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“Or perhaps someone,” said Havelock darkly.

INTERLUDE

When you have finished reading the first part of the manuscript, you and Henry are both quiet. The rain drums on the roof of the gatehouse, and your lanterns feel meagre against the darkness of the night. Henry goes to the door and wads some chewing tobacco beneath his lip. You carefully reorder the manuscript, and place it back in its box. It is time for you to do another round of the mill, but neither of you move, and neither of you speak.

Eventually, Henry says, “I’ll go, then.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No need,” he says, not meeting your eye. “No point in both of us getting soaked.”

“All right,” you say. And then, “Thank you.”

When Henry is gone, you begin to gather your thoughts.

The manuscript has affected you, that much is certain, but you are finding it difficult to identify your emotions. You refill your lamp’s oil, make note of the uneventful night in the gatehouse log, and go to the door, looking out into the dark. There is nothing to see in Cavendish Mill tonight—the darkness is so complete—but you fancy that you glimpse Henry moving about the grounds, his lamp glimmering faintly. When Henry returns, still neither of you speak. Dawn comes, you exchange keys with the day watch, and you go your separate ways, back out into London.

Instead of going home, you find yourself walking to Victoria Park.

It is a cold, dreary morning, and there are not very many people about. You wipe a bench down with the sleeve of your coat, and there sit beneath the trees. In your pocket, you have the notebook you bought in order to keep track of the mysterious flowers appearing in the mill at night, and you take it out and flick through it. You have written down detailed descriptions of the flowers, along with where and when you found each of them. If there is a pattern to them, you have yet to discern it.

At last, your thoughts begin to come together.

Your first problem is that you’re not sure if “The Mystery of Farleigh Forest” is real, or fiction. That the manuscript is the work of Major Sebastian Wright you have no doubt—the style is too familiar, and its arrival so soon after you sent your first letter to Mr. Harper is too much of a coincidence. It is the trees that are troubling you: Is it possible that such a place as Farleigh might exist? You write your uncertainty down in your notepad. The first thing you must do, you think, is consult a map, and see if Farleigh is a real location. Then, you must finish reading the manuscript with Henry, and see if the forest becomes any more plausible.

Your second problem takes you slightly more time to put into words. It is, you think, the relationship between Havelock and Sebastian in the manuscript. Though not unlike their adventures in The Times, which depict a very close friendship, they are significantly more … intimate with each other than usual in “The Mystery of Farleigh Forest.” The suggestion that their relationship might be more than just friendly has stirred something in you, which you are struggling to come to terms with.

You sit there a while longer, pen poised above paper, and watch the people of London moving about through the park. There are men dressed for work, and you see a young woman with a pram, taking her child out for some brisk morning air. From time to time, one of the men tips their hat at you as they pass, and slowly—so slowly—you begin to identify what it is that you are feeling.

The idea that a man might love another man is not new to you. You have been raised by a father who has led you to believe that such men are an aberration, and perverted. He would read newspaper articles to you about men being arrested for buggery, and lament that such men were no longer hanged. At school, the idea of a boy engaging affectionately with another boy in the spirit of anything other than fellowship was treated as though it were repulsive, and shameful. The Havelock and Sebastian in the manuscript did not repulse you, however. If anything, their intimate trust, respect, and regard for one another seemed like a strength. Instead of being revulsed by the account, you find that you are feeling … curious. You want to read more. You want to know if they will succeed in repairing their relationship. More than that: You want to see them succeed.

This realisation comes as a relief to you, and you write it down.

You wonder, then, why you have been trusted with the manuscript. Farleigh Forest is clearly a secret, and so are the intimacies of Havelock and Sebastian’s relationship. In the latter case, a public revelation could seriously damage the reputation of both men, or worse—lead to their arrest. You suppose it unlikely that anyone would believe the manuscript’s authenticity were you to publicise it—its contents would be too implausible to the public at large—but if that’s so, then why have you and Henry been entrusted with it? You write this question down, and tap your pencil beside it. Could the manuscript be a clue, you wonder? If so, what could the link between “The Flowers of Cavendish Mill” and “The Mystery of Farleigh Forest” be?

You flick back through the pages of your notebook, and look over all of your notes about the flowers. A cool wind flows through the park, rattling the dry leaves on the trees. You are tired, and can still see no pattern in your notes. You close your notebook, and stroll among the trees, letting the sounds of London melt away and imagining yourself in Farleigh. You wonder what the trees of London would say if they, too, started growing words. And it is then—weary from the long night, and indulging in fantasy—that a solution strikes you. Once more, you flick through your notebook, this time jotting down additional observations. You double-check the timings, and your hypothesis fits.

The Farleigh Forest manuscript is absolutely a clue to solving your own case. It seems so obvious, now that you can see it:

You know who has been leaving the flowers in Cavendish Mill.

THE MYSTERY

OF

FARLEIGH FOREST

PART TWO

I awoke to the sound of rain drumming against the windows of my room. Havelock was already up and gone from his, as was becoming his habit in Farleigh. I dressed, and admired the rains as they washed over the forest—drawing open the balcony doors to better hear it. There is something splendid about the sound of rain over autumn trees—the rhythmic striking of droplets meeting dry leaves—a rustling, rushing susurrus. I could not see Havelock in the garden of Farleigh House today, but I think I knew where he must have gone. I left my sabre at the foot of the bed and went to find him.

Farleigh House was musical in the rain. Metal pots were set out where there were leaks in the roof, of which there were plenty. When I came to the grand central staircase, I saw Mary at the front doors of the house, one of which was ajar. She was having a whispered conversation with someone out in the rain.

Instead of making my presence known, I stood back and tried to hear what was being said. Unfortunately, the rains were too intense and I could not determine a single word of the correspondence. After a few moments, however, the person beyond the door leaned in, embracing Mary and kissing her passionately.

It was Heather!

They embraced a few moments longer. Then, Heather returned to the rains. Mary shut the front door, took a few moments to compose herself—straightening her apron—and then returned to her work: arranging bowls to catch droplets on the staircase.