The building was quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes when the last shift has gone home and the night watch has grown lazy.

We entered through the rear — a long-unrepaired window behind the loading bay. Harvey knew the way. I followed. The corridors were narrow, lined with crates and ledgers. The air smelled of dust and oil and old ink. We moved slowly, deliberately, until we reached the archive room. It wasn’t locked. It didn’t need to be. No one thought it worth guarding.

Inside, the shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Boxes labelled in fading pencil. Files bound with twine. A desk in the corner, still bearing the imprint of the day’s work.

Harvey moved with purpose. He knew where to look. He found the personnel box from 1889. Pulled it down. Opened it.

Inside: a letter of inquiry for a clerical role. Dated shortly before his hiring. Signed with a name neither of us recognised. But it bore a return address.

Then — a second letter. A recommendation. Introducing Harvey to the firm. Also signed by the same hand.

I pulled out the Kerr letter — the one Harvey had kept all these years.

We laid them side by side on the desk. Under the dim light, we compared the handwriting.

The archived letter was neat. Formal. Impersonal.

The Kerr letter was bold. Authoritative. Distinct.

The difference was immediate. Unmistakable.

“Kerr didn’t write this,” I said.

Harvey nodded. “He had someone else do it. Someone who could write without raising suspicion.”

We didn’t take anything. We didn’t need to. I copied the name. The address.

We returned everything to its place. Tied the twine. Closed the box.

Then we left the room as we’d found it — untouched, unremarkable.

We slipped out through the same window, silent and unseen.