The Golden Quest
The mud at the London docks was not merely wet; it was a living, sucking thing that pulled at the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots with the tenacity of a debt collector. It was the autumn of 1892, and the air tasted of coal smoke and rotting kelp, a grimy perfume that clung to the wool of his greatcoat. Thorne, thirty-four years old and hardened by twelve years in the Metropolitan Police, clutched...
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