Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRFDZSNV2VYWSD73E4M0PG

Rain struck the greenhouse glass like fists that demanded entry. Inspector Aldous Vane stood beneath the orchids and counted breaths. The body lay among shattered pots, face turned toward heaven. Lady Hargrave's gardener had died holding a single white bloom. Someone had arranged him carefully, which meant someone felt sorry. Vane knelt, ignoring the wet soil staining his good trousers. The wound was small, precise, and hidden beneath the collar. No struggle marked the floor, no defensive bruising, no doubt. Behind him, the housekeeper wept into a starched linen apron. She claimed she found him at dawn while locking gates. But the gates were already locked, and Vane noticed that. Outside, four guests waited in the drawing room, drinking sherry. Each of them had slept badly; each of them lied. Vane rose slowly and brushed the dirt from his knees. Murder, he thought, always begins long before the final breath.