The Distant Clue
The rain fell on the stone bridge with a persistent, rhythmic thud, a sound that had not changed in three hundred years, while Arthur Penhaligon stood on the far bank, holding the cracked ceramic shard in his gloved hand. It was a piece of a bowl, blue and white, the glaze chipped to reveal the gritty clay beneath, and he turned it over and under in the gray light, feeling the jagged edge catch...
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