Murder at Redgrave Manor

The following is a short story written by Shawn Jolley. If you enjoy it, check out other short stories or books to read more.

Murder at Redgrave Manor by Shawn Jolley

Detective Adrian Holt paused beneath the arched doorway, his left thumb brushing the raised edge of his signet ring as he took inventory of the dining room. The crystal chandelier's fractured light glinted across five place settings of porcelain, each soup spoon aligned precisely half an inch from the rim of its gold-rimmed bowl. His gaze swept past the silver centerpiece to catalog the human elements, but his train of thought was derailed.

"Adrian, you're blocking the caviar." His wife Chancie's whisper carried the faintest tease of perfume as she slipped past him into the room. Her plum-colored gown brushed against the doorframe, momentarily framing her against the window's black mirror.

In the hour preceding their entrance into the dining room, Holt had found himself sequestered in the estate's study with his wife. The plush furniture and warm tones of the room provided comfort while they awaited dinner. His gaze had fallen upon a leather-bound book nestled among others on a mahogany desk, untitled. What he discovered within those aged pages was intriguing and left him with a faint sense of unease, but he tried to push it from his mind.

Now, Holt's attention snagged on their host. Charles Redgrave stood like a general surveying troops, his right hand clutching a cut-crystal tumbler of amber liquid. The man's charcoal dinner jacket strained across shoulders that still remembered a plow handle, though the Rolex peeking from his cuff told a different origin story. Holt crossed to the host who had engaged in a conversation with Chancie.

"A delight you could join us, old friend." Redgrave's handshake compressed Holt's knuckles with calculated pressure. "Your wife was just enlightening me about..." A pause stretched just beyond polite. "...something involving hedgehogs?"

"An unfortunate incident with a neighbor’s flower-beds," Holt said, tracking how Redgrave's left eyelid twitched at the word 'incident.' The founder of Redgrave Industries didn't so much stand at the head of his table as occupy it territorially, his polished Oxfords planted wide enough to suggest ownership of the air filtering through the room itself. “By the way, thank you for allowing me to borrow this jacket due to my… well, clumsiness with some cola in the car.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. Luckily, you and Dawson are practically the same size.”

Lillian Redgrave materialized at her husband's elbow, her arrival announced by the soft chime of emerald earrings. "Dinner will be served soon," she murmured, touching Charles' wrist with fingertips that left no imprint on his sleeve. Her gaze drifted over Holt's shoulder to the portrait wall, lingering on a well-done reproduction of some Victorian lady.

"Mrs. Redgrave." Holt inclined his head. "Your home is lovely."

"Ah, yes, well, precisely as the interior designer intended." Her smile never reached eyes the color of over-steeped tea. A single ice-white flower trembled in her braided hair as she turned toward new arrivals.

Henry Vance entered with the careful stride of a man navigating thin ice, his wife's hand resting lightly on his forearm. His bow tie sat slightly askew—a detail Holt doubted the fastidious tycoon would tolerate if he only knew.

"Charles." Vance's nod might've passed for genuinely nice if not for the vein throbbing above his collar. "Still using that ancient decanter, I see."

Redgrave's chuckle sounded like gravel sliding down a chute. "Better to drink from than bludgeon your partner with, Henry. Sherry?"

Victoria Vance interposed herself between the men with the grace of an experienced mediator. "Darling, remember what the cardiologist said about spirits before meals." She plucked the glass from her husband's reach, her amethyst cocktail ring winking a warning. "Now Charles, do tell me whose brilliant mind planned this exquisite tablescape. These silver orchid centerpieces put my hobbyist gardening efforts to shame."

As Holt navigated toward his seat at the dining table, his foot caught on the table leg, causing him to falter momentarily. The unavoidable contact sent his elbow brushing against Lillian's bare arm, causing her to recoil as though touched by a hot iron. Her champagne flute wobbled precariously in her grasp, splashing pale droplets of liquid onto the Persian rug beneath them.

Holt's apology was wordless; he simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief bearing the initials of his former precinct. He knelt down to dab at the champagne-soaked fabric while Lillian watched him with an unreadable expression.

The Persian rug seemed to hold her attention—or perhaps it was something else. An impression stirred within her, casting a shadow over her delicate features. But these thoughts remained unvoiced.

"Dinner is served!" Dawson's baritone sliced through the moment. The butler stood framed in the doorway, his white gloves gripping a silver ladle like a scepter.

As the rest of the party drifted toward their assigned seats, Holt noted three revealing details: the odd seating assignment of Henry Vance directly next to Redgrave (seeing as how the business partners were not currently seeing eye to eye), the way Lillian's napkin crumpled in her fist (telling of an unvoiced internal tension), and the faint indentation circling Redgrave's ring finger where a wedding band should've been (unusual considering he and Lillian had been married for less than four months).

