The Distant Clue
The rain in Blackwood did not wash things clean. It only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected the gas lamps in shattered, trembling shards of amber and grey. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his study, a room that smelled of dried lavender and old paper, watching the storm lash against the Victorian facade of the house. He was a man of quiet movements,...
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