The revelation about Mrs. Albright had sent Foster down a rabbit hole of suspicion, but after days of discreet observation and cross-referencing city records, he found nothing.
No mysterious payments, no secret meetings, no ties to any organization beyond the Historical Society ladies' auxiliary.
She was, by all accounts, a grieving widow who had found quiet employment after her husband's sudden death a decade ago. The connection was a historic relic, not an active conspiracy.
The shock remained, but the suspicion began to fade, replaced by a sobering realization of how deeply the city's secrets were buried in its soil.
It was during this process of elimination that another name surfaced in his mind, one he had unconsciously sidelined in his frantic push toward the Aethelstan Club: Mr. Havelock.
The kind clockmaker had been his first and most crucial link. He had provided both the lead on the Albright key and the repair work that funded Foster's entry into the world of secrets.
And Foster had all but forgotten him.
The ingratitude, however unintentional, felt like a stain. More pressingly, Havelock possessed a deep, practical knowledge of the city's old mechanisms—both literal and, perhaps, figurative.
—
He visited the shop on Oak Lane after his shift. The bell chimed its familiar tune.
"Ambrose!" Mr. Havelock looked up from a complex gear assembly, his face breaking into a warm smile.
"I was wondering if I'd lost my best freelancer to the glamour of police work."
"Just busy, I'm afraid," Foster said, the lie tasting more bitter than usual. He gestured to the gear assembly.
"Another challenge?"
"Always. This one's from the old city hall clock tower. Been silent for twenty years. They want it running again."
He peered at Foster over his loupe.
"But you didn't come here to talk about mainsprings. You have that look. The one that says you're working on a puzzle bigger than my draftsman's jamming."
Foster leaned against the counter, the scent of oil and metal a comforting constant.
"You know the city's history better than anyone I know. The old families, the old... traditions."
Havelock's smile faded into a more thoughtful expression.
He put down his tools. "I know the things they built. The clocks, the locks, the architecture. You can learn a lot about people from what they build to last."
He wiped his hands on a rag. "Why do you ask?"
"Just a case," Foster deflected, falling back on the familiar ruse. "It's got me thinking about the past. About the people who might have... specialized skills. Like Albright."
Havelock's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Albright was a craftsman. A brilliant one. He made puzzles in metal. But he was a private man. Kept to his work."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"There were rumors, of course. That he did work for certain... exclusive clients. But that was a long time ago. Why dredge that up now?"
"I found one of his keys," Foster said, sticking as close to the truth as he dared. "It just got me wondering about who he worked for."
"Be careful where you put that key, son,"
Havelock said, his tone losing its usual warmth and gaining a fatherly gravity.
"Some locks are better left unopened. The past has a way of biting those who dig it up without proper respect."
The warning was clear, but so was the knowledge behind it. Havelock knew more than he was saying.
He wasn't just a source of odd jobs, he was a giant encyclopedia of old knowledge, a living link to the city's hidden history.
Foster had been so focused on the future, on his new club and his grand investigation, that he had ignored the valuable resource right in front of him.
He left the shop with a promise to return soon to help with the clock tower mechanism, a genuine one this time. As he walked, he made a mental note:
Havelock was not to be sidelined again. There was also the possibility of the old repair man being H, the ear of the mandate.
He was a thread that connected the practical world of gears and levers to the esoteric world of the Mandate and the Thinning.
And in a war of secrets, a man who understood the fundamental mechanics of things was an indispensable ally.
The pieces were all around him, he realized.
Not just in the blood-stained notebook or the marble club, but in the smile of a housekeeper, the workshop of a clockmaker, and the unshakable faith of a younger brother.
The Lonely Saviour didn't need to hunt for a trinity, he was already standing at its center, if only he could learn to see the connections.
The thought was both comforting and terrifying, for it meant the weight of it all truly did rest on his shoulders alone.