The Golden Suspect
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate smelled of beeswax, roasted pheasant, and the faint, metallic tang of the new steam engines that hummed in the basement, a constant, low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of the guests' shoes. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the far end of the mahogany table, his fingers drumming a complex, syncopated rhythm against the...
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