Midnight found Elara not in a bed, but in the sterile glow of the forensic archive, surrounded by the ghosts of Leo Sandys's academic past. Thorne was across the city, running down leads on vulnerable individuals linked to the Goldsmiths' Hall. The pressure was a physical weight.
She had Sandys's thesis open, but it was the marginalia—his handwritten notes in the library copies of obscure historical texts—that she sought. A mind like his didn't just read; it conversed with the text. His private thoughts might reveal his next move.
She'd requisitioned every book he'd checked out in his final year at UCL. The pile was daunting: Penal Symbolism in Gothic Architecture, The Pharmacopoeia of the Damned, Ledgers of Lack: Debt and Punishment in Medieval London.
It was in the last one, a dry economic history, that she found it. A passage was underlined in precise, sharp strokes: "The most potent leverage over a man is not the threat to his person, but to his persona—the crafted image of himself he presents to the world. To own a man's secret shame is to own the man."
In the margin, in Sandys's distinctive, elegant script, he had written: Applicable. The modern 'chorister' sings for his supper. Silence him not with peas, but with the exposure of his sour note. Finch's avarice. What is this one's melody?
He was looking for a flaw, a secret sin. Not a criminal, necessarily. A hypocrite.
Her phone buzzed. Thorne.
"We've got a list," he said, his voice raspy with fatigue. "Three possibles. A curator with a hidden gambling addiction. A head of security with ties to a far-right group. And a freelance exhibit designer who was just served with a devastating plagiarism lawsuit from a rival. Any of those sing to you?"
The plagiarism. Theft of intellectual property. A "sour note" in the world of academic and artistic credibility. A modern parallel to stealing from the collection plate—stealing ideas, stealing credit.
"The designer," Elara said, certainty clicking into place. "Sandys wouldn't care about politics or gambling. Those are common vices. Plagiarism… it's a corruption of legacy. A theft of story. It's exactly what he would see as a modern 'chorister's' sin. What's his name?"
"Julian Croft. Freelance, does a lot of work for heritage sites. The lawsuit is career-ending. He'd be desperate."
"Sandys would have seen the legal notice. He'd have approached him, offered a solution. 'Steal the diadem for me, and I'll make your problem disappear.' Or perhaps just blackmailed him with the knowledge." Elara was already gathering her things. "Where does he live?"
"Hampstead. We have a car on the way for you. I'm heading there now. Meet me."
The house in Hampstead was a modest Victorian terrace, dark and silent. Thorne's unmarked car was parked a few doors down. He emerged from the shadows as Elara's car pulled up.
"No movement for hours," he said. "Front and back covered. Ready?"
He didn't wait for an answer, striding to the front door and using a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet street.
Silence.
He knocked again. "Mr. Croft! Metropolitan Police. Open up, please."
A light flicked on in an upstairs window. A minute later, a dishevelled man in a dressing gown opened the door. Julian Croft was in his forties, with the pallor of chronic stress. His eyes were wide, darting between Thorne's warrant card and Elara standing behind him.
"What's this about?" His voice was reedy, fearful.
"Can we come in, sir? It's about your personal security," Thorne said, using the calm, firm tone that brooked no argument.
Inside, the house was a testament to a life unravelling. Packing boxes were stacked in the hall, some full of books, others half-filled with crockery. The air smelled of stale coffee and dust.
"Are you going somewhere, Mr. Croft?" Thorne asked, surveying the room.
"A… a sabbatical. Needed a break," Croft mumbled, not meeting their eyes.
"Has someone contacted you recently? Offered to help with your… legal difficulties?" Elara asked gently.
Croft's head snapped up. Panic flashed across his face, quickly suppressed. "No. No one. I'm handling it."
"A man named Leo Sandys," Thorne pressed. "Former soldier. Historian."
The colour drained from Croft's face. He sank onto a packing box. "He said he was a journalist. Doing a piece on the pressures of creative work. He… he understood. He said he could make the lawsuit go away. That the plaintiff had… skeletons. All I had to do was a favour. A simple thing."
"To steal the Aethelred Diadem," Elara stated.
Croft nodded, a miserable, jerky movement. "He gave me a keycard, a security code. Told me exactly when the cameras would loop. Tonight. At 3 AM. I was to take it, bring it to a drop point in the basement of the Hall. He said… he said if I did it, he'd give me evidence to destroy my accuser. If I didn't, or if I went to the police, he'd release proof that I'd tried to solicit his help to destroy evidence. I'd be finished." He buried his face in his hands. "I was going to do it. I'm so sorry. I'm so scared."
Thorne's jaw was tight. "The drop point. Where?"
"An old coal chute. Behind a false wall in the boiler room. He said to leave it there and walk away."
The service tunnel. Sandys wasn't entering the Hall. He was having the diadem delivered to his secret entrance.
"He played us," Thorne muttered to Elara. "The email criticizing our 'artless' blind spot… it was misdirection. He wanted us focused on the front door, while his pawn used the back."
"And now we have the pawn," Elara said. "But Sandys is still expecting his delivery."
Thorne looked at the broken man on the box, then at Elara. A new plan, dangerous and direct, formed in his eyes.
"Mr. Croft," Thorne said, his voice low and intense. "You're going to make that delivery. But we're going to be with you. Every step of the way. And you're going to help us catch him."
Croft looked up, tears of terror and relief in his eyes. The thief had been found. Now, they had to use him to trap the Keeper in his own labyrinth. The clock read 1:17 AM.