Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA0BDPM4P9SSF72AME77Q7

Fog pressed against the manor windows as midnight bell chimed, and someone realized the study contained a body last night. Detective Marlowe arrived with tired eyes, coat soaked, carrying a notebook that smelled faintly of tobacco and rain and grief. Candles guttered in silver sconces while servants hovered in doorways, whispering alibis and offering trembling, useful denials they insisted loudly. Blood had dried in a pale crescent on oriental rug, a crabbed signature left by violence and haste and secrecy. A half-finished glass of claret rocked gently on the mantel, beside a smashed photograph and a smoking cigar, unnoticed still. Neighbors had already gathered outside iron gates, faces blurred with curiosity, dread, and the warm gossip of town after supper. Marlowe's hands trembled only once, when he lifted the victim's wrist and found the faint, impossibly small bruise, an accusation. He looked up at those gathered, measuring their faces for lies, noting too how the house seemed older and colder.