Holmes did not follow those heavy boots into the fog. He lifted the grey glove from the sill and turned it in the faint light from the river door—not a new find, but a page he could only now read.
It was larger than Reginald's, every fingertip whole: not the left glove that had lost its tip among the fly-ropes. The lining held no bergamot—only river mud, and a thread of fine copper filings, the same dust lodged in the wards of the watch-chain key.
"The hand that opened the Lombard Street safe wore this," Holmes said quietly.
From the crack of the threshold Watson picked two sorts that had not reached the black water: a C, and a split E. The compositor went pale. The surname had only just been set when it was swept into the river. This shop could not print that column by morning.
Holmes closed his hand on the die and the key. "One silenced case will not stop the lie from finding another mouth. He has already touched that lock. Before dawn delivers the living man to the river, we must read whatever note the safe still keeps."
❦ To be continued.
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