The old clockmaker\'s shop on Fleet Street had been closed for eleven years, but its bell still rang every time Henry Ashworth-Cross passed. He could not explain it. The bell had no clapper. The door was locked. Yet when the afternoon light hit the cracked window at exactly the angle the building had held before the war, the sound returned — thin as spider silk, clear as a struck tuning fork....
The Faded Alibi
Chapter 1: The Weight of Silence
The rain in Oxford does not fall so much as it settles — a fine, persistent mist that coats everything in a layer of borrowed grey, as though the city itself is wearing a fogged-up alibi. Henry Ashworth-Cross stood at the window of his study on Broad Street, watching the Thames curl through the afternoon like a serpent dreaming of something...
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