I left early. The train from Stratford to Woodford was quiet — the carriage half-empty, the windows fogged with the breath of morning. I carried only a satchel, a notebook, and the memory of Harvey’s description.

From Woodford, I walked.

The road to Chigwell was winding, flanked by hedgerows and the occasional flicker of gaslight from distant cottages. I carried no lantern. Only the name of the house — Rolls House — and the knowledge that it lay near the end of the High Road, part of the old Barringtons estate.

I reached the edge of the property just after nightfall. The gate was iron — rusted, but intact. Beyond it, nestled in the trees, was the house: low, wide, and quiet. Ivy crawled up the brickwork like veins. No lights showed in the windows.

I didn’t approach. Not yet. Instead, I circled the perimeter, keeping to the tree line. I found a collapsed section of fencing and settled in, hidden among the brush. I watched. For hours. Nothing moved.

But the house was not abandoned. The windows were clean. The path to the door was swept. The ivy had been trimmed recently. Someone was there.

I returned the following evening with a satchel: water, dried bread, a blanket, and my notebook. I wore darker clothes. I moved slower. I found a hollow beneath a tree and deepened it slightly, lining it with moss and dry leaves.

On the second morning, just after midday, a curtain shifted. A figure passed behind the glass — tall, deliberate, slow. Later, he emerged into the yard, walking with his hands behind his back. He never strayed far.

I sketched him quickly: Broad shoulders. Thinning hair. Long coat, even in warm weather. A limp, barely noticeable. Head tilted slightly, as if listening.

Harvey’s description had been precise. And the man I saw matched it in every detail.

By the third day, I could predict his movements. He inspected the yard early, retreated to the study mid-morning, returned in the afternoon. The lamp in the study lit at seven, extinguished by nine. He never left the grounds. Never received visitors. Never deviated.

He wasn’t just meticulous. He was ritualistic. Every hour accounted for. Every step rehearsed.

I noted the study window — low, unbarred, slightly warped in its frame — facing the rear garden, shielded by ivy and shadow.

I waited one more night to be sure. Then I returned to Tower Hamlets Road, packed my satchel with care, and prepared for the entry.