The Death at Wynthorne Manor

Detective Arjun Hale

A man of quiet intelligence and sharp observation. Known for solving impossible cases through logic and intuition. Beneath his calm exterior lies a haunted past—one case that went unsolved still lingers in his memory.

Lord Edgar Wynthorne (Victim)

Wealthy, secretive, and commanding. He ruled Wynthorne Manor with both charm and fear. Though respected in public, rumors whisper of debts, betrayals, and affairs hidden beneath his perfect reputation.

Lady Margaret Wynthorne

Elegant and poised, yet cold. Her marriage to Edgar was one of convenience and control. Her tears seem genuine—but perhaps practiced. Beneath her polished demeanor lies a woman long accustomed to deceit.

Dr. Harold Collins

The family physician. Intelligent but anxious, always glancing over his shoulder. He knows more than he’s willing to admit, and his loyalty to the Wynthorne family may be rooted in guilt rather than duty.

Eleanor Grey (Maid)

Young, timid, and sincere—or so she appears. Her fear may be real, but she hides something behind those trembling hands. The piece of fabric she mentioned might tie her closer to the truth than she dares reveal.

Henry Fletcher (Butler)

A man of discipline and silence. He has served the family for decades and knows every secret the manor holds. His stoicism makes him difficult to read—and impossible to trust completely.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 The wind howled across Wynthorne Hill, tearing through the skeletal branches of trees that clawed at the darkened sky. Rain fell in relentless sheets, lashing against the wrought-iron gates and the looming silhouette of Wynthorne Manor. Its tall, jagged spires seemed to pierce the thick gray clouds, as if daring the storm to do its worst.

Detective Arjun Hale pulled his coat tighter against the chill, his boots sinking slightly into the mud as he approached the mansion. The carriage ride from the nearest village had been treacherous; the storm had delayed him, yet when he received the urgent summons, he hadn’t hesitated. A “natural death,” the message had said. But Hale had learned long ago that nothing labeled as such at Wynthorne Manor was ever simple.

The grand front doors swung open before he could knock. A butler—tall, thin, expressionless—stood in the doorway.

“Detective Hale,” the man said, his voice flat, measured. “I am Henry Fletcher. Lord Wynthorne… is dead.”

Hale’s eyes scanned the dimly lit foyer. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and polished oak, tinged with something floral he couldn’t immediately place. He followed Fletcher silently through the cavernous hallways, passing oil paintings of grim ancestors whose eyes seemed to track his every step.

At the study door, Eleanor Grey, the young maid, hovered anxiously. Her hands trembled, and her eyes were wide, almost pleading.

“I… I found him,” she whispered, voice barely audible above the storm. “In his study. I—I didn’t touch anything.”

Hale nodded, his calm eyes taking in the scene as he stepped inside. Lord Edgar Wynthorne lay slumped in his high-backed chair, a half-empty wine glass toppled on the polished desk. The crimson liquid pooled across papers and books, staining the ornate wood. The firelight flickered across the room, casting strange shadows that danced across Wynthorne’s rigid face.

No sign of struggle. No sign of forced entry. The heavy windows were locked from the inside. Only one key existed, held by Henry Fletcher. Hale’s gaze lingered on the scattered papers, the carefully placed inkwell now overturned. Something was… off.

He crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene. “What time did you discover him?” he asked Eleanor, noting the way her fingers fidgeted with the lace at her cuffs.

“Shortly after dinner,” she stammered. “I brought him his nightcap… and… and then… I—I found him like this.” Her voice cracked.

“And the others?” Hale asked.

“Lady Margaret… she was in the drawing-room,” Eleanor said. “Dr. Collins… he had gone to check on him earlier, but he left before I found him.”

Hale straightened and turned to Henry Fletcher. “Was anyone else in the manor tonight?”

“No one left the premises,” the butler replied evenly. “The storm ensures it.” His eyes didn’t waver. “All rooms locked. All servants in their quarters.”

Hale’s gaze swept the room again. “And you?” he asked, fixing the butler with a look that demanded truth.

“I have been here, in the service of the house, as always,” Fletcher said. His hands were clasped behind his back, the epitome of composed restraint.

The detective rose, brushing raindrops from his coat. “I will need statements from everyone. Starting with the household.”

The storm’s fury beat against the windows as Hale moved through the grand halls. In the drawing-room, Lady Margaret Wynthorne sat in a high chair, her hands neatly folded over her silk gown. Her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed from weeping. Yet Hale noticed the subtle tension in her jaw, the faint twitch at the corner of her lips that betrayed a practiced calm.

“I am terribly shocked,” she said, voice smooth, almost too perfect. “Edgar… it is simply… unimaginable.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened tonight, Lady Margaret?” Hale asked, leaning forward slightly.

“I… I retired early,” she said. “Edgar said he would be working in his study. I went to bed shortly after, and then… Eleanor came running to me. She found him. I—I was horrified.”

Hale noted her measured tone. Too precise, too controlled. He filed it away.

Next, Dr. Collins, the family physician, appeared. He was middle-aged, his hair thinning, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted his spectacles.

“I—I saw him earlier,” Collins began. “He was in good health, as always. I checked on him after dinner, but there was nothing unusual. I left… expecting him to retire as usual.” He avoided Hale’s gaze. “I… I cannot explain this.”

“And the maid?” Hale asked.

Collins swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving nervously. “She… she is a young girl. Easily startled. Not capable of… I—I merely checked his pulse earlier in the evening. Nothing more.”

Finally, Eleanor was summoned again. Hale watched her closely as she trembled, her knuckles white against the lace of her apron.

“Eleanor,” Hale said softly. “Did you notice anything unusual tonight? Anything at all?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I… I thought I smelled… jasmine. But I assumed it was from the perfume Lady Margaret uses. And… there was… a scrap of fabric near the window latch. I thought it must have fallen from a coat or… or curtain.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t touch it. I promise.”

Hale crouched and picked up the small fragment — pale blue, frayed at the edges. He inhaled lightly. Jasmine. Not the lady’s perfume. Something else. Something deliberate.

He stepped back and surveyed the room once more. The storm raged, a relentless symphony of wind and rain. No footprints in the mud outside, no sign of a visitor. Yet the locked study, the spilled wine, the trembling maid, the nervous doctor, and the too-perfect mourning of Lady Margaret all pointed to one undeniable truth.

“Someone in this house is lying,” Hale murmured under his breath.

As the clock struck midnight, the detective’s mind raced through possibilities. Every detail mattered: the placement of the cup, the window latch, the fragment of fabric, the faint scent of jasmine lingering in the air. It was a puzzle — one that demanded patience, precision, and an unwavering eye for deception.

Hale’s gaze lingered on Lord Wynthorne’s lifeless face. The firelight glimmered across the polished desk, the wine stain spreading like a dark omen. Outside, the storm showed no sign of abating. The manor groaned under the weight of the wind, as if whispering secrets long buried in its walls.

He would not rest until the truth was uncovered.

But tonight, all he had was suspicion, fragments, and shadows. And the certainty that the peaceful façade of Wynthorne Manor had shattered forever.

Somewhere in the house, a lie waited to be discovered — and Arjun Hale would find it.

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