The Distant Clue
The rain had been falling on the valley since Tuesday, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of Blackwood Lane into slick, dark mirrors, and you, Arthur Penhaligon, stand at the threshold of the old manor house, your boots heavy with mud, your heart heavy with a doubt you cannot quite name. You have come here as an investigator, a man of the Bureau, a functionary of the law,...
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