I remember the cold.

It was the kind that settles in the joints and lingers in the walls. The fire in the study had burned low. I had retired early, as was my habit. The wind pressed against the windows, and the ivy scratched faintly at the glass.

I did not hear of the incident until the following morning. A messenger arrived from Bishopsgate — not official, not urgent, but known to me. He brought no report, only a name and a location: New Street, formerly Hand Alley. Three dead. Clara Fenwick. PC James Thomas Reeve. Sergeant Arthur Melrose. All found in close proximity. All deceased.

The press seized upon it immediately. The name “Jack the Ripper” had already taken root in the public imagination. This incident was folded into the myth with alarming speed. But the details did not align. The mutilation inflicted upon Fenwick bore little resemblance to the established pattern. To me, it bore the hallmarks of a framing — possibly a personal grudge. A mimic, not a monster. A man, not a myth.

I read the preliminary report. It was cautious, but pointed. Reeve was named as the likely assailant. A child witness was mentioned — vague, unnamed, but quoted. The words were chilling: “I am Jack the Ripper.”

I knew Reeve. Not well, but well enough. He was not a man of violence. He was not a man of theatre. He was steady, quiet, and precise. The report did not read true.

I spent most of the day in the study, the fire rebuilt, the report folded beside me. I read it again. And again. And again.

By dusk, I had made my decision. I travelled into the city and met with Matthews. When I finished presenting my concerns, he said:

“We must at least attempt to calm things a bit. Come back again tomorrow with a written plan and we’ll run through it together.”

That was enough. I returned to Rolls House before midnight. The fire had gone out. I did not relight it. I sat at the desk and began to write.