Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCQQ2MNCFKAS5AZ3BZH6F16

The cold rain had been falling on Marlow Hall for three days, and the gravel drive shone like wet coal. Inside, the housekeeper Agnes Pryor lit the lamps at four o'clock because the winter dark arrived early and stayed late. She counted seven faces at dinner, though only six would still be breathing when the grandfather clock struck eleven tonight. The body was discovered in the library, face down on the Turkish carpet beside an overturned decanter of good brandy. Sir Edmund Marlow had swallowed something bitter, and the doctor arrived much too late to argue about the exact cause. Agnes stood in the doorway with her ring of keys pressed hard against her palm, saying absolutely nothing at all. She had seen who carried the last glass upstairs, and she fully intended to keep that knowledge entirely for herself. Outside, the rain kept falling steadily, washing the long drive clean of every tyre track and every single hurried footprint. By morning the police would arrive, ask their careful questions, and find six people offering six identical answers already polished. One of those six answers was a lie, and Agnes Pryor was the only person in the house who knew.