The Distant Clue
The rain had been falling on the grey slate roof of the Whitmore estate for three days, a persistent, cold weeping that seeped into the bones of the house and the people who inhabited it. Inside the library, the air was thick with the smell of damp paper and old tobacco, a scent that had defined the life of Dr. Elias Thorne for forty years. He sat in the wingback chair, his hands resting on the...
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