“All right, I heard you,” he said, across Paul’s ongoing monologue. “I shan’t speak to this fellow in an official capacity— Don’t argue with me, Paul, I haven’t finished. I won’t do anything officially, but I will talk to this Wildsmith purely as a private individual. I’ll go for a chat and see how the land lies, and if I think there’s anything dubious, I’ll take it to Hollis myself. That will have to do, because it’s all I’m going to do. Understood?”

Paul sniffed. “I suppose it’s something.”

***

MR. JOEL WILDSMITH, Scientific Graphologist, lived in Great Percy Street, Pentonville. It was highly convenient for King’s Cross nick, or indeed a spell in prison.

Aaron had made an appointment by letter, which he’d typed, and signed with a false name. He knew how mediums and the like operated, often going to extraordinary lengths to find out information about clients, and saw no reason to make things easier.

He regarded graphology in the same light as astrology, phrenology, Spiritualism, and religion, which was to say, he accepted that their believers were sincere in their faith, and considered it none of his affair unless they attempted to foist those faiths on himself. Aaron had not grown up in a habit of placing reliance on higher powers, universal meanings, or natural justice.

He did believe in service. He’d served his nation at war, and now served its people as a police officer. He carried out his duty as best he could, to uphold the law and help redress a balance that felt permanently tilted against too many people, and that gave his life meaning.

Or, at least, it should, even if some days, the pursuit of justice felt as far-fetched as any astrological fantasy.

He shook the thought off as he approached the rather shabby boarding house at 22 Great Percy Street. A char in a smutted apron let him in without ceremony.

The narrow hallway smelled of cabbage. It wasn’t the sort of place one might think a Scientific Graphologist would live: Aaron had rather imagined either a pristine laboratory or somewhere book-lined with leather chairs.

He went up to the first floor and knocked at the indicated door. A red-headed man of medium height answered, holding a mug of tea. “Mr. Thurloe? Please come in. I’m Joel Wildsmith.”

He indicated the hatstand with the mug, rather than taking Aaron’s coat or hat. Aaron took half a second to disapprove of the poor manners before he realised Wildsmith only had one hand. The other sleeve, his left, was empty at the end.

It wasn’t unusual: London was full of men who lacked hands and arms and legs and eyes, and that was the damage you could see. It wasn’t even the most notable thing about him. That would be the moustache, which was horrible.