Installment 1, by Scott Cline

Fog as thick and smooth as cream, cool but not bitter (unlike the occasional icy spray), shrouded every feature of the wharf; only the dim glow of a few street lamps, not too distant, illumined sparse patches of the night. Dark waters moved restlessly beneath the creaking timbers of the quay, while the relentless toll of some unseen buoy bell reinforced the vague impression that the world held more than the eye knew.

To one side and on a very old bench there sat an even older man. The upturned collar of his pea coat framed a white beard; unruly brows did the same for grey eyes--eyes which told everything and nothing. Sprawling irregularly from under his tweed cap were tussocks of snowy hair, and from the corner of his mouth there hung a curiously carved pipe. The ash which lined its bottom had lain cold for some time, already. So had its owner.

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That was how Constable Douglas found "Old Ferny" a few hours later, the morning’s first beams having begun their disenchanting work on the brume. "Gor!" he exclaimed after issuing a long, low whistle. "Uncanny man goes in an uncanny way. Fits."

Before many minutes had passed, a farrier’s apprentice, early on his way to work, had been sent for the appropriate help; and, before many more minutes had passed, Constable Douglas (who rather wished that he were enjoying a well earned spot of tea) found himself answering the questions of a most unexpected fellow indeed.