The crystal pendants of the chandelier trembled as laughter erupted from Victoria Vance's corner of the table. "Darling, if you keep glaring at the soup like that," she teased her husband, tapping Henry's wrist with her soup spoon, "the chef might think you're auditing his stock portfolio instead of enjoying his art."

A ripple of polite amusement traveled around the table. Holt watched Victoria's emerald earrings catch the light as she turned toward their host. "Charles, you simply must share your secret for keeping gold-leaf rimming on china. Mine always wears off no matter what I do." Her fingers brushed the gilded edge of her own bowl, the motion drawing attention away from Henry's muttered response into his napkin.

"Eighteen-karat seems more steadfast than twenty-four," Dawson intoned behind Holt's shoulder, materializing with a bottle of wine. The butler's gloved fingers tilted the label precisely toward Charles for inspection. "As Mrs. Redgrave can attest from last month's… unfortunate incident with the dessert plates."

Lillian's head snapped up at the mention of her name, a lock of chestnut hair escaping its pristine placement. "Yes, well," she said, voice drifting like smoke from a distant fire, "some trinkets are best left alone." Her thumb worried the monogrammed 'R' on her linen napkin, the embroidered thread fraying beneath the pressure.

Chancie leaned forward, the burgundy silk of her sleeves pooling on the tablecloth. "Now there's a philosophy that could revolutionize spring cleaning." Her warm chuckle drew answering smiles. "Adrian still mourns the loss of his moth-eaten college sweater, isn't that right, dear?"

"Perfectly serviceable elbow patches," Holt protested, accepting the bowl of soup Dawson placed before him. He noted the butler's exact positioning—left side for removal, right for presentation—and the way the man's starched collar dug into his neck when turning toward Henry's brusque wave-off of the wine.

As the third course commenced, Holt’s gaze tracked the ballet of stemware twiddling while cataloguing tensions:

Redgrave's left hand resting casually atop his place card, the pale band of skin below his knuckle catching the light each time he reached for his glass. Henry's repeated glances toward the sideboard where a cut-crystal decanter caught the grandfather clock's face in distorted reflections. Lillian's untouched roll crumbling beneath absent-minded fingers, flakes cascading onto the Persian rug.

Across the table, Victoria deftly intercepted her husband's hand—reaching for more steak—pressing a fresh bread roll into his palm. "Do try the caraway seeds, darling. They're supposed to aid digestion." Her thumb stroked his knuckles once, firmly, before turning to ask Lillian about the provenance of the landscape paintings dotting the walls.

Holt watched Dawson circle the table with military precision, the butler's polished shoes avoiding every creak in the floorboards. A faint shine of perspiration gleamed at his temples despite the room's cool temperature. When pouring Holt's coffee, the spout of the silver pot trembled ever so slightly, leaving a single dark droplet on the saucer's gilt edge.

Somewhere beyond the draped windows, a screech-owl called twice before falling silent.

The crystal prisms of the chandelier scattered fractured light across the silverware as Holt readjusted in his chair. Across the mahogany expanse, Charles Redgrave's knuckles whitened around his water goblet.

"Henry," Charles said, the single word stretching taut as cello wire, "I trust the Lippmann acquisition hasn't kept you too occupied lately?"

Henry Vance's butter knife screeched against his bread plate. "Just wrapping up loose ends. As always."

Chancie's silk-clad ankle brushed Holt's under the table—three quick taps. Their private code for things are about to go south. He cataloged the tremor in Charles' left pinky finger, the way Henry's signet ring caught the light with every jerky gesture.

Lillian mechanically rotated her glass, gold bangles clinking like distant wind chimes. "The gardens are particularly lush this season," she offered when Victoria complimented the table linens. Her glass then hovered midway to lips that never quite curved into a smile.

Dawson materialized at Holt's elbow, tilting a new wine bottle. "Would this be to your liking?" The butler's cuff link grazed Holt's water glass as he poured, sending ringlike ripples dancing across its surface.

"Thank you, Dawson," Chancie interjected, rescuing the moment with her honeyed voice. "Do tell cook the saffron infusion is inspired. Reminds me of that tiny bistro where Adrian proposed. Nearly dropped the ring in the food."

Holt snorted into his napkin. "And you told the waiter I had indigestion."

Their laughter faded as porcelain clattered. Charles had set down his bowl with enough force to send a golden droplet splashing onto the runner. "We should discuss the shipping tariffs, Henry. These new regulations..."

