Chapter 6: The First Thread Snapped — Warehouse Fire at Limehouse

The telegram arrived at half past seven in the evening, when Watson was in his shirtsleeves at the Montague Street desk, cross-referencing Adelaide's routing anomalies against Perkins's street-level intelligence with the focused attention of a man assembling a mechanism he does not yet fully understand. The boy who delivered it waited precisely long enough to establish that an answer was not forthcoming, then clattered back down the stairs.

The message was from Perkins. It was brief in the way that Perkins had learned, in the ten days since their partnership had acquired its current shape, that Watson preferred: an address in Limehouse, a warehouse number, the single word tonight, and a time that was already forty minutes away.

Watson put on his coat, pocketed his revolver, and did not waste time wondering how Perkins had come by the information. He had learned, in those same ten days, that certain questions were better held in reserve.