The study was quiet, as it always was. I entered just after ten — later than usual. The morning had been overcast, the air heavy. The routine was unchanged. The rhythm, familiar.

But something was wrong.

The window latch was seated — but not quite flush. I crossed to the desk. The lamp was as I had left it. The clock ticked softly. The papers were stacked — but not precisely. The top sheet was misaligned by a fraction. The dust along the far shelf had been brushed, but not fully resettled.

I knelt beside the cabinet beneath the shelf. The lock clicked open with less resistance than usual. Inside, the folders were in place. The order was close — but not exact.

A sheet was missing from the front of the Seamless file — the original outline, written on thick paper, marked For My Eyes Only.

The draft copy of the letter I eventually sent to Harvey had been removed from the correspondence folder. Harvey’s original incident report — the one stamped and signed — was missing from the City file. The memorandum was gone from the Bishopsgate folder. A clipping from the Illustrated Police News, dated 1 December 1888, had been removed from the press file. The erasure list — my own handwriting, red underlined — was gone. Two pages from my notebook were missing. The letter from the Home Office was gone.

It had been dated 28 November 1888. Private correspondence. Not for official record. It bore Matthews’ signature — authentic, unmistakable.

Matthews would not want it seen. Nor did I. It was never meant to survive the operation. I had kept it only as a reminder — not of power, but of permission.

Its absence unsettled me more than the rest. The others were fragments. This was sanction. Now it was gone. And with it, the last thread of protection.