The Distant Clue
The dinner was loud. The chandeliers in the ballroom of the Ashworth estate cast a warm, honeyed glow over the polished mahogany tables, but the air was thick with the scent of roasted venison and the metallic tang of old, unspoken resentment. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the head table, his uniform immaculate, his shoulders squared in a way that made the fabric of his jacket creak. He...
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