Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPSCPQWWEC7AWXPJYYBP48

The rain arrived at midnight, hammering the slate roofs of Ashgrove like a thousand small fists demanding to be admitted. Inspector Nella Vance stood beneath the dripping archway of Thornfield House, counting the lit windows, and found one too many. The housekeeper who had telephoned her waited inside, wringing a dishcloth she had apparently forgotten she was still holding. "He's in the library," the woman said, and her voice cracked open on the word like ice beneath a boot heel. Nella wiped her boots on the mat, a courtesy the dead man would have appreciated, then walked down the corridor. Sir Edmund Hale sat in his leather chair with his back to the door, facing the tall black window. A chess board rested before him, the white king toppled, and a single glass of sherry stood untouched beside it. There was no blood, no wound, no disorder of any kind, only the stillness that comes after something ends. Nella crouched and studied the carpet, where damp footprints led from the window to the chair and then stopped. They did not lead back out again, which was, she thought, the first genuinely interesting fact of the night.