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PROLOGUE

Your name is Emmet, and you work as a night watchman at the Cavendish Cotton Mill in Hackney. Your father was a constable in Scotland Yard, and you wanted to follow in his footsteps, but you have weak lungs and were not selected. Your job at the mill came with a uniform, and you keep it very well, just like your father taught you—polishing the buttons and boots every week. The buttons are silver, which suggests that Mr. Cavendish takes pride in his mill, but you have never met him and can’t say anything about his character for certain. You have a lantern and generous oil, and a silver whistle, and your very own truncheon, which is made of tough oak. You have never had to use your truncheon, because the nights are quiet. You have come, despite your expectations, to enjoy your work.

Your fellow night watchman is called Henry, and he is a few years older than you. Henry does not keep his uniform as well as you do—several of his coat buttons are missing, and his boots are always scuffed. Henry chews tobacco, never quite arrives on time, and often frustrates you—he has, you think, a scuffed soul. Nevertheless, nobody makes you laugh the way that Henry does. It’s not that his jokes are coarse or crude—rather the opposite. Henry, you think, is in possession of an uncommon wit. On the darkest, rainiest nights, when the rounds of the mill are a misery, and the two of you huddle up around your lanterns in the gatehouse, he conjures the most splendid comical stories, and the drumming of the rain seems to fade away for a while. You have come to enjoy the smell of chewing tobacco, though you still refuse to partake of it yourself.

Both Henry and yourself are great admirers of Havelock Harper. You follow Mr. Harper’s serialised adventures in The Times, penned by his constant companion, the formidable Major Sebastian Wright. Henry brings the paper in to work every time there is a new instalment, and you pore over the details together, trying to solve each case before its conclusion. Every now and then, you guess a detail, or Henry does, and you are both very proud of yourselves. You think that you would have made a good detective duo—you and Henry—did you not have weak lungs and he a wooden hand. Henry keeps his wooden hand in his coat pocket, and you did not realise, for many weeks, that it was prosthetic—you imagined that his posture was an affectation. When you found out, you brought a thread and needle in to work and offered to replace some of his missing coat buttons for him—you could not imagine trying to do so with only one hand, after all. Henry was quiet, afterwards, but he did seem a little more upright as he went about his rounds.

In recent weeks, something peculiar has been occurring around the mill at night. It took you a while to notice anything—so subtle were the incidents—and it was Henry who began drawing attention to them. Simply put: You and he began to find small white flowers left here and there about the grounds. The flowers were fresh, and they stood out in the dark; small white petals aglow in the light of your lanterns. The mill was always quiet and empty after closure—the windows flung open to let the worst of the oppressive heat out—and there was never anyone about but for you and Henry. It began to be that you would find flowers in places you were certain you had already checked, as if waiting for you to discover them on the next round. You and Henry searched the grounds thoroughly, of course—shining your lanterns in all the dark corners, and double-checking the locks on the gates—but there was never anyone to be found. The flowers continued to be a mystery.

One afternoon, you find yourself in Marylebone visiting an aunt, and a queer idea comes to you. You have been mulling over the mystery of the flowers for most of the afternoon, and you realise that you are only a few streets over from the home of London’s most brilliant detective. Havelock Harper famously occupies a house on Gower Street—number 55, to be precise—and you wonder what he would have to say about the flowers. There is every chance that you will be turned away, or that Mr. Harper won’t be in, but you can’t see the harm in passing by and taking a look. Perhaps—at the very least—you might catch a glimpse of the great man through the window of his house.

With a skip in your step, you head across. You’re glad that you have a shift at the mill later on tonight, because it means that you are already wearing your uniform, which is your finest outfit, and you know that Mr. Harper takes great stock in what people wear. One of your favourite quotes—which you have memorised from one of his earlier cases—is when he says: “It is commonly thought that a man is no more than his flesh, Sebastian—but this is untrue. A man is much more than his skin and bones. He is the clothes that he wears, and the space that he occupies. I can tell you much more about a man by the arrangement of his home than the colour of his hair. Show me a man’s wardrobe, and I will tell you his disposition.” You wonder what your uniform says about you, and the closer you get to Gower Street, the more nervous you become. You check your boots and they are, of course, spotless.

You are surprised to find that there is nobody outside number 55. A few cabs are parked nearby, horses pawing idly at the dirt, but Gower Street is otherwise empty. You pause at the foot of the steps, suddenly uncertain. There are some flower boxes beneath the windows of the great house, bursting with late-summer blooms, and you admire them as you count the silver buttons of your coat—a nervous habit that you have developed of late. Coming here was a mistake, you think. Your mystery is hardly worth a thought. You turn away, but before you leave, you hear the front door open.

You see me standing there, and for a moment you are speechless. I am much taller than you thought I would be—the woodcuttings in The Times do not do my height justice—but I am unmistakable nonetheless. “Are you coming in?” I ask.

You take the first step tentatively, but it gives you courage, and you approach with confidence, doffing your hat. “You must be the Major,” you say, offering your hand, which I take. Your eyes are drawn to my hip, but I am not wearing my famous sabre.

“Please,” I say, “call me Sebastian.”

You follow me inside, and through to the parlour. The interior of 55 Gower Street is richly decorated, and your nerves rattle you. This is all very sudden. You realise that I have been speaking to you, but that you haven’t heard me.

I smile, reassuringly. “I said: How should I address you?”

“Emmet,” you tell me. “My name is Emmet Parson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Emmet. Do you take tea?”

“I wouldn’t like to be an imposition.”

“Hardly.” I lead you over to a chair that looks, at first glance, to be ornamental, but turns out to be very comfortable. Havelock Harper’s parlour is brighter than you expected—nothing like the sombre, colourless woodcuttings in the paper. There is the enormous fireplace—currently unlit—and there are the bookcases, bursting with tomes, and the wallpapers, and rugs, and chairs are all so wonderfully colourful that it immediately draws you back to Mr. Harper’s observation about a man’s living space. The parlour has been meticulously, tastefully, arranged. You are left alone for a few moments, and you use that time to regather yourself.

I return with a tray, and present you with a cup of tea. There is a second cup, which I leave to cool as I take my position beside the fireplace. You sip at your cup and smile—warmed by both the gesture and the tea—and notice, then, that my sabre is leant up against the tiles. “Just in case,” I reassure you. “We hardly ever have trouble, but it does happen.”

You nod. “I follow your cases in The Times,” you say. Then, you add: “I must say, sir—you have an extraordinary way with words. It’s like being in the very room when Mr. Harper makes his deductions.”

It is then that Havelock arrives, sweeping into the room with aplomb. If I am taller than you imagined, then Mr. Harper is smaller—a slight man, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. When he sits, the picture is complete. There I stand, with my pointed beard and shaven head, dressed in my formal infantry coat, and there is Havelock Harper, bearing his trademark moustache—no more than a small line across his top lip—dressed impeccably in clothes of extraordinary taste.

You are unable to help yourself. “Is that a French linen shirt?”

Havelock’s face lights up, and he removes his jacket to show you his shirt—turning one sleeve over, and then the other. “Wonderful, isn’t it? My tailor imported it as soon as he heard about it. Breathable, without being too light—perfect for autumn.” You have long suspected that Havelock Harper might be having an influence on the clothes worn by fashionable Londoners. You’re sure that shirts made of French linen will be common by next summer. “You work at one of the mills?” he says.

You open your mouth, but before you can reply, I raise a hand.

Havelock Harper is treating you with the full intensity of his regard.

“Cavendish,” he says, after a while.

“How did you know?” you ask, astonished.

“Your uniform, and your uncommon insight into the fabric of my shirt. There are very few mills in this city owned by a man who would furnish his security with such lavish uniforms. And there are fewer still invested in the latest fashions. Cavendish is a boor, but he has pride, and does his research. You’ve seen some of that research, then?”

“I have,” you say, and immediately regret doing so. Your employer would not be happy if he knew that you were occasionally accessing his office at night.

“Worry not,” says Havelock, with a wink, as he reaches for the second cup of tea. “Your secret is safe with us. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”

I nod. “This is Emmet Parson.”