The next morning, London woke to rain.
Not the violent kind.
Just a thin, persistent drizzle that turned the streets dark and polished beneath the wheels of passing carriages.
At Scotland Yard, Inspector Arthur Delbury had been awake for most of the night.
The evidence room was empty.
The brass key sat beneath the lamp.
W-17.
Arthur had looked at it so many times that the inscription had begun to feel less like a clue and more like an accusation.
Henry had known what it meant.
Arthur did not.
That bothered him.
He opened the final collection of documents recovered from Henry's warehouse and spread them across the table.
He had already examined the obvious material.
Names.
Addresses.
Dates.
Fragments of correspondence.
Notes concerning people Henry had encountered during his investigation.
Nothing directly identified Weaver.
But Henry had not been careless.
Arthur had learned that much.
The man had been leaving a trail.
Not an explanation.
A trail.
