The afternoon sunlight had begun to slant across the tall windows of the study by the time John realized just how long he had been sitting at the desk.
Ledgers were spread across nearly every surface. Several thick account books lay open before him, while stacks of correspondence and shipping manifests had been pushed into uneven piles to either side. The once immaculate desk now looked like the command center of a small investigation.
John leaned back slightly in the chair and rubbed his eyes.
"So far," he muttered quietly, "nothing."
For hours he had combed through the documents his father had left behind, expecting that somewhere within the numbers and records there would be some hint of irregularity. If Thomas Halsworth had been dealing with something dangerous enough to warrant secrecy—or worse—then surely it would have left a mark somewhere in the company's operations.
But the more he read, the more ordinary everything seemed.
In fact, the numbers told the exact opposite story.
The British Equatorial Trading Company was thriving.
John flipped another page of the ledger, his eyes scanning rows of neatly written figures. Cargo shipments, port fees, insurance contracts, shipping schedules—every entry suggested that the company was operating smoothly, even impressively.
If anything, business appeared to be booming.
According to the records, profits had steadily increased over the past few years, and the growth seemed to have accelerated even further in the most recent months.
John leaned back in the chair again, tapping the edge of the desk thoughtfully with his fingers.
From the inherited memories of this body, he understood exactly why the company had prospered.
The answer lay thousands of miles away in the desert.
The Suez Canal.
The massive waterway had opened only a few years earlier, carving a direct route between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. For centuries, ships traveling between Europe and the East had been forced to sail around the southern tip of Africa—a long and dangerous journey that could add months to a voyage.
Now, with the canal open, the distance between London and India—or East Africa—had been dramatically shortened.
But the opportunity had not been immediately embraced.
Most trading companies remained cautious.
The reason was simple.
Sailing ships, which still dominated global trade, were not well suited to the narrow canal or the windless waters of the Mediterranean. Without reliable winds, a sail-powered vessel could lose precious time drifting or maneuvering awkwardly through the confined passage.
Many companies therefore continued using the older route around Africa, preferring reliability over experimentation.
But Thomas Halsworth had seen the situation differently.
John smiled faintly as the memory surfaced.
His father—this body's father—had recognized the potential before most others did.
Instead of choosing between sail or steam, he had proposed a hybrid strategy.
The company would invest in steamships for the critical portions of the journey: the Suez Canal and the Mediterranean Sea, where wind conditions were unpredictable and maneuverability was essential.
Meanwhile, the traditional sailing vessels would still operate in the Indian Ocean, where strong, consistent winds made them both efficient and economical.
Cargo would be transferred between the two fleets at the port of Aden, which served as a natural gateway between the Red Sea and the wider Indian Ocean trade routes.
It had been a clever solution.
By combining both technologies instead of abandoning one entirely, the British Equatorial Trading Company had gained a massive advantage in speed and reliability.
And the results were visible in the ledgers.
Profit margins had surged.
Shipping times had dropped dramatically.
New trade contracts appeared on nearly every page John turned.
By all visible accounts, the company was becoming a behemoth in the East African trade.
John exhaled slowly.
"If anything," he murmured, "the man deserved a medal."
Yet despite the success recorded in the books, something about the situation still troubled him.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Unless," he muttered quietly, "I'm simply overthinking everything."
It was possible.
Perhaps Thomas Halsworth really had died of natural causes. A sudden heart attack during a stressful workday would not be unheard of, especially for a man deeply involved in running a rapidly expanding trading empire.
Perhaps Julian's suspicions were nothing more than the curiosity of a doctor confronted with an unusual case.
John drummed his fingers lightly on the desk.
The steady tapping echoed through the quiet study.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His eyes drifted across the surface of the desk, scanning the drawers absentmindedly.
Then something stirred in his memory.
He froze.
The tapping stopped.
"…Wait."
A faint recollection surfaced from the depths of the inherited memories.
