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Welcome to Lambeth.

It’s a hot evening in late July, 2105. The sun has just set behind huge, dingy purple clouds, which, after losing the golden hue with which they were for awhile tinged, are becoming increasingly sombre and menacing over the steep rooftops and black chimneys of lower Lambeth.

In these moments, just before the onslaught of a heady storm, the stench of the city billows unceasingly from the streets and alley-ways, the sewers, rookeries and workhouses. It is the stentch of the dead, the dying, and the dead who walk.

You find yourselves in one of the small, dingy rooms of Fannie Burford’s ironically-named Tudor Estates, on Garden Row. On the bed, covered with a sheet, is the body of one Gavin McAlister.

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The Case of the Clockwork Lady odradek