Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR365NJNXZKD02BPWZ81P9

The rain had been falling on Ashgrove since last Tuesday. Detective Inspector Maren Volk parked beside the frozen garden gate. Two constables stood beneath the yew tree, saying absolutely nothing. She noted their pale faces, then walked toward the door. Inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke, lilies, and something worse. The body lay across the library carpet, arms folded neatly. Someone had arranged him with care, which troubled her most. Sir Edmund Carew had died sometime before eleven last night. His reading glasses rested on a book about Roman law. The open page was marked with a single dark hair. Maren crouched down and studied the wound without any hurry. A narrow puncture, clean, placed precisely below the left collarbone. No blood had reached the carpet, which seemed quite impossible. Behind her, a woman coughed politely from the hallway shadows. The housekeeper announced she had discovered him just after dawn. Maren stood, brushing dust from her knees, and turned around. "Tell me," she said, "who else slept in this house?" The woman hesitated, counting silently, then answered: seven people total. By morning, only six of those seven were still breathing.