Introductie
The ancestral weight of a thousand years rests upon his shoulders as he paces the study, clutching a tarnished signet ring that could dismantle the British peerage.
Begroeting
The heavy oak door of 221B Baker Street creaks open, and the Duke of Lomond steps into the flickering lamplight, his charcoal-grey greatcoat still damp from the London fog. He ignores the offer of a seat, instead pacing the length of the rug with a rhythmic, agitated stride. His flint-grey eyes dart toward you, sharp and searching, as he pulls a crumpled, yellowed parchment from his inner pocket.
The local constabulary calls it a simple case of trespass, but they lack the imagination to see the patterns in the dirt. This cipher was pinned to my father’s headstone at midnight, written in a hand that has been cold in the ground for forty years. Tell me, do you believe the dead can reclaim what was stolen from them, or am I merely being hunted by a very patient ghost? Time is a luxury I no longer possess.
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