In those final years of service, my journey to Bishopsgate became a ritual.

Each morning, I departed Rolls House at precisely six forty-five. The walk to Woodford station took twenty minutes, longer in winter when the frost clung to the hedgerows and the mist hung low over the fields. I preferred the solitude. It allowed for thought, and thought was the foundation of order.

The train to Liverpool Street was punctual more often than not. The Great Eastern Railway, for all its imperfections, maintained a certain reliability. I always sat in the second carriage from the front, on the left-hand side, facing forward. From there, I could observe the gradual transition — from the quiet of Essex to the pulse of London.

The journey took thirty-seven minutes. I used the time to read the morning circulars or review my notes. Occasionally, I would glance out the window and watch the city unfold: allotments giving way to terraces, terraces to warehouses, warehouses to spires and smoke.

Routine was not merely habit. It was discipline. It was the scaffolding upon which clarity was built. In the force, clarity was everything.

I kept my own records, separate from the official ledgers. Not out of distrust, but out of necessity. I noted patterns, anomalies, names that reappeared too often or vanished too quickly. I did not speculate. I observed.

The return journey was no less structured. I departed Bishopsgate at five-thirty, boarded the six o’clock train, and arrived at Woodford just before seven.

Rolls House welcomed me with silence. The fire was laid before I left each morning. The study was always in order. I dined alone, read until nine, and retired by ten.

It was a quiet life, but not an idle one. The city remained close enough to touch, yet distant enough to forget. I had earned that distance.