The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the grey belly of the sky, a constant, suffocating mist that clung to the cobblestones of Blackfriars Lane and seeped into the marrow of anyone foolish enough to linger there. Inspector Arthur Penhaligon stood beneath the awning of the closed chandler’s shop, his shoulders hunched against the damp chill that seemed to radiate from the very...
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