The storm had dulled to a drizzle by morning, but the air inside Wynthorne Manor was thicker than ever. The events of the night before — Eleanor’s scream, the shadow in the hall — had left a mark no light could erase.
Detective Arjun Hale stood at the top of the staircase, his gaze sweeping across the grand corridor. The house seemed to breathe, its ancient wood whispering with each draft.
From somewhere below, a faint chime echoed — the grandfather clock striking seven.
He had not slept.
Instead, Hale spent the night reconstructing every sound, every step, every alibi. Someone had moved through that corridor. Someone had been watching.
And that someone — he thought grimly — was still here.
---
A Fragrance that Shouldn’t Exist
In the breakfast room, the household gathered in uneasy silence. Lady Margaret sat with her tea untouched, her eyes rimmed red though her composure remained flawless. Dr. Collins sat opposite her, his hands trembling slightly as he buttered his toast. Henry Fletcher stood nearby, as still as a statue.
Eleanor, pale and exhausted, poured tea under Hale’s quiet supervision.
The moment she passed by, Hale caught it again — faint, fleeting, unmistakable.
Jasmine.
He turned his head subtly, tracing the scent’s direction. It was strongest near the east hallway — the corridor leading to the old guest wing, a part of the manor long abandoned.
“Lady Margaret,” he said evenly. “What lies beyond that hallway?”
Her eyes flicked up. “Those rooms have been closed for years. My husband kept them locked after his brother’s passing.”
“Locked?” Hale asked. “Who has the key?”
“I suppose Henry does,” she replied, glancing toward the butler.
Fletcher inclined his head. “Indeed, sir. But they’re in a state of disrepair — not fit for entry.”
Hale’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than comfort allowed. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
---
The Abandoned Wing
The corridor beyond the east hall was colder, darker — as though the house itself wanted to forget it existed. Dust lay thick on the floor, but Hale noticed faint footprints breaking the stillness.
Recent ones.
“Someone’s been here,” he murmured.
Fletcher followed with a lantern, his face unreadable. “Perhaps rats, sir. The floorboards creak at night — you may have heard—”
“Footsteps don’t creak evenly,” Hale interrupted, crouching to examine the prints. “And rats don’t wear boots.”
They stopped before a door at the end of the corridor — old oak, its brass handle tarnished. Fletcher produced a key, but when he turned it, the door gave way easily.
Unlocked.
The smell hit them instantly — strong jasmine, thick and artificial, clinging to the stale air.
Hale stepped inside. The room was small but surprisingly neat: a simple bed, a dressing table, a cracked mirror. On the table, a perfume bottle, half-empty, sat beside a folded letter.
He lifted it carefully.
The handwriting was delicate, precise.
> “You said you’d keep your promise. You said no one would ever know. Now you hide behind your wife’s name and fortune, while I fade in silence. But not forever.”
It was unsigned.
Fletcher shifted uneasily. “I’ve never seen that before, sir.”
Hale studied the butler. “I imagine you’ve seen more than you admit.”
“I only serve, Detective,” Fletcher said, but his voice cracked slightly. “Nothing more.”
Hale pocketed the letter. “You serve the living, perhaps. But someone served death in this house — and they did it here.”
---
An Unexpected Visitor
As Hale returned to the main hall, he found Dr. Collins waiting, pale and sweating.
“Detective,” he said, lowering his voice. “There’s something you should see.”
He led Hale to the study — the scene of the murder. The room remained sealed except for Collins’s careful entry.
“What now?” Hale asked.
The doctor pointed to the bookshelf near the desk. “I was retrieving some of the Lord’s papers for Lady Margaret, and I found… this.”
He pulled aside a row of books. Behind them, a narrow slit in the paneling revealed a hidden compartment. Inside, a stack of envelopes, each bearing the same seal — a white rose stamped in red wax.
Hale opened one.
> “If you go through with the will, you’ll regret it. The truth has its own way of returning.”
He scanned the next — and the next — each more threatening than the last.
“Anonymous?” Hale asked.
Collins nodded. “They arrived over the last few months. He never told anyone, not even his wife.”
“Did you read them before?”
“No. He ordered me to burn them.”
“But you didn’t.”
Collins looked away. “I… couldn’t. I had a feeling they meant more than he admitted.”
Hale folded the letters and replaced them. “You were right, Doctor. These aren’t mere threats. They’re warnings.”
---
Lady Margaret’s Truth
When Hale confronted Lady Margaret later that evening, she stood by the window, staring into the endless gray.
“So you’ve been exploring the east wing,” she said quietly, not turning around.
“You knew someone had been living there.”
“I suspected,” she admitted. “But suspicion and proof are different creatures, Detective.”
Hale approached. “Who was she?”
Margaret’s lips trembled. “Her name was Isabella Grey. She was… my husband’s mistress. Eleanor’s elder sister.”
Hale felt the air shift, the puzzle pieces beginning to align. “Eleanor’s sister?”
“Yes,” Margaret whispered. “She worked here years ago. When I found out, Edgar dismissed her, claimed it was over. But I think she returned — and he hid her in that wing.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew something that could destroy him,” Margaret said bitterly. “Something about his business affairs. There was money missing — large sums. And when she threatened to expose him, he… silenced her.”
“Do you believe he killed her?” Hale asked.
Margaret’s eyes glistened. “No, Detective. I believe someone else did.”
---
The Photograph
Later that night, Hale sat in the dim library, reviewing every clue spread before him — the perfume bottle, the burned note, the letters, and now the revelation of Isabella Grey.
He turned a page in one of Wynthorne’s ledgers and something fluttered out — a photograph, worn and faded.
A young woman with striking eyes stood beside Lord Wynthorne. Behind them, the manor garden in full bloom. She was smiling — wearing a white dress and a jasmine flower pinned to her hair.
On the back, in Wynthorne’s handwriting:
> “For I owe you my silence — and my sin.”
Lightning illuminated the room, and for an instant Hale thought he saw movement again — the reflection of someone standing behind him.
He turned sharply.
Empty.
Only the rain tapping against the windowpane.
He pocketed the photo, his mind racing. Isabella Grey’s scent still haunted these halls, but Hale couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just a memory — it was a presence.
---
A Whisper in the Dark
As Hale prepared to retire for the night, Eleanor appeared at his door, pale and trembling.
“Detective,” she whispered, “there’s something I must tell you… about my sister.”
Before he could answer, a thunderclap shook the house. The lights flickered once — then died completely.
In the brief flash of lightning that followed, Hale saw Eleanor’s terrified face — and behind her, a shadow moving swiftly across the hall.
“Eleanor—!”
A sudden crash. The door slammed shut.
By the time Hale forced it open, the corridor was empty. Only the echo of footsteps — and the unmistakable scent of jasmine — lingered in the air.
Somewhere in the depths of Wynthorne Manor, the past was no longer resting — it was walking.
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