The Last Undertaker

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2026-06-02 13:40:54 -

I The fog came down on Whitechapel like a shroud, thick and suffocating, and Thomas Mourne felt it in his knees before he heard the bell. He was at his bench, carving a new lid for a child's coffin—no, not a child's, he corrected himself, the boy had been thirty-two, a dockworker crushed between barrels of rum at Wapping. Thirty-two and with three daughters. Thomas always made the coffins to...

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