The Faded Alibi
The rain in the moors did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the horizon into a memory of water and stone. Arthur Penhaligon walked with a limp that had grown heavier with every mile, his boots sinking into the peat that seemed to pull at his ankles with a desperate, wet grip. He was a man of few words and less hope, a clerk by trade who had spent thirty years...
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