It began with thunder.
A cold wind howled through the cliffs of Yorkshire, whipping the moor into a frenzy. Atop that jagged coast stood Crosswind Manor, once a jewel of Victorian grandeur, now a shadowed relic of its past. Its towering gables loomed over the land, windows flickering as lightning veined the sky.
Inside, a fire crackled feebly in the drawing room hearth. Eight guests had gathered, invited by Lady Eliza Harrington, the aging but sharp-tongued matriarch of the Harrington line. The occasion was meant to be celebratory: the 70th birthday of Professor Julian Blackthorne, a retired historian with a flair for the dramatic and a reputation steeped in scandal.
As the guests drank and dined under the heavy chandeliers, the storm outside intensified. Power flickered. Candles were lit. Shadows danced across the faces of the assembled—until a scream sliced through the air.
They found him in the library. Julian lay on the rug, a glinting letter opener—a Roman replica he'd always admired—protruding from his chest. Blood soaked into the Persian fibers, and his wide eyes stared at the ceiling. His monocle, cracked in half, was smeared with something... wax?
Lady Eliza nearly fainted. It was Detective Inspector Ilias Locke who steadied her—and took over.
Locke, invited as a friend of the colonel, had once been a rising star at Scotland Yard. He assessed the scene like a surgeon: clean strike to the heart, no sign of a struggle. No broken furniture, no signs of forced entry.
He called everyone to the drawing room and locked the front doors himself.
"No one leaves. The killer is among us."
The Suspects:
Victoria Blackthorne, Julian's wife — elegant and cold. She wore pearls and silence like armor. "He was distant, not unfaithful," she insisted. But Locke noticed the absence of tears.
Douglas Harrington, Eliza's nephew — drunk, bitter, and arrogant. He had expected to inherit the manor one day. "Julian was a pompous ass," he spat. "But this? Not my style."
Celeste Dove, a playwright of modest fame — poised, with trembling hands and a bruised ego. She'd known Julian from Cambridge, and he had recently withdrawn support from her latest project. "He didn't believe in my work anymore," she said, blinking away tears. "But I'd never harm him."
Colonel Reginald Stratton, a war veteran — silver hair, limp, and a hip flask that smelled of brandy. Julian had once written an unflattering piece on his military record. "He was a scholar, not a soldier. Couldn't tell honor from hearsay."
Isobel Finch, the young maid — quiet, keen-eyed. Too quiet. When Locke questioned her, she simply said, "I served the professor dinner. He seemed... agitated."
Avery, the butler — tall, pale, meticulous. He spoke little, but Locke noticed his gloved hands were trembling when he poured the tea.
The Clues:
The monocle, cracked, held a smear of red wax—not blood.
The fireplace was recently used, despite the warm day.
The desk drawer in Julian's study had been broken open and resealed with a wax seal—Locke found traces matching a signet ring.
Julian's journal, lying on the desk, had only one phrase on its open page:
"Celeste lied. And I can prove it."
Celeste broke first. "I lied... but not like that. I told Julian I had a publisher. I needed him to keep funding me. When he found out, he was furious."
Victoria was next. "He was leaving me," she admitted. "There was a letter. He wrote it yesterday. Said he'd changed his will." Her voice was low. "I threatened him. I told him if he embarrassed me like that, I'd ruin him."
Locke examined the fireplace and found scraps of a burned letter—just legible:
"To Isobel, I leave my estate, for she has shown me what true loyalty is..."
A maid? As heir?
Locke confronted Isobel, who was visibly shaken.
"He... he said he loved me. Not romantically, no. He respected me. Said I was the only one who'd never asked him for anything. He said the others didn't deserve his legacy."
"Did you kill him?"
"No! I was going to run away with him. Not as lovers, just... away. He said he was done with them all."
Locke narrowed his eyes. "But someone else knew about the new will."
The Reveal:
Locke returned to the drawing room. Everyone was silent, watching him.
"The wax on the monocle didn't come from a candle," he said. "It came from a wax seal—one used to reseal Julian's drawer after someone broke it."
He turned to Avery.
"You carry a signet ring. An old Harrington heirloom. It leaves a unique mark."
Avery, still as a statue, said nothing.
"You read the new will, didn't you? After Julian died."
A pause.
"No," Avery said quietly. "I read it before."
Gasps. Isobel's hands flew to her mouth.
"I overheard him dictating it," Avery said. "To leave everything to the maid? After I kept his secrets? After I helped cover up the colonel's scandal? Hid Douglas's debts? Silenced Celeste's blackmail?"
Locke stared at him. "You considered yourself the rightful heir."
"I was the backbone of this house," Avery whispered. "And he cast me aside."
"You killed him. Out of pride."
He didn't deny it.
"I made it quick," he said. "He never saw it coming."
As dawn crept over the cliffs and the storm receded into the moor, Crosswind Manor stood still once more.
Avery was taken into custody. The guests left, haunted and broken in their own ways.
And in the empty library, Julian's books whispered in the wind, as if still trying to tell the truth.