In the subdued glow of gas lamps, my investigation led me to my wife's bedroom. The clock, a vigilant keeper of time, marked 12:22 a.m. as I entered. There she toiled, bathed in the soft radiance of a solitary lamp, a portrait of diligence. In the corner, my son Oliver slumbered, accompanied by the faithful bloodhound Scoop, while Rover, our golden retriever, maintained watchful repose. The room became a nocturnal tableau, a symphony of familial tranquility in the face of the Victorian night. As shadows danced, a harmonious serenade unfolded, an elegant counterpoint to the unsolved mysteries lingering in the London fog.