The Golden Suspect
The Golden Suspect The letter arrived on a Tuesday, folded into a shape that refused to be unfolded. Not folded so much as crushed—like something that had been held in a fist and let go of too late. Arthur Pendelton found it under his door at the flat above his antique bookshop in Bloomsbury, wedged between the gap where the draught came in and the brass plate that read PENDLETON & SONS in...
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