Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPQ9XYDDSSV7Q4KGC6W489

The rain had been falling on Ashgrove Manor since midnight, and it showed no intention whatsoever of stopping before dawn. Inspector Halloran stood beneath the dripping portico, watching the constable fumble with a lantern that refused to stay lit. "He's in the library, sir," the young man said, finally abandoning the lantern and gesturing toward the half-open oak door. Inside, the smell hit first: gun smoke, brandy, and something older, like coins left too long in a closed fist. Lord Bramwell Ashgrove lay across his writing desk, one hand extended toward a letter that had been torn precisely in half. Halloran counted seven people crowded into the doorway behind him, each wearing an expression carefully arranged into appropriate grief. The clock on the mantelpiece had stopped at eleven forty-three, though the inspector noticed its key lying three feet away. "Nobody leaves this house tonight," he said quietly, and watched to see which of the seven faces betrayed relief.