Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Scotland Yard, painting long bars of gold across the stone corridor.
Inspector Arthur Delbury walked with purpose.
Collins struggled to keep pace.
"You really think Mercer knows something?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
"I think Henry asked the wrong man for permission."
"And that's enough?"
"It usually is."
They descended the front steps and climbed into a waiting motorcar.
The driver glanced back.
"Where to, Inspector?"
Arthur unfolded a small piece of paper.
"Highgate."
---
Retirement had treated Harold Mercer kindly.
His cottage overlooked a quiet stretch of woodland where London seemed impossibly distant.
Birdsong replaced carriage wheels.
The air carried the scent of damp earth instead of coal smoke.
When the knock came, the retired superintendent answered almost immediately.
His white hair had thinned.
His shoulders had bent slightly with age.
But his eyes remained sharp.
He looked at Arthur.
Then Collins.
"I was wondering how long it would take."
Arthur exchanged a brief glance with Collins.
"You knew we'd come?"
Mercer smiled faintly.
"I knew Henry's death wouldn't stay buried."
He stepped aside.
"Come in."
---
The sitting room was modest.
Shelves lined with books.
A fireplace still warm from the morning fire.
No signs of wealth.
No signs of secrecy.
Mercer poured three cups of tea before anyone spoke.
Arthur waited.
Old detectives often revealed more during silence than conversation.
Finally Mercer broke it.
"You want to know why I authorised Henry's request."
Arthur nodded.
"I'd also like to know why a retired superintendent still had the authority."
Mercer chuckled.
"I didn't."
Arthur frowned.
"I noticed."
"I simply signed the paper."
Collins leaned forward.
"Someone accepted it."
"Yes."
"They never checked whether I still held office."
Silence settled over the room.
Arthur slowly lifted the document from his case.
"The telegraph office copied every transmission Henry requested."
Mercer's eyes rested on the paper.
"He never came for the messages."
"No."
"He died first."
For the first time, genuine sadness crossed the old man's face.
"He said he was running out of time."
Arthur's expression hardened.
"When exactly did he tell you that?"
Mercer stared into the fire.
"Three days before he died."
---
"He arrived after sunset."
"He looked exhausted."
"I asked whether Scotland Yard knew what he was investigating."
"He said..."
Mercer hesitated.
"...that the fewer people who knew, the longer they would stay alive."
Arthur remained perfectly still.
That sounded exactly like Henry's final weeks.
Paranoid.
Careful.
Looking over his shoulder.
"What did he want from you?"
"A favour."
"What kind?"
"He wanted access to every long-distance telegram sent between London and the eastern ports during the previous six months."
Collins frowned.
"Why those?"
Mercer looked at Arthur.
"He refused to explain."
"I almost turned him away."
"What changed your mind?"
Mercer stood slowly.
Walked towards the bookshelf.
Reached behind a row of history volumes.
He removed a folded envelope.
Age had yellowed the paper.
The seal had already been broken.
"I've kept this ever since."
Arthur accepted it carefully.
Inside...
Only a single sheet.
Henry's handwriting.
If anything happens to me, tell Inspector Delbury I'm sorry I couldn't finish it.
Arthur read the sentence twice.
Nothing more.
No explanation.
No names.
Just one unfinished apology.
"He knew," Arthur whispered.
Mercer nodded.
"He believed he wouldn't survive."
---
Arthur folded the note with deliberate care.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"The night he brought that."
"Did anyone follow him?"
"I checked."
"No one."
Mercer paused.
"At least..."
"...no one I could see."
Arthur looked up.
"What do you mean?"
The old superintendent frowned.
"When Henry left..."
"I noticed a man standing across the road."
"What did he look like?"
"I couldn't tell."
"He never moved."
"He simply stood beneath a streetlamp."
"For nearly twenty minutes."
Collins quickly opened his notebook.
"Did Henry acknowledge him?"
"No."
"But..."
Mercer rubbed his forehead.
"...the stranger tipped his hat."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"And Henry?"
"He didn't seem surprised."
---
Neither detective spoke until they were back inside the motorcar.
Collins finally broke the silence.
"Do you think that was one of the Syndicate?"
Arthur looked out at the passing streets.
"I don't know."
"The Syndicate usually watches without announcing itself."
"So why tip the hat?"
Arthur didn't answer.
His thoughts lingered on Henry's note.
I'm sorry I couldn't finish it.
Finish what?
The telegrams?
The investigation?
Or something else entirely?
As the motorcar disappeared into London's afternoon traffic, Arthur felt an unfamiliar sensation.
For the first time since Henry's murder...
The dead detective no longer felt like a suspect.
He felt like a colleague reaching across death, trying to complete one final investigation.
---
Miles away...
Inside the reading room of the British Museum...
Evelyn turned another page of Henry's notebook.
A tiny fragment of scratched graphite caught the light.
She froze.
The page wasn't blank.
Someone hadn't erased the writing.
They had tried to hide it.
Very carefully.
And Henry had wanted only one person to find it.