The Poison of Mayfair
The fog that night was the colour of a bruise. It pressed against the windows of Arthur Pemberton's lodging in Whitechapel like a living thing, muffling the cobblestones, swallowing the sound of the night watchman's bell. Arthur sat at his small desk, a candle guttering beside him, his fingers stained with iodine and carbolic acid. He was reading a letter he had received three nights ago, the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen