Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DYHFWCA3W6YHD64DWVQD8G

Rain hammered against the windows of Blackwood Manor all night. By dawn the storm had surrendered, leaving the estate hushed. Martha Greaves came downstairs early, eager to light the hearth. The library door was locked, which Blackwood would never tolerate. She knocked twice, then called his name, receiving no reply. Silence answered her, thick and wrong, like a held breath. She fetched the spare key from its hook, hands trembling. The key turned stiffly, and the heavy door groaned open. Lord Edmund Blackwood sat slumped across his mahogany desk, motionless. A crystal brandy glass lay shattered beside his polished boot. Her scream tore through the sleeping house, sharp as glass. Arthur Finch, the butler, arrived minutes later, buttoning his coat. He took one look at the body and turned ashen. His gaze drifted to the window, bolted tight from within. The hall clock struck seven, utterly indifferent to the horror. Inspector Helen Marsh arrived shortly after, soaked to the bone. Helen knelt beside the desk and studied the broken crystal. Beneath his cold fingers rested a single queen of spades. The faint scent of bitter almonds hung in the air. Poison, she thought, and someone had planned every last detail. Helen asked, "Who else has a key to this room?" "Only the family and I have keys, Inspector," Arthur whispered. Helen noticed that one of his waistcoat buttons was misaligned. The killer, Helen suspected, had not yet left this house.