While the excision and reassignment unfolded, I observed the public mood with quiet satisfaction.

The New Street incident had vanished from conversation. The press had moved on. And the city, ever hungry for fresh horror, had been fed.

Rose Mylett was found dead in Clarke’s Yard in December. Alice McKenzie was murdered in Castle Alley in July. The Pinchin Street torso was discovered beneath a railway arch in September. Each case drew headlines. Each one helped bury the truth I had worked to erase.

There were arrests, too — each one a distraction, each one a gift. Joseph Isaacs was arrested and called the Ripper; he was charged with stealing a watch. David Cohen was taken into custody and transferred to Colney Hatch Asylum, listed as dangerous and physically ill.

The myth was growing. The fog was thickening. And I decided to help it along.

On 25 July, I penned a letter. I signed it “Jack the Ripper.” I sent it to Scotland Yard. It was crude. It was theatrical. It was effective.

By October, every step had been completed — except the final one.

I had removed the records. I had redirected the narrative. I had reassigned the witness. I had sealed the surface. Now, I had to remove myself.

David Cohen had died in Colney Hatch Asylum. I used his death as a pretext to visit Bond. I told him I was leaving the country. That he would not see me again. I spoke of strange things. Shadows. Whispers. I feigned instability. I let him believe I was losing my reason. He did not argue. He believed me.

After that, the excision was complete. The two sides of history had been drawn together. Not even a seam remained.

I resigned myself to the knowledge that this grand old place would be my self-imposed prison for the remainder of my days.