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At this, Havelock nodded, as if I had landed on the crux of the issue. “Precisely. Yes.”

We paused there a while longer, listening to the wind through their branches.

“Well, then,” said Havelock eventually. “I think that’s that. I’ve seen all I need to.”

“Where to now?”

“Back to Farleigh,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Time we put this case to rest.”

The sun emerged, and though our journey of the day so far had been taxing, we decided to continue on foot all the way back to Farleigh. We both relished the prospect of walking once more among the trees. As it emerged, the way through was tough; Farleigh Forest was indeed ancient, and thus almost impossibly dense to navigate in patches. The day’s clouds cleared, revealing a dazzling afternoon sun, and we walked towards it, shielding our eyes against the glare when it was visible through the forest canopy. Even at the very edge of the forest, the trees had grown words.

TIPPING

FINE

BRITTLE CLUTCH

As we went, Havelock explained the case to me. He often did this—talking through his thoughts, and using me as a means to practice presenting the facts as he had determined them to be. His explanation was faltering, and sometimes jumbled—such was the muddle of facts spilling out of him—but I asked careful questions, and as we proceeded, a picture emerged. I knew that by tomorrow, his explanation would be polished, and ready to present. For now—despite the raw nature of the explanation—what had occurred in Farleigh, with the felling of the Duke, was still an astonishing tale.

When he was finished, Havelock paused at the side of a stream, and there sat a while among the reeds, watching a kingfisher and letting his thoughts settle.

“What do you mean to do about it?” I asked him.

“Pardon?” He turned to me.

“You have the facts well enough, certainly. But what shall we do with them?”

Havelock’s smile emerged. “What do you think we should do?”

“Well … I’m not sure.”

Wafting a dragonfly away with his hat, Havelock studied me. “You are,” he said, “the best person I know. And I don’t tell you that enough. You are kind, and thoughtful, and generous—and you have such a remarkable sense of justice. I adore you for those qualities, but I also rely upon them.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that while I am exceptionally skilled when it comes to determining the truth, it can only ever take me so far. Justice is not a set of facts. Justice is the ability to find the most moral course of action in response to those facts. You are the compass I use to guide me towards action. Your sense of justice is unsurpassed, and I need it here more than ever. I have given you the facts of the case—and now you must help me determine how to proceed with them. The revelation may have an extraordinary effect on Farleigh.”

“You are a good man, Havelock,” I said.

“I am a good man because I know you,” he told me.

We stayed there a while longer, lingering among the reeds and considering how to proceed. The way forward was unclear, and Havelock was right—we would have to proceed carefully, for the sake of both the forest and the people who loved it so dearly. Eventually, a course of action emerged that felt as if it might be the correct response to the facts at hand. There was always an element of the unknown, when it came to revealing the solution to a case—it could be a highly emotional event—but it felt as if we had the right way forward for everyone involved.

The sun was beginning to get low on the horizon, and we were both hungry, so we continued on to Farleigh and the great revelation ahead.

INTERLUDE

You do what you should have thought to do from the start: You consult a florist.

There is an excellent florist on Graham Road—always so colourful, no matter the weather—and it is there you go. You have come here before on two occasions—each time to purchase a single flower in order to propose a courtship. Your advances went nowhere in either case (and the matches were, you admit, rather put upon you by your parents), but you enjoyed your time discussing the various flowers on display with the florist’s cheerful proprietor, Mr. Pall. Today, Mr. Pall takes one look at the small, white flower you have pressed in your notebook, and tells you where to go.

Hackney Downs Park only opened a few years ago, and it is not one that you have frequented often. The railings are still freshly painted, and many of the trees are still saplings. There are some young men in whites kicking around a ball, who you avoid as you navigate the pathways. The display is on the north side of the park, and it is there that you find Henry, sitting on a bench, slouched over, his fingers pressed to his forehead as if he is nursing a potent migraine. Before him are rows upon rows of tiny white flowers. Carnations, Mr. Pall said—a beautiful summer flower.

You pause. Now that you’re here, you’re not sure what to say. Henry has not noticed you yet, so you take the time to gather your thoughts.

It might be that you are tired from the long night, but Henry—the same Henry that you thought you knew so well—suddenly feels like a stranger to you. You realise that you are feeling nervous around him. It is not an unfamiliar sensation: There were always fellows at school that made you nervous in the same way—usually the athletic lads, with their bright smiles, dashing easily around the track while you struggled for breath. It was a kind of admiration, you thought. Yet … you do not admire Henry for his athleticism. You admire him for his humour, and his generosity, and his stalwart eye for detail. You wonder why your heart is beating so hard against your ribs, and you work up the courage to approach him.

Henry looks up when you sit down beside him, but he doesn’t seem surprised.