The days that followed were quiet, but not idle.

I returned to Somerset House — and later to Chancery Lane — with a new name in mind, not one of the erased, but one who might have helped erase. The signature on Harvey’s introduction letter was unfamiliar, but the hand was not Kerr’s. That much was certain.

So I began to cross-reference. I sat at my desk, surrounded by ledgers and registry books, the dust thick enough to dull the ink. I searched correspondence logs, personnel files, medical registries. I traced the return address from Harvey’s file to a district known for its medical offices.

And then — a breakthrough.

A medical registry from 1888 listed Dr Thomas Bond, police surgeon. Active during the Ripper investigations. Known to Scotland Yard. Trusted.

I pulled a separate file — a medical report from the same year, signed by Bond. The handwriting was careful, deliberate, unmistakable.

I sat rooted, unable to move.

Then whispered to myself: “Tom Bond… Thomas Bond. Kerr didn’t just use a ghost name. He used a real man. A trusted one.”

That evening, I returned to Harvey’s house. He opened the door before I could knock, as if he’d been waiting.

I placed the medical report I’d discovered on the table. Harvey leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“That’s Bond’s hand,” he said. “I’d recognise it anywhere.”

“You knew him?”

Harvey nodded. “He was one of us. A surgeon. A man of record. If he helped Kerr…” He trailed off. Then, quietly: “Then this goes deeper than we thought.”

“He signed the letter,” I said. “The one that introduced you to the firm.”

Harvey nodded slowly. “Then he knows something. Or knew something.”

I closed the file and looked up. “We should speak to him.”

Harvey hesitated. “He’s not well. I heard he’s basically bedridden now. In his house in Westminster.”

“Then we go tomorrow,” I said. “Before the trail grows cold.”

Harvey looked at me, then at the fire, then back again.

“Right,” he said. “Tomorrow.”