The Last Precaution
The fog came in off the Thames like a living thing, wrapping London in a shroud of grey and damp. Arthur Pendelton watched it from behind three layers of glass in his study, counting the seconds between each gust of wind. Forty-seven seconds. Within the margin of error. He had been counting things for twenty years. Since the accident in 1865, since the horse and carriage had slipped on ice and...
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