Victoria's pearl necklace bobbed as she leaned forward. "Did everyone see the Royal Horticultural Society's new rose hybrid? They're calling it 'Scarlet Magistrate.' Quite dramatic, though I prefer old-fashioned tea roses myself."

Lillian's glass finally touched her lips. "Roses require constant pruning," she murmured. "Remove one misplaced thorn, and the entire stem dies back."

Dawson's gloved hand appeared between Holt and Chancie, replacing lemon twists with surgical precision. The butler's starched collar revealed faint pressure marks along the jawline—evidence of recent adjustments made in some shadowed pantry.

"You've outdone yourself with the wine pairings," Holt said as Dawson refilled his glass.

"Merely following Mr. Redgrave's cellar book, sir." The butler's left eyelid twitched—a fossilized tic from years of suppressed opinions.

Across the table, Charles' finger traced the rim of his glass, producing a muted hum. "If certain partners," the note sharpened, "devoted equal attention to our Baltic routes as they do to personal ventures..."

Henry's roll shattered into golden crumbs. "Some of us prefer ships that actually float, Charles."

Chancie's heel found Holt's toe beneath the table—five distinct pulses this time.

Holt tracked Lillian's reflection in the sideboard. The young bride sat perfectly still, her face a pale moon between dark velvet drapes.

Dawson cleared the course, each plate vanishing as the grandfather clock chimed quarter past. His leather soles whispered against the Persian carpet's central medallion, tracing its geometric patterns like a man following invisible lines.

At the table's head, Charles used a toothpick. "These new union demands..."

"Charles, really," Victoria laughed, a sound like breaking champagne flutes. "Must we let shop talk ruin such an excellent meal?"

The clock ticked. Wine breathed.

And between the clearing of the main entree and the rhubarb tart, Holt counted seven forced smiles, three choked-back retorts, and one silent plea etched in a young bride's trembling lashes.

The rhubarb tart plates vanished, Dawson's white gloves ghosting across the tablecloth. Chancie nudged Holt's ankle under the table.

"Now that the meal is done," Charles said, rotating his port glass like a coroner examining a vital organ, "I trust you've reviewed the revised merger terms, Henry?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Revised being code for eviscerated." A ruby droplet of wine trembled at the rim of his goblet. "Forty percent equity reduction? You might as well brand 'has-been' across our family crest."

Victoria's laugh trilled through the tension like a piccolo over timpani. "Darling, do remind me to have the cook share his rhubarb pastry recipe. It's positively criminal to keep such artistry secret." She aimed a conspiratorial wink at Chancie. "Don't suppose I could tempt you to stage a kitchen raid?"

"Only if you provide diversionary champagne," Chancie replied, swirling her drink.

Charles ignored the detour. "Progress requires pruning deadwood, Henry. Even sentimental favorites." His thumb traced the stem of his glass. "Ask your wife about revitalization strategies—her gallery's attendance numbers since the modern art pivot speak for themselves. At least somebody here knows change is a part of business."

Lillian's spoon clattered against the floor. Holt watched her left hand creep toward the table edge, pale fingers gripping mahogany like a sailor clutching driftwood. Dawson appeared at her elbow with a fresh spoon and napkin.

"Pruning." Henry's cuff link snagged the tablecloth as he leaned forward. "Is that what we're calling betrayal now? Tell me, Charles—when you pruned your first wife from the shareholder registry, did she appreciate the horticultural metaphor?"

The grandfather clock swallowed three deafening ticks before Victoria sighed. "Really, darling, must you recycle tired gossip? Everyone knows Kristin retired to Monaco." She patted Henry's arm. "Though I do miss her bridge nights. Nobody cheats with such flair."

Chancie kicked Holt again, harder this time. He took the hint. "Speaking of games—Chancie's been trying to teach me contract whist. Turns out my poker face works better when I'm not holding cards upside down."

Laughter rippled unevenly around the table. Holt used the moment to study the group's relief patterns—Charles' temple vein subsiding, Henry's death grip on his chair arms loosening, Victoria's shoulders dropping a half-inch. Only Lillian remained taut, her gaze locked on Dawson's retreating back as he carried ruined desserts into the shadows.

Dawson came back and circulated with coffee and cream, his movements as precise as a chess rook. When he leaned past Lillian to fill Charles' cup, Holt caught the infinitesimal shudder that passed through the young bride—not fear, but recognition. Her eyes flicked to the butler's hands, then away.

Holt nursed his espresso, bitter and cold, while the conversation limped toward safer shores—yacht engine maintenance, orchid cultivation, the merits of Swiss boarding schools. Each innocuous topic stretched tighter than the Persian rug beneath their feet, threatening to unravel at the slightest misstep.

Chancie's hand found his under the table, warm and steady. Her thumbnail tapped twice against his knuckle—their private code for let’s leave soon.

Holt’s investigator's mind replayed the evening's footage frame by frame—Charles' calculated provocations, Henry's pressure-cooker rage, Victoria's diplomatic triage. Lillian's silent distress signals. Dawson's watchful comings and goings.

The dining room seemed to exhale around him, releasing whispers of resentment and ambition into the charged air.

The crystal droplets of the chandelier shivered imperceptibly as Dawson glided through the dining room's western doorway. His patent leather shoes sank soundlessly into the Persian carpet's burgundy swirls, the sealed envelope resting on his silver tray catching prisms of light. Six pairs of eyes followed his progression toward the head of the table where Charles Redgrave sat.

"Your correspondence, sir." He extended the tray. The envelope's thick parchment bore no postmark, only Charles' name inscribed in sloping block letters that dug grooves into the paper.

Charles picked up the letter as Dawson retreated. His thumbnail slid beneath the wax seal—a plain disc of crimson devoid of any insignia. The parchment crackled like dry leaves as he unfolded it, his eyes darting across its surface. A vein surfaced along his temple, pulsing in time with the grandfather clock's pendulum swinging behind him.

"You pathetic schemer," Charles whispered. The words hung suspended for a heartbeat before crashing down upon the table. His index finger tapped the parchment now flattened beside his dinner plate. "Did you truly imagine I wouldn't recognize your petty meddling, Henry?"

Henry Vance’s mouth gaped open for a moment. "You're raving," he sputtered. "Whatever trash anonymous coward mailed you—"

"Three months ago in Montreal," Charles interrupted, voice glacial. "That hotel stationery had the same watermark." He flicked the edge of the envelope toward Henry. "Your signature pretension to plausible deniability grows tiresome."

Lillian Redgrave's pearl necklace caught the light as she tilted her head. "Darling, perhaps we should—"

"Quiet." Charles didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The command froze his wife's earrings mid-swing. His attention remained locked on Henry, whose knuckles had bleached white.

"You've mistaken arrogance for astuteness once again," Henry said. "I would never threaten—"

"I read threats the way you read profit margins." Charles' chuckle held no mirth. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice the pattern? The junior partners suddenly withdrawing support? The shipping delays?"

The clock's ticking grew louder in the pause between volleys. Across the table, Henry adjusted his collar, revealing the fresh razor nick at his jawline. "Your paranoia," he said slowly, "is why your wife takes three-hour lunches at the Carlton and your son moved to Buenos Aires."

Silverware stilled. Even Dawson, now positioned by the sideboard, allowed his eyebrows to lift a millimeter.

Charles remained firmly seated, the legs of his chair unmoving against the hardwood where the carpet fell short. "You miserable—"

The darkness arrived not with a flicker but a suffocating totality. One moment, the chandelier painted golden pools on the mahogany table; the next, a void swallowed the room whole.

"Good gracious!" A woman's voice shivered through the black.

"Nobody move!" Dawson's command sliced through the rising murmur. "The emergency generator should engage momentarily."

But there was only breathing now—sharp inhalations punctuated by the creak of chairs. Someone's wristwatch beeped. The scent of old coffee turned sickly-sweet in the motionless air.

Then came the sound nobody could place afterward—not quite a gasp, not quite a choke—followed by the sickening thud of weight meeting wood.

The darkness pressed like wet velvet against their faces. Somewhere to Adrian's left, a chair squeaked—the sound of leather protesting sudden movement.

"Keep your seats!" Dawson's voice cut through the murmurs, closer now than his earlier position by the sideboard.

Adrian's fingers found the table's edge, tracing the cool mahogany grain. A spare spoon clattered against the coffee cup as he groped for reference points.

Four heartbeats passed.

Light stuttered in violent bursts. The chandelier sputtered to life, filaments glowing orange, then white. For one suspended moment, shadows pooled beneath Charles Redgrave's cheek where it lay pressed against the tablecloth—a blot spreading beneath his parted lips. Then, the full glare revealed the steak knife's ornate handle protruding from his chest.

Lillian Redgrave reached for her coffee cup, which had tipped over in the confusion, but then stopped.

Chaos erupted in stages. Henry shoved back from the table, his chair legs screeching against the unprotected floorboards. A tendril of hair escaped Mrs. Vance's braid as she crossed herself repeatedly. Dawson alone retained his composure, navigating the edges of the room with the measured grace of a predator steering clear of bait.

The butler's footsteps echoed crisply against the polished mahogany floor, a stark contrast to the stunned silence that had enveloped the room. His silhouette cut a sharp figure against the lavish backdrop as he excused himself from their shocked company. "We need to call the authorities!" Dawson blurted out, urgency replacing his usual measured tone.

Without waiting for a response, he stepped out through the heavy double doors leading into the hallway, leaving behind a trail of whispered unease. The guests could only watch him go, their gazes lingering on where he had disappeared as they processed their new reality—one marred by murder and shrouded in mystery.

Adrian was already at Charles' side, two fingers pressed to the cooling wrist. The grandfather clock marked eight seconds before he looked up. "Where is the letter?"

Five eyes (Mrs. Holt had lost a contact lens) snapped to the cream-colored paper peeking from beneath Charles' elbow. The broken wax seal resembled a half-closed eye.

Henry froze mid-retreat, his cuff link catching on the tablecloth. "Are you mad? The man's been stabbed through the heart!"

"Precisely why we shouldn't neglect evidence." Adrian used a bread knife to nudge the letter free. The paper easily opened fully, revealing lines of typescript swimming in burgundy droplets. Holt read aloud:

Your interference in the merger must cease now or there will be consequences more severe than cancelled luncheon reservations.

Lillian sat still as a statue as Dawson returned from phoning the police.

Adrian's thumbnail caught on the letter's edge where a fold had weakened the fibers. "Mr. Vance—I must be direct. Did you have this letter sent?"

Henry's razor nick bloomed fresh scarlet. "You think I'd use stationary with known letterhead for a death threat?"

"No. No, I don’t,” replied Holt.

Dawson materialized at Adrian's shoulder, a human curtain shielding the grisly scene from the others. "Shall I..."

"Preserve the scene. The police will need everything as it is now."

Lillian traced the rim of her glass, leaving fingerprint smudges on the crystal. "Mr. Holt, are you then saying you don’t believe Vance sent the letter and stabbed my poor husband?"

The grandfather clock swallowed their silence whole.

“I have said nothing quite so specific, Mrs. Redgrave. As far as I can tell, there are three people in this room who had the easiest access to commit the murder.” His eyes caught hers. “Unfortunately, you happen to be one of them.”

Holt's thumb continued to brush the edge of the incriminating letter. Realizing that he should not have touched it in the first place, he set it down near Redgrave’s elbow. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung like a metronome, counting down the seconds since the lights came on, each tick measuring how long it took seven people to forget how to breathe.

He studied the scene through half-lowered eyelids—Lillian's knuckles bone-white around her wineglass, Henry's collar damp with nervous perspiration. Chancie remained still, an island of calm amidst the tension. Her years as a detective's wife had taught her the value of composure in moments like these. She didn't fidget or fret, but her eyes were alive with quiet observation, taking in everything without betraying a hint of anxiety. Apparently, she had found and replaced her contact.

"The police will want statements from everyone," Holt said, watching a bead of merlot creep across the tablecloth toward Charles' elbow. "Particularly regarding your positions when the lights failed."

Henry Vance's chair screeched. "Are we just supposed to sit here waiting for—"

"Unless you'd prefer I start taking fingerprints from steak knives now." Holt didn't lift his gaze from the spreading wine stain. A petty satisfaction warmed his chest when silence reclaimed the room.

His mind mapped the darkness—six place settings, six guests, one butler. The killer had moved with the precision of someone familiar enough with the room to navigate it blind. Or someone who'd rehearsed. He cataloged footwear beneath the table's edge—Lillian's kitten heels, Henry's boots, the click-clack soles of Mrs. Vance. All problematic for stealth.

"For clarity," Holt said, smoothing the napkin against his thigh, "when did the letter for Mr. Redgrave arrive?"

Dawson materialized from the shadows near the pantry door. "The post arrives daily, sir, in the afternoon. Mr. Redgrave was in a habit of going over it after dinner. I always deliver it."

"Convenient." Mrs. Vance’s diamonds caught the light as she turned. "But the letter is entirely pointless as far as I can tell."

"Pointless?" Holt repeated. The word fell like a sash weight. "Let me remind you, Mrs. Vance, that this threatening letter points to your husband or you as having motive."

Her wineglass dropped to the Persian rug. “You can’t be serious. We didn’t send it. Who in their right mind would think such a thing?”

“Those who will not take the time to look closely enough, I’m afraid,” said Holt.

Holt maintained his position standing near the head of the table, casting a long shadow over Charles Redgrave's outstretched hand. His fingers motionless, the unadorned fourth finger on his left hand drawing attention as it refracted a