His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a firm knock at the door. Harrow rose and answered it. On the other side stood a very young constable who, without preamble, announced:
"Inspector Abberline requests your presence at the station. Immediately."
Harrow asked no questions. He took his hat and coat with his usual composure and followed the messenger.
Upon arriving at the station, he was led to a private room, where the inspector awaited him with a severe, almost hostile expression.
"Tell me," Abberline began, without preamble, "how long did you intend to conceal your secret?"
Sebastian Harrow showed no surprise. He knew perfectly well what the inspector meant.
"It was only a matter of time, sir," he replied calmly.
"Naturally it was," Abberline retorted. "Or did you imagine, even for a moment, that a man of your talent would go unnoticed?"
Harrow allowed himself a faint smile—more ironic than vain.
"I am most flattered, Inspector. Still, I would ask that you not take it personally."
They were alone. The silence that followed carried an almost palpable tension.
"I shall not," Abberline said after a moment. "However, I presume the name you provided is not your real one. And I am beginning to doubt whether you are, in fact, a detective at all."
"Indeed, I did not reveal my true name," Harrow admitted with composure. "As for my profession, that will depend entirely on the definition you choose to assign to the word 'detective.'"
The inspector narrowed his eyes, studying him.
"At the very least, tell me you were hired as a private detective."
"I was."
"And what interest might your employer have in this case?"
Harrow hesitated just enough to give his answer greater weight:
"I am afraid I cannot disclose that, sir."
Abberline remained silent for a few moments, as though weighing every possibility. Then his tone shifted slightly.
"I must confess, I admire your method… unconventional though it may be. Tell me: would you consider working, albeit informally, for the Metropolitan Police? You could act as my personal consultant."
Sebastian Harrow was not a man given to improvisation. In choosing to involve himself in this case, he had already outlined—almost mathematically—each step he intended to take, and such a proposal had not been among them.
"I am honored by the invitation, Inspector," he replied, with impeccable politeness, "but I am already committed to my own investigation."
Abberline scratched his beard, visibly displeased, though not defeated.
"In that case, could you at least share some lead? A conclusion, perhaps… or even a theory? I cannot deny it: thus far, we have advanced blindly."
"It is all still too recent," Harrow replied. "If there is a clue, it has not yet been properly recognized."
The inspector looked away, ensuring they were indeed safe from prying ears. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost conspiratorial:
"Tell me… do you believe the killer will strike again?"
Harrow did not hesitate.
"I am afraid so. And I fear even more that nothing can be done to prevent it. Therefore, when it happens… do not blame yourself."
Frederick Abberline was visibly troubled, and Harrow felt compelled to ease him.
"There is something you should know," he added. "The person who hired me does not wish to have their name associated with this case. One of the conditions imposed upon me was that, should I succeed in resolving this mystery, the police must receive full credit."
"A wise decision," the inspector observed, now somewhat less burdened.
Then he added:
"As a matter of fact, I would like you to meet someone."
He led him to another room, set apart from the main building, though still within the same premises.
The station was quieter than usual, as though even the air within awaited something. Inspector Abberline walked ahead, his steps firm, while Sebastian Harrow followed with the composure of one anticipating a confrontation—not physical, but intellectual.
They stopped before a discreet, almost anonymous door.
"He is inside," Abberline said in a low voice. "Dr. Elias Mortimer Whitcombe. I believe you gentlemen… will have much to discuss."
Harrow arched an eyebrow slightly.
"Or much to disagree upon."
Abberline did not respond. He simply opened the door.
The adjoining room was modest, yet carried a distinct atmosphere—closer to an academic study than a police office. Books were piled upon the table, notes scattered about, and there lingered a faint scent of tobacco and fresh ink.
Standing by the window, as though observing something invisible beyond the glass, was Elias Mortimer Whitcombe.
He turned slowly.
He was a middle-aged man, with a sharp gaze and upright posture. His eyes, however, betrayed no curiosity—only assessment.
"So this is Mr. Harrow," he said, without greeting. "The curious amateur who has been interfering in matters that require method."
Harrow removed his gloves with deliberate calm, stepping forward.
"And you must be the man who believes himself to hold a monopoly on it."
Abberline sensed the imminent clash and, with prudence, withdrew quietly toward the door, closing it behind him.
Now they were alone.
Whitcombe walked to the table, resting his hands upon it.
"I do not concern myself with beliefs, Mr. Harrow. I concern myself with facts. Evidence. Science."
"And yet," Harrow replied, his voice steady, "you intend to explain a killer as though he were a formula."
Whitcombe smiled faintly.
"Because, in essence, he is."
Silence.
The distant sound of a carriage passing in the street seemed to seep through the walls.
"What is it you study?" Whitcombe continued. "Childhood traumas? Social conditions? Minor domestic tragedies that, according to your reasoning, blossom into monsters?"
Harrow inclined his head slightly.
"I study man. In all his complexity. Not as an isolated organism, but as the product of experience, language, culture… and choice."
"Choice?" Whitcombe repeated, with a brief, dry laugh. "A comfortable word. Almost religious."
He took a few steps closer.
