The following morning, I returned to Westminster. Matthews was waiting. He looked worn — his collar uneven, his eyes darkened. I could tell he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he reached for the letter and handed it to me.

It bore no seal, no heading — only his signature. Carte blanche. No formal notice. My discretion was relied upon.

He looked at me once more before I left. “I still believe this is the right course,” he said. “But I also know what it will cost you.”

“I hope you understand — this is not approval. It is trust.”

As I turned to go, I glanced back. He hadn’t moved. His shoulders were low, his gaze unfixed. He looked utterly spent — not just tired, but hollowed by the weight of what he had sanctioned.

I returned to Rolls House and placed the letter in the drawer beneath the study window. I did not read it again. I did not need to.

That evening, I enlisted the help of George Palmer. I did not disclose the full scope of the plan — only that the force was in danger of losing public confidence, and that a carefully placed memorandum might help to quell the uproar. He agreed to run the errand.

The memorandum was delivered to The Illustrated Police News by Palmer himself. I knew the paper’s appetite for sensation. I also knew its reach.

The article would appear on the first of December.

The operation had begun.