The Golden Cellar
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet, smelling faintly of the iron-gall solution I had mixed that morning. I stared at the date, October 14, 1912, and at the name Clara, written in a hand that tried to be steady but betrayed the tremor in my wrist. I was thirty years old, a Captain in the Royal Artillery, and I told her that the golden cellar beneath the old estate at Ashworth Hall was...
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