Chapter 2: The Lost Letter Returns

Rain tapped a fine, dense rhythm on the canal water, like countless invisible palms frantically beating against the skin of this ancient city. When De Jong pushed open the apartment door, his clothes clung tightly to his bones. Bone-chilling dampness seeped through his pores, forcing a shiver from him. He casually flicked water droplets from his sleeve cuffs, ignoring the dark brown stains pooling on the entryway mat, and left the lights off. The darkness seemed to offer him a brief moment of peace and secrecy better than the rain could.

He went straight to the desk, his fingers trembling as he pulled open the hidden compartment at the bottom of the drawer. The instant his fingertips touched the sheepskin letter, the coldness shot through his nerve endings, striking the core of his heart. The letter lay quietly there, its edges yellowed, creases deep as if carved by a knife, recording some heavy and foul history. He struck a match and lit the candle at the corner of the table. The candlelight flickered across the paper surface, the dim halo pushing back the darkness in one corner and illuminating a thinner layer within the compartment—a structure he had never noticed before.

De Jong held his breath, carefully prying open the thin film with his fingernail. With a soft *shhk* sound, a line of faded ink characters was revealed. Though the ink had mottled, it remained sharp: *A blood contract lies buried beneath the canal.*

His gaze shifted from the text to the lead seal impression beside it. Examining it closely against the candlelight, he noticed fine metal burrs along the cut edge, unoxidized, flashing a nearly ferocious, fresh luster in the flame. This was not a relic from the seventeenth century, but something recently retrieved from somewhere, possibly still carrying the scent of mud and blood. De Jong frowned, his fingertip stroking the burrs. The rough texture scraped against his patience like sandpaper, and his thoughts sank into a deep pool.

Suddenly, rough knocking sounded from outside the door, each strike hammering onto De Jong’s taut nerves. Before he could answer, Hester Vis pushed the door open. Soaked in rain, he looked anything but a dignified journalist, his face ashen blue, water dripping from his jaw to form a small puddle on the floor. He offered no pleasantries but roughly flung a yellowed sheet of paper onto the table; the corner of the page thumped heavily against the surface with a dull sound. It was a copy of the autopsy report from that year.

Hester’s voice was cold, every word squeezed out like bits of ice from between his teeth: “De Jong, you tampered with the conclusions back then and sent Martis to prison.”

De Jong did not take the report; he merely cast a downward glance at the page corner, his gaze sharp as a blade: “This corner bears the date of that day. When Martis was arrested, this report had not yet been completed.”

Hester let out a snarl, the laugh short and piercing, especially jarring in the small space: “Martis’s letters from prison mentioned the lead seal. You were the first person to access the seal back then. The logic is simple—you are the suspect.”

De Jong stood up, walked to the desk, took out the sheepskin letter, and pushed the lead seal impression toward Hester. Under the candlelight, his face was half-lighted and half-shadowed, looking unnervingly calm: “Look at the cut. Fresh metal burrs; it was only recovered recently. Martis had only just come into contact with this item before he disappeared, not back then.”

Hester stared at the impression, narrowing his eyes, his lips pressed into a cold straight line. He extended a wet finger, pointing at the burrs through the air, still insisting: “You were an accomplice. What cannot be explained is suspicion.”

De Jong countered, his voice low but clear: “If I were an accomplice, why would I still be looking for the lead seal? Why hide it here, waiting for journalists like you to come knocking?”

Hester was speechless. The candle flame flickered, stretching their shadows into twisted, elongated shapes. After a moment, he changed his tone, his voice carrying the hint of a probe and a deal: “I know the true cause of Martis’s death—it wasn’t suicide in prison. I know the truth, De Jong. I hold your weakness in my hand.”

De Jong’s gaze sharpened; he leaned slightly forward, the pressure suddenly intensifying: “Speak.”

But Hester fell silent, the corner of his mouth curving into a sly, dangerous arc: “Hand over the original manuscript of the sheepskin letter, or I call the police. If the police come, you can’t explain it, and I can’t explain it. We all go down together.”

De Jong shook his head, releasing a contemptuous sigh: “You are a journalist; you have no right to take the evidence.” He looked directly into Hester’s eyes—two fires of burning rage, yet fear lingered deep within: “Since you know the cause of death, you should speak up. Silence only keeps the blood contract buried under the canal.”

Hester remained silent, his gaze greedy on the sheepskin letter, lingering for a long time, as if swallowing some kind of temptation. Outside, the rain fell more fiercely, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the church bells sounded muffled through the steam, one toll after another, striking the spine of this city and De Jong’s heartbeat.

De Jong stopped talking nonsense. He withdrew the letter into the hidden compartment and locked it with a key; the metal lock turned with a crisp, decisive click. He turned to face Hester, his soaked clothes reeking of mildew and the briny scent of rain: “The blood contract Martis left behind—the clue is in the canal. If you truly want to investigate, come with me.”

Hester sneered, stepping back and leaning against the door, as if trying to escape this suffocating room: “With you? You put him in prison back then, and now you want to team up? De Jong, you don’t deserve it.”

De Jong spoke calmly, his tone devoid of anger, carrying only a near-fateful serenity: “I tampered with the report; I couldn’t save him. But I didn’t kill him. The burrs on the lead seal prove he was silenced recently for accessing this item. I am the only one who can help you untangle this knot.”

Hester remained silent. He fixed his gaze on De Jong, and after a long while, the hostility in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a complex, heavy burden. He spoke in a low voice, his words nearly swallowed by the rain: “Before Mathis died, he sent me a letter. It said that the Blood Contract wasn’t just one copy. Underneath the canal, there’s another. That’s the real thing that can put you to death.”

De Jong’s pupils contracted slightly; his heart seized as if gripped by an invisible hand. The candlelight flickered between them, casting shadows on the stained water marks on the wall. Those marks resembled spreading mold, signaling that this relationship had long since rotted from the inside out. He asked in a dry, raspy voice: “Where is that letter?”

Hester took a step back and shook his head, a smug look of total control on his face: “Once you hand over the original manuscript, we’ll talk. This is my trump card, De Jong.”

De Jong said nothing. In the distance outside, the foghorn of a ship sounded—low and long, like a sigh rising from the depths of the water. It pierced through the thick glass and lingered in the room for a long time. He knew this confrontation was far from over, and that the canal below was quietly waiting for them to lift that bloody veil.

De Jong looked down, his fingertips tracing the edge of a parchment letter. He had long suspected Hester held a card up his sleeve—Mathis never put all his eggs in one basket.

“The manuscript is in the dock warehouse, crate number seven,” De Jong said, his voice steady. “But even if I give it to you, you won’t be able to open it.”

Hester frowned: “What do you mean?”

“That crate uses a dual-spring lock Mathis invented himself. There’s only one key, and it’s in his possession,” De Jong looked up, his gaze piercing through the curtain of rain. “He’s dead, so the key is gone. If you force the box, what’s inside will self-destruct. That was his final insurance.”

Hester’s expression shifted slightly. He reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a brass key, spinning it once between his fingers: “Are you talking about this?”

De Jong’s eyes widened sharply. He recognized the teeth on that key—Mathis had once shown it off, claiming it was the last thing in the world that could prove his innocence.

“How... how do you have this?”

“It came with the letter.” Hester tucked the key away, his tone turning cold. “So, De Jong. Now it’s your turn to make a choice.”

The rain intensified, drumming against the window frames. De Jong was silent for a long moment before finally speaking, slowly: “If I help you, will you guarantee you won’t touch my family?”

“I only want the truth,” Hester said. “I don’t care about your life.”

De Jong nodded and walked to the bookcase in the corner of the room. He pushed open a hidden compartment and retrieved a package wrapped in oilcloth. He untied the rope, revealing a yellowed paper scroll inside, and handed it over without a word.

Hester took it and unfolded it. The paper was covered in cramped, scribbled notes, with dark red ink stains mixed into the handwriting. As he read line by line, his expression grew increasingly grim.

“... The autopsy report was altered in three places. The last alteration was signed by De Jong’s own hand. He didn’t change the conclusion, but the time—”

Hester looked up sharply, his gaze like a blade: “You changed the time of death?”

De Jong did not deny it: “I was on the scene when Mathis died. He didn’t drown; he was poisoned. But before he died, he wrote the word ‘canal’ on my hand.”

Hester stared at him: “Then why did you tamper with the report?”

“Because...” De Jong’s voice was hoarse. “The one who poisoned him was the Chief of Police. If I hadn’t changed it, my wife and children wouldn’t have survived the night.”

The room fell into a deathly silence. The candle flame crackled, and the water stains on the wall twisted in the flickering light, resembling countless faces screaming in silent agony.

Hester remained silent for a long time. He rolled the paper up, tucked it securely inside his coat, and turned toward the door.

“Hester.” De Jong called out to him. “That other Blood Contract mentioned in the letter—do you know where it is?”

Hester stopped at the doorway but did not turn around: “Under the canal, at Old Dock Number Seven. Mathis hid the second copy there before he died. The letter said that document proves how the Chief massacred the dock workers back then.”

De Jong stood up abruptly: “You knew this from the start?”

“I suspected it for a long time. Tonight, it was confirmed.” Hester pulled the door open, letting the cold wind rush in. “De Jong, you’ve made your choice. So have I. Before dawn, I’ll go to the dock. If you’re coming, come.”

The door closed. In the sound of the rain, footsteps gradually faded into the distance.

De Jong stood where he was for a long while, then walked to the window. In the curtain of rain, the canal was pitch black, like ink. He looked down at his palm—the two characters Mathis had written years ago were still faintly visible there.

*Canal.*

He clenched his fist, turned, grabbed the old trench coat from the table, and threw it on. He pushed open the door and stepped out. Raindrops hammered against his face, but he didn’t care, striding purposefully toward Old Dock Number Seven.

He knew that before dawn, beneath the canal, there would be an answer.

And that answer would decide whether he lived or the Chief died.