The Original Entry

The first issue ledger had been cut from its binding.

Sorrel found the gap behind a row of blank forms in the release-house office, where the shelf had kept a pale rectangle of clean wood. The Office’s notice still held the front door shut beneath its seal. Outside, the last of the evening traffic had faded; the building’s press gave a low, uneven knock somewhere below them.

Tamsin set the brass-capped tube on the desk. “If they’ve taken the book, they knew what we’d look for.”

“Or they needed the shelf for something else.” Sorrel eased a stack of issue slips aside. “Let’s see which explanation costs less.”

The slips had been filed by date, but their numbering jumped in the week of Tamsin’s survey. A bundle for the following month had been put in its place. Sorrel sorted the papers across the desk while Tamsin searched the cupboards. There were returns for brass rules and chains, a complaint about an inaccurate tide table, and two forms recording the disposal of cracked compasses. No tube.

Tamsin found a narrow drawer beneath the desk. It stuck halfway open. She pulled until the wood rasped against the frame, then reached inside and came out with a folded sheet caught behind the runner.

The paper had been ruled into columns for issue, return, and witness. Its heading was worn, but the date was legible: the day of the ash-tree survey.

Sorrel cleared a space and opened it. “This is the counterfoil.”

A tube had been issued shortly after midday to Tamsin Rusk. The instrument number matched the brass-capped tube. The return column held the next morning’s date, followed by the words *received sealed, with measure*. Beneath them, in the keeper’s hand, was Tamsin’s name. The hooked seven sat at the end of the return mark.

Tamsin leaned on the desk, close enough to read without touching the paper. “That’s mine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I make the hook tighter when I’m writing standing up.” She tapped the edge of the desk beside the mark. “Look at the first turn. It doubles back.”

Sorrel examined the counterfoil under the lamp. The ink had spread into the paper fibers. The downstroke had pressed a shallow ridge into the sheet, and the hook had caught where the nib changed direction. Someone could imitate the shape, but the pressure belonged to a hand making the mark on this page.

Tamsin reached for the old vellum in the tube. “I was here.”

“The record says you returned it.”

“I know what it says.” She turned the counterfoil slightly, searching the cramped columns. “I want to know what they did with it.”