The Golden Suspect
The rain in Manchester did not wash the soot away; it only made it slicker, turning the cobblestones into a black mirror that reflected the gaslight in trembling, oily streaks. Arthur Vane stood at the window of the small, damp room where his father lay dying, the gold pocket watch resting in his palm like a warm stone. The second hand ticked backward. It always did when Arthur held the lie...
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