Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPMJS1NSC0D8T28A124XMX

Rain hammered the slate roof of Ashcombe House all night. Margaret Vane found the study door locked at precisely seven. She knocked, waited, then fetched the brass key from downstairs. The hinges groaned open onto a room gone terribly still. Lord Ashcombe sat slumped forward across his mahogany writing desk. His fountain pen had rolled to rest against the inkwell. A dark stain spread slowly outward beneath his left shoulder. Margaret did not scream, though her hands began to shake. She noted the window latch hanging loose in the frame. She noted the glass, two glasses, both drained of sherry. The clock on the mantel had stopped at eleven twenty. Someone had turned every single portrait to face the wall.