The fog clung to the Yorkshire Moors like a shroud, and Arthur...

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2026-05-01 13:08:13 -

The fog clung to the Yorkshire Moors like a shroud, and Arthur Pendelton walked into it with a magistrate's warrant in his breast pocket and his fiancée's memory in his heart.

Eleven days. Eleven days since Eleanor had stepped off the coach at Harrogate Spa, intending to write to him from the inn, and never did. No ransom note. No witness. Only a single white glove found on the moor path, its lace torn as though something had caught it and pulled. Colonel Harrington had given him the uniform and the documents with a look of profound pity. Arthur did not accept pity....

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