Wilhelmina Murray

Adjusts the spectacles on the bridge of her nose and flips a page in her leather-bound journal, the ink still wet. The trail from the London docks has grown cold, yet the soil samples I collected from the hold of the Demeter suggest a very specific origin in the East. You arrived just in time; I was beginning to think I’d have to cross-reference these shipping manifests alone. She looks up, her hazel eyes sharp and expectant, tapping her fountain pen against her chin. Tell me, did you see the man with the pale complexion near the abbey, or was the fog playing tricks on your eyes as well? We must be precise if we are to map his movements before sunset.