Detective Sergeant George Watters glanced upwards, where shifting clouds part-obscured the scimitar moon. He grunted, for he had hoped for more light, and checked the time on the sadly battered watch that Marie had given him on their tenth wedding anniversary. Watters valued that watch and smoothed his fingers across the maker’s name. Benson was a quality watchmaker from London. Marie must have paid a packet for you. He waited until the minute hand moved to the number ten.
Marie must have paid a packet for you. Ten minutes short of midnight.
Ten minutes short of midnight.“Are you ready, boys?”
Detective Constable Scuddamore nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” With his immaculately groomed side whiskers, straight nose, and cleft chin, Scuddamore considered himself the most handsome man in the Dunde
