Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRARDAWFASY9K0TV38QPBS

The rain had been falling on Ashgrove Manor since midnight, and by dawn the gravel drive resembled a shallow river. Inspector Marguerite Vance parked beside the stone fountain, killed the engine, and listened to rain drumming steadily on the roof. A constable waited under the portico, hunched inside a dripping cape, holding a black umbrella that had long since surrendered. "He's still inside the library, ma'am," the pale young constable said quietly, "and nobody has touched a single thing yet." Vance nodded, drew her coat tighter, and followed him through doors carved with grapevines into a vast cold marble hall. The house smelled of woodsmoke, lilies, and something faintly metallic that she recognized at once and chose not to mention. Sir Edmund Larkspur lay across the hearthrug, one arm outstretched, fingers still curled around the snapped stem of a wineglass. Blood had dried black in his silver hair, and beside him the fire had burned down to sullen orange embers. Six overnight guests sat in the drawing room across the corridor, drinking tea nobody wanted and saying nothing at all. One of them had killed him, and Vance intended to know which before the storm finally broke over the moor.