The Golden Suspect
The ledger of my service had forty pages, and I had counted them three times in the dark before I lit the candle, checking that the ink had not bled where my hands had trembled. I was a Captain of the Royal Guard, forty years old, and my pension depended on the single fact that I had recovered the Crown of St. Jude by dawn, a task that would secure the medical fund for my wife, Clara, whose...
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