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“Emmet. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What have you brought me?”

“It’s all rather silly…” you start, but Havelock raises a finger.

“It’s never silly. Never,” he says with such sincerity that it disarms you.

You tell him everything. About the job, about the flowers, even about your weak lungs. You find yourself describing your nights with Henry, exploring the mill, in tremendous detail—getting carried away in the story. All the while, Havelock listens intently, encouraging you with the occasional nod. “The walls are too tall to climb,” you tell him. “And we check and double-check the gates, and all the rooms. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. I simply can’t think of any reason for the flowers to appear.”

When you are done, Havelock regards you in silence for a while. Then, he claps his hands together. “Sebastian,” he says, “would you fetch one of my new shirts for this fellow? I’m sure he would appreciate it. We are almost of a size.”

I leave, and while I am gone, Havelock leans forward, and regards you carefully. “You’re a bright young man,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” you say.

“Here’s what I’d like you to do. Go on working, just as usual. Keep an eye out for these mysterious flowers, and take note of them. Make a list. See if there’s anything about them that strikes you—the way they have been cut, perhaps.”

“I will, sir.”

“I want you to send me a letter once a week, detailing your findings.”

“Oh.” You’re taken aback by this generosity. “Do you think there’s something to this mystery, sir? I wasn’t sure.”

“I think that this case—call it ‘The Flowers of Cavendish Mill’—is very important. And I want you to take it seriously.”

“Are we in danger, sir?”

“I don’t think so,” says Havelock, as I return with a shirt, “but I want you to be on your guard. Ah! Here. Please, take this, as a fellow appreciator of fine materials.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, and then, “thank you,” again, overwhelmed by the gift of the shirt, and the gift of Havelock’s regard for your case. “The Flowers of Cavendish Mill.” The name fills you with pride, as if it might one day be published in The Times, alongside Havelock Harper’s other adventures. You keep thanking Havelock, and me in turn, as I lead you back out to the street, and there, on the street, you stand in the light of a gas lamp, turning over the French linen shirt, so buoyed up with joy that you feel as if you might burst. You can’t wait to tell Henry about your day.

Meanwhile, inside, I gather the empty teacups. Havelock is quiet.

“Do you know who is leaving the flowers?” I ask him.

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“You didn’t think to tell the young man?”

Havelock’s smile is slow. “Sometimes,” he says carefully, “the unfolding of the mystery is far more important than its solution.”

On your day off, you go to Oxford Street and buy a very fine notebook and pencil. When you were young, you used to flip through your father’s old police notebooks, which were filled with all manner of names and details, and you are proud to finally have one of your own. The notebook is bound in leather, and the paper is so luxurious that you are wary of marking it, and it costs almost a week’s wages. You take a train back to Hackney, and though you are elbow-to-elbow with the day’s commuters, you write down as many details as you can remember about the flowers that have appeared at Cavendish Mill so far.

That night, you arrive at the mill with your new notebook in your pocket. Henry and you go over all of your notes, and he suggests extra details, where he can remember them. You have yet to show him your new shirt. In fact, you have only worn it once so far. It fit very well, and though you only have a shaving mirror, you thought you looked very fine in it. You have decided to save the shirt for a special occasion.

Later on that night, you stumble across a new flower near the south wall. This time, you and Henry examine it by lamplight, and you make careful note of its precise positioning, the way it has been cut, and the number and arrangement of its petals.

Henry shows you how to press it into your notebook. He positions the flower between two pages, and shuts the notebook tightly—binding it with a piece of string. A few hours later, and there it is, flattened and remarkably well preserved. You ask him where he learned how to press flowers, and he tells you at length about his sister, who lives in a small cottage just outside Halifax. He tells you that he sends her a part of his salary every month, and visits twice a year, for Easter and Christmas. Henry speaks very highly of his sister, but when you tell him that you hope to meet her one day, he goes quiet.

Another flower appears two days later, and you take more notes. At the end of the week, you and Henry compose your first letter to Havelock Harper.

You put as much detail as you can into the letter, and send it to his address. You imagine that Mr. Harper receives an awful lot of mail, and will be slow to reply, but no less than two days later a courier arrives at your door with a large package. At first, you are not sure what to make of the contents. There is no letter—only a complete, handwritten manuscript, loosely bound in a leather portfolio. The manuscript bears the title: “Havelock Harper and the Mystery of Farleigh Forest”—a case that you have never heard of. You only have a handful of hours until work, so you decide to bring it with you.

Henry is astonished when you show him the manuscript. “Is it a new story?” he asks.

You tell him that you’re not sure.

Henry is quiet. Then, he says, “How does it begin?”

It begins like this: