The knock came before first light.
Harrow was already awake.
He did not rise immediately. He lay still for a moment, listening to the measured knock repeat itself—three firm strikes, a pause, then two more. Not frantic. Not hesitant.
Official.
He dressed in silence.
Downstairs, the house was cold. The fire had died to ash in the grate. He stirred it once with the poker before pulling on his gloves.
The constable waiting at the door kept his cap tucked under his arm.
"Sir," he said, eyes fixed somewhere near Harrow's shoulder. "Inspector Morrow requests your presence."
"Where?"
"Hanbury Street."
Harrow held the man's gaze a moment longer than necessary.
"Very well."
The carriage wheels moved slowly through fog thick enough to soften the gaslight into halos. Market carts were only just arriving; men in aprons stood beside stacked crates, stamping their boots against the damp.
Hanbury Street was narrower than he remembered.
A small crowd had already gathered at the mouth of an alley. They parted when they saw him, not out of respect, but out of instinct.
Inspector Morrow met him halfway down the alley.
"She was found an hour ago," Morrow said. "A boy on his way to the market."
"How old?"
"Seventeen."
Harrow nodded once and stepped forward.
The body lay near a drainage channel, skirts twisted, hair tangled against the stone. One shoe had come loose. Her hands were clenched tight, dirt beneath her fingernails.
He did not kneel.
He observed.
There were bruises along the throat. Deep ones. Not rope. Fingers.
The physician stood nearby, pale and tight-lipped.
"Strangled," the man said quietly. "And assaulted."
Harrow did not respond.
"Any witnesses?" he asked instead.
Morrow exhaled through his nose. "A woman claims she saw a man leaving the alley. Says he wore a cap. Walked quickly."
"A name?"
"She believes it was Weller."
Belief was not proof.
Harrow looked once more at the girl's throat. The pressure marks were uneven, one thumb print deeper than the rest.
"When was he last seen?"
"Leaving court yesterday."
Harrow did not ask for elaboration.
A sound rose from the street beyond the alley—a woman's voice breaking into sobs. The crowd shifted, restless.
Morrow lowered his voice. "The mother attended the trial. She was in the gallery."
Harrow straightened.
"Bring her forward."
The widow stepped into the alley with unsteady steps. Her face was swollen, eyes red. She did not look at the body at first. She looked at Harrow.
"You let him walk," she said.
The constable moved to silence her. Harrow raised a hand.
"I discharged him according to the jury's verdict."
"He did this," she said. "He said he would."
"Did anyone hear this threat?"
She shook her head.
"Did anyone see him here?"
She hesitated. "No."
Harrow held her gaze a moment longer. She wanted anger from him. Or promise. Or regret.
He gave her none.
"I require proof," he said. "Without it, the charge will fail again."
She stared at him as if he had spoken a foreign language.
Behind her, someone muttered, "What good is proof if they're dead?"
Harrow ignored it.
He turned back to Morrow.
"You will secure the area. Question everyone within two streets. I want names. Times. Movements."
"We'll do what we can."
"Do what is sufficient."
He stepped out of the alley and into the fog again.
The crowd watched him pass.
Some looked hopeful.
Some looked angry.
Most looked tired.
Back in his chambers, he removed his gloves and laid them flat on the desk.
The room was quiet.
He sat and opened the file on Thomas Weller.
Assault. Dismissed.
Indecent attack. Witness unreliable.
Public disorder. Fine paid.
The pattern was not dramatic.
It was repetitive.
A knock sounded.
Whitcombe entered, carrying correspondence.
"There is talk in the street," the clerk said carefully.
"There is always talk."
"Yes, sir."
Whitcombe shifted his weight. "Some say the court is too restrained."
Harrow closed the file.
"Restraint is the function of the court."
Whitcombe nodded, though uneasily.
Harrow rose and crossed to the window. The fog had begun to thin, revealing rooftops and chimneys in dull outline.
The girl's throat returned to him briefly—not as horror, but as fact.
He turned back to the desk.
"Bring me the records of repeat violent offenders over the last two years."
Whitcombe blinked. "All of them, sir?"
"All."
"Yes, sir."
When the clerk withdrew, Harrow sat again and drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.
He did not write about the girl.
He wrote about thresholds.
The ink flowed steadily.
Outside, the city resumed its ordinary sounds—vendors calling, horses shifting, distant hammering from a construction site.
Nothing suggested rupture.
Yet the file on his desk remained open.
And by midday, the docket for the following week was already fuller than the last