"The man does not choose, Mr. Harrow. He reacts. He executes what his nature dictates. We are heirs to impulses far older than any morality you so admire."
Harrow held his gaze.
"And yet we created morality."
"As a tool," Whitcombe countered at once. "As an evolutionary convenience. Nothing more."
He paused, studying Harrow as an anatomist might examine a rare specimen.
"I have had the honor of conversing with men such as Charles Darwin," he continued, with restrained pride. "And I can assure you that what you call 'deviation' is nothing more than a remnant—a vestige of our primitive condition."
"A killer," Harrow said firmly, "is not a walking fossil, Doctor."
Whitcombe lifted his chin.
"On the contrary. He is a living reminder of what we once were… and, to some extent, still are."
Harrow stepped forward. They now stood close enough for the tension between them to become almost tangible.
"You reduce man to instinct," he said. "I elevate him to consciousness."
"Consciousness?" Whitcombe retorted. "A useful illusion. Nothing more than that."
"No," Harrow replied, with greater intensity for the first time. "Consciousness is precisely what allows us to break from instinct. It is what transforms impulse into conflict… and conflict into decision."
Whitcombe narrowed his eyes.
"And yet, the killer kills."
"Yes," Harrow said. "But not merely because he can… but because, at some point, he learned to do so."
A heavier silence settled.
Whitcombe stepped back a few paces, crossing his arms.
"You believe, then, that this… individual can be understood?"
"He must be," Harrow corrected. "Otherwise, he will never be stopped."
Whitcombe turned once more toward the window.
"I do not need to understand him," he said. "I need to identify him."
Harrow replied without hesitation:
"And I maintain that, without understanding him, you will never know where to look."
They remained silent for a few moments. It was not an empty silence, but a charged one—as though invisible ideas collided in the space between them.
At last, Whitcombe spoke, more quietly:
"You believe he speaks, do you not?"
Harrow studied him carefully.
"Every man speaks, Doctor. Even when he attempts to hide."
"Hm."
Whitcombe lightly touched the edge of the table, thoughtful.
"Then you intend to listen to him."
"I intend to let him speak long enough to reveal himself."
Whitcombe turned slowly, and for the first time there was something different in his gaze—not agreement, but recognition.
"Dangerous…" he murmured. "Very dangerous."
Harrow did not retreat.
"Only to those who fear what may be discovered."
A faint smile touched the corner of Whitcombe's lips.
"Perhaps, Mr. Harrow… perhaps."
Outside, Abberline waited.
When the door finally opened, he sensed it immediately: something had changed.
It was not hostility.
It was something more complex. A rivalry… necessary.
The station door closed behind Sebastian Harrow with a sharp sound. Outside, the London night seemed denser, as though the city itself absorbed the echoes of what had been said within those walls.
Harrow did not look back.
He adjusted his hat, raised the collar of his coat against the damp cold, and proceeded along the pavement, gradually disappearing into the fog and the trembling glow of the gas lamps.
Inside the station, the silence took several seconds to reassemble itself.
Inspector Abberline, who had been watching from the window, turned slowly. He found Dr. Whitcombe still standing motionless, his eyes fixed on the spot where Harrow had stood moments before—as though he could still see him there.
"Well?" Abberline ventured. "What do you make of him?"
Whitcombe did not answer immediately.
He walked to the table, resting his fingers upon a disordered set of notes. But he did not read them. His mind was clearly elsewhere.
"He is no mere curiosity," he said at last, in a low tone. "Nor a charlatan, as I had supposed."
Abberline crossed his arms.
"I never said he was."
Whitcombe ignored the remark. His eyes narrowed slightly, like those of a man who has just identified an unexpected variable in an experiment.
"He observes… as we observe," he continued. "But he is not confined to the same instruments."
"Is that a problem?" the inspector asked.
Whitcombe exhaled lightly through his nose.
"It is… an unstable variable."
He stepped away from the table and began to pace slowly.
"Did you notice, Inspector?" he said, turning suddenly. "He does not merely seek the killer. He seeks to understand him… to give him form, language… almost an identity."
Abberline replied simply:
"Perhaps that is precisely what we need."
Whitcombe fell silent for a moment. Then, with an expression that blended analysis with a shadow of unease, he said:
"Or perhaps it is precisely what will make him dangerous."
The inspector held his gaze.
"Dangerous to whom?"
Whitcombe hesitated—a rare and fleeting lapse.
"To the investigation…" he said at last. But the answer did not seem complete, even to himself.
He walked to the window, once again looking out onto the now empty street.
"Men like Harrow," he continued, more quietly, "are not content with finding monsters."
A pause.
"They need to understand them."
The reflection of the lamplight flickered in the glass, subtly distorting his expression.
"And in doing so…" he murmured, "…they risk drawing too close."
Abberline frowned.
"Are you suggesting that he—"
"I am stating," Whitcombe interrupted, without raising his voice, "that he crosses a line I refuse to cross."
Silence.
Then, almost as an inevitable conclusion, he said:
"Mr. Harrow is a… dangerous man, Inspector."
The word lingered in the air.
Heavy. Unsettling.
And yet, for the first time since he had entered that room, Whitcombe did not seem entirely certain of it.