Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCQQPSBG6F819SA9RKXDDAC

The rain had been falling on Ashgrove Manor since midnight, and by dawn the gravel drive resembled a shallow river. Inspector Halloran parked beside the fountain, turned off the engine, and sat listening to water drumming against the car roof. A young constable waited under the portico, hatless, pale, holding an umbrella that the wind had already turned inside out. "She's in the library, sir," he said, "and nobody has touched her, though the housekeeper wanted to cover her face." Halloran nodded, wiped rain from his eyes, and followed the boy through doors of oak into the cold echoing hall. Fourteen guests had come for the weekend shooting party, and every one of them now stood accused by the silence. Lady Marchmont lay across the Persian carpet with her arms flung wide, as though welcoming home an unexpected late guest. The letter opener between her ribs bore the Marchmont crest, and the fire had burned itself down to grey embers. Rain hammered the tall windows like impatient knuckles, and the great old house seemed to hold its breath and wait. Halloran crouched, studied the clean edges of the wound, and understood at once that this particular killer had not hesitated. Somewhere above him a floorboard creaked, and he thought, quite calmly: one of you is still awake and still listening.