The iron was cold. It hung from a nail in the hallway, a dark sliver against the pale wainscoting. Sir Elias touched it. The metal was dull, unpolished. It had not been used in years. The house was quiet. A heavy silence lay upon the floorboards. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of afternoon light. Elias stood still. He was old now. His hands trembled. They were no longer the hands that...
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the Whitehall district into slick, treacherous mirrors reflecting the gaslight and the wet soot of the industrial age. It was in this oppressive dampness, inside the high-ceilinged office of the Ministry of Internal Order, that Arthur Pendelton stood before the desk of his superior, his hands bound...
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