The Distant Promise
"You are holding the mark, are you not, Inspector?" The question hung in the air of the tavern, thick as the smoke from the tallow candles that gutted and weared in the corners. It was not a request. It was an accusation wrapped in the velvet of polite inquiry. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers laced tightly together, the knuckles white against the dark wood....
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