The Golden Suspect
The rain lashed against the thick, leaded glass of the apothecary’s shopfront, blurring the grey, soot-stained brick of the London street into a watercolor smear of mud and misery, while inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of dried lavender, camphor, and the sharp, metallic tang of the blood that had yet to be scrubbed from the floorboards. Arthur Penhaligon stood motionless in the center...
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