor still had its lights on.
This was very unusual on normal days.
Sir Arthur Hastings was always meticulous in his habits, even if he returned late at night, he would always extinguish the lights himself.
Yet now, the glass chandelier below the beam, illuminated by whale oil, was still emitting a circle of warm light, tinting a corner of the staircase with a soft yellow hue.
