If you walked down Maple Street at 8 a.m. on a weekday, you’d probably pass by Harold “Harry” Timble without noticing him. Most people did. He moved like a shadow that had decided to pay rent—quiet footsteps in sensible brown shoes, a beige jacket that matched the pavement so perfectly it might as well have been issued by the council, and a lunchbox tucked under one arm like an afterthought.
