The Golden Suspect
The signature is not there, Julian. Arthur Vane stood before the mahogany desk of Director Harrow, the air in the office thick with the smell of stale tobacco and the damp chill of the November draught that seeped through the window frames. It was the autumn of 1893, and the winter budget freeze was three days away, a deadline that hung over the accounting department like a noose. Vane,...
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