Chapter 3: A Murder Before Dawn

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck midnight with twelve deep, solemn chimes that echoed through Hawthorne Estate.

Each note seemed to linger in the silence long after it had faded.

Colonel Adrian Farrow closed the book he had been reading in the library and glanced toward the window. Beyond the glass, a pale moon struggled through drifting clouds, casting silver light across the rain-soaked gardens. Somewhere in the distance an owl called, its lonely cry swallowed by the wind.

Captain Henry Miles entered carrying two steaming cups of coffee.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't be sleeping."

Farrow accepted one with a faint smile.

"I rarely sleep when someone wants me dead."

Henry laughed.

"Fortunately, nobody wants you dead."

Farrow looked toward the staircase.

"Not yet."

The two men fell silent.

Since discovering the hidden passage and the empty safe, neither detective believed the night's events were over. Whoever had orchestrated the disappearance of Richard Cole had planned everything with remarkable precision. Such a criminal would not stop halfway through the game.

Almost as if the thought itself had summoned danger, a scream shattered the stillness.

It came from the east wing.

The detectives were already running before the echo faded.

Servants poured from their rooms. Lord Hawthorne emerged wearing a heavy dressing gown, leaning on his walking stick. Inspector Marcus Doyle hurried from the guest quarters, revolver already drawn.

"The scream came from upstairs!" shouted a maid.

They reached the second-floor corridor.

One bedroom door stood slightly open.

The brass handle was stained with fresh blood.

Inspector Doyle pushed the door wider.

The room was in chaos.

A chair lay overturned beside the writing desk. Papers were scattered across the carpet. The curtains billowed through an open window.

Near the fireplace lay Richard Cole.

The missing lawyer had returned.

Only to die.

He lay motionless on his back, his face pale beneath the moonlight. A single wound marked his chest. Beside his right hand rested a torn piece of paper.

Captain Henry knelt beside him.

"No pulse."

Inspector Doyle examined the wound.

"A narrow blade."

"Very sharp."

"Death would have been almost immediate."

Lord Hawthorne closed his eyes.

"I feared this would happen."

Farrow, however, ignored the body.

Instead he studied the room.

The broken ink bottle near the desk.

The untouched candle on the bedside table.

The muddy footprints ending halfway across the carpet.

Most importantly...

The open window.

He walked toward it.

Outside, the flower beds below remained perfectly smooth.

Not a single footprint disturbed the wet earth.

Henry joined him.

"So the killer didn't escape this way."

"No."

"The window was opened afterwards."

"To make us believe the murderer fled into the garden."

Inspector Doyle looked puzzled.

"Then where did he go?"

Farrow answered calmly.

"He never left."

The room became silent.

"You mean..."

"The murderer is still inside this house."

Every face changed.

Servants exchanged frightened glances.

Family members looked suspiciously at one another.

For the first time since arriving, everyone understood the truth.

The killer had spent the night among them.

Inspector Doyle ordered every entrance locked.

"No one leaves until I say so."

Constables searched every corridor, every guest room and every storage cupboard.

Nothing.

It was as though the murderer had dissolved into the walls.

Meanwhile Farrow examined the torn paper found beside Richard Cole.

Only a few words remained.

...the blue key...

The rest had been ripped away.

Henry frowned.

"The blue key."

"We've heard nothing about a key."

Farrow folded the fragment carefully.

"Yet Richard believed it important enough to mention before he died."

"Perhaps it opens the safe."

"Perhaps."

"But I suspect it opens something far more valuable."

Later that morning the household gathered in the drawing room.

Lord Hawthorne appeared exhausted.

"There is something I should have told you yesterday."

Everyone listened.

"My grandfather founded our family fortune more than a century ago."

He paused before continuing.

"During his travels he discovered documents proving ownership of an enormous tract of land rich in precious minerals."

Charles Hawthorne interrupted.

"I've never heard this story."

"Because it was kept secret."

Lord Hawthorne nodded toward a large painting above the fireplace.

"Behind that portrait is a hidden compartment."

Henry carefully lifted the painting.

Inside rested an empty velvet box.

"It used to contain a small sapphire carved into the shape of a key."

"The Blue Key."

Lord Hawthorne sighed.

"It disappeared three days ago."

Silence filled the room.

Farrow finally understood.

"The robbery was a distraction."

"The jewels meant nothing."

"The criminal came for the Blue Key."

Lord Hawthorne nodded sadly.

"Without it, the hidden chamber containing my grandfather's documents cannot be opened."

Inspector Doyle leaned forward.

"So whoever possesses the key could claim the Hawthorne fortune."

"Exactly."

That afternoon Farrow walked alone through the estate gardens.

He often found that fresh air clarified tangled thoughts.

Near the old fountain he noticed something unusual.

A gardener was trimming rose bushes.

His boots were heavily caked with dried clay.

Not ordinary garden soil.

Grey clay.

The same colour as the earth inside the hidden passage.

Farrow stopped.

"You've been working near the cellar?"

The gardener hesitated for only a second.

"No, sir."

It was a tiny pause.

Almost invisible.

But enough.

Farrow smiled politely and continued walking without another question.

Henry caught up with him moments later.

"You've found something."

"Not evidence."

"What then?"

"A lie."

That evening another black playing card appeared.

It had been slipped beneath Farrow's bedroom door.

On one side was the familiar silver wolf.

On the other, a message written in elegant handwriting.

Excellent work, Colonel.

You have finally begun asking the right questions.

Unfortunately... you are still asking them to the wrong people.

—The Silver Wolf

Henry read the note twice.

"He knows exactly what we're doing."

Farrow looked toward the dark corridor beyond his room.

"Yes."

"And he wants us to know it."

Henry folded the card carefully.

"So what's our next move?"

Farrow's eyes drifted toward the distant woods beyond the mansion.

"Our enemy has made one mistake."

"What mistake?"

"He believes this game belongs to him."

A faint smile appeared on the detective's face.

"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "we begin playing by my rules."

End of Chapter 3

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