The morning of the 27th began with ink.

I rose early and returned to the desk. The fire was already laid. The study was quiet. I began drafting the internal memorandum — a document intended not to resolve, but to stall. It was measured in tone, but deliberate in implication. It raised the possibility of a framing: a person of unsound mind, perhaps bearing a personal grievance, emulating the Ripper to cast suspicion upon Reeve. It did not accuse. It did not exonerate. It introduced doubt.

By midday, the memorandum was complete. I arranged for its dissemination across both the City of London Police and the Metropolitan Police. It was circulated discreetly, but widely enough to ensure it would be read. I knew the language would be dissected. That was the point.

That afternoon, I turned to the larger task. I began drafting the full proposal — the framework that would become Operation Seamless. It was not a manifesto. It was a method.

I returned to Westminster that evening. Matthews received me without ceremony. We sat in his study, the curtains drawn, the lamp low. He read it slowly. When he finished, he said: “You’ve thought this through.”

“What you’re proposing is extraordinary. But I see the necessity. The force cannot withstand another scandal. Not now.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Are you quite sure you’re willing to sacrifice your remaining years?”

I said nothing.

He continued: “I would say the force and the Home Office would be eternally grateful — except they will never know. I need to consider this for another night. Return tomorrow morning. We’ll settle it then.”

I left without protest. The plan remained in my coat pocket. The fire at Rolls House was still warm when I returned.