John slowly sat up straighter.
There had been something his father once showed him.
Something about this very desk.
A small trick.
He stood up and walked around the desk, crouching beside the top drawer. For a moment he simply studied it, letting the memory settle into place.
"Yes," he murmured.
His father had explained it years ago while laughing about how every respectable gentleman's desk ought to have at least one hidden compartment.
John reached for the small ring of keys that hung from the desk's lock.
After selecting the correct one, he inserted it into the keyhole of the top drawer.
The mechanism clicked softly.
Then he twisted the key twice.
Next, he pulled the drawer out halfway.
For a moment nothing happened.
But John knew there was one final step.
He twisted the key a third time.
There was a quiet mechanical snap.
John felt the back panel of the drawer shift slightly.
"Well," he said with a faint smile, "would you look at that."
He carefully removed the drawer completely.
Behind it, a small hidden compartment had opened in the rear section of the desk.
Inside were several folded documents.
John reached in and pulled them out.
The first set appeared to be a formal business proposal.
He unfolded the papers and began reading.
His eyebrows slowly rose.
"Blackwood Orient Trading Company," he read aloud.
The name meant nothing to him.
From the inherited memories of this body, he could recall dozens of trading firms operating throughout the British Empire, but this particular name had never appeared in any conversation with his father.
He flipped through the pages.
The documents outlined a business plan.
But something about it felt unusual.
The proposal described a trading company that seemed designed to operate in the same regions—and even some of the same routes—as the British Equatorial Trading Company.
John frowned slightly.
"Competition?"
It would not be surprising. Trade was full of rivals.
Yet if that were the case, why would his father hide the documents in a secret compartment?
John turned to the final paper in the bundle.
It was a letter.
Unlike the other documents, this one had no official letterhead.
No address.
No signature.
Just a single sheet of paper covered in tightly written text.
John unfolded it and began reading.
The message was brief.
And strangely cryptic.
The writer referred to an investigation that Thomas Halsworth had apparently commissioned.
Several lines mentioned a sum of three hundred thousand pounds connected to the British Equatorial Trading Company.
John's eyes widened slightly.
Three hundred thousand pounds was not a trivial amount of money.
In fact, it was an enormous sum.
The letter suggested that the funds had come from a government capitalization program, though the exact details were vague.
More troubling was the implication that something about the transaction had been… irregular.
John leaned back slowly in the chair.
"So," he murmured, "you were digging into something."
If his father had commissioned a private investigation into a large government investment tied to the company, then that might explain why someone had been eager to keep the details hidden.
Or worse.
It might explain why someone had wanted Thomas Halsworth out of the way.
John stared at the letter for a long moment.
"This might be it," he whispered.
Just as he was beginning to organize the papers into a more coherent pile, there was a knock at the door.
John quickly folded the documents and slipped them back into the hidden compartment.
"Come in."
The door opened quietly.
Hawkins entered, carrying a small silver tray.
On it sat a teapot, a porcelain cup, and a small plate of biscuits.
"I thought you might appreciate some refreshment, sir," the butler said politely.
John blinked.
"How long have I been in here?"
Hawkins gave him a mild look.
"Nearly the entire day."
John glanced toward the window.
The angle of the sunlight had changed dramatically.
Golden afternoon light now filled the room.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Just approaching three o'clock, sir."
John let out a quiet breath.
"I suppose I lost track of time."
Hawkins placed the tray gently on the desk.
"I noticed that you had not left the study since this morning," the butler said calmly. "I thought it wise to ensure you had something to drink."
John smiled faintly.
"Thank you, Hawkins."
The butler inclined his head slightly before turning to leave.
Once the door closed again, John reached for the teacup and poured himself a drink.
He took a slow sip.
Then his eyes drifted back toward the desk drawer.
Toward the hidden compartment.
Whatever his father had been investigating…
It had been important enough to hide.
And perhaps dangerous enough to kill for.