Since stepping into December, the streets of London had been shrouded in fog nearly every day, with the occasional drizzle.
In the "British" editorial department on Fleet Street, Tennyson sat in front of an empty desk, holding a steaming cup of tea in his hands.
With a sip of tea, a bite of freshly baked bread and onion rings, accompanied by the flames rising from the fireplace behind him, his stiff fingers finally felt much more relaxed.
These days, as the other editor-in-chief, the Great Dumas, had followed Arthur to Liverpool to investigate a case, Tennyson was the only one in the spacious editor-in-chief's office that could fit three desks.
The absence of the French fat man who liked to crack witty remarks did give Tennyson a much quieter time, but equally, it made him feel a hint of loneliness he hadn't felt in a long while.
