The fog rolled in off the Cambridge canal like a living thing, thick and yellow as old wool. Arthur Pendelton pulled his collar tighter and walked up the gravel path to Ashworth Hall.
The estate was not what he expected. He had imagined a grand Cambridge manor, all stone and stained glass. Instead, Ashworth House was a tall, narrow house of dark brick, half swallowed by ivy and fog. The windows stared out like blind eyes. He had come because Edmund Ashworth was dead. Three weeks ago, the Cambridge Chronicle had run a single line: "Edmund Ashworth, F.R.S., died peacefully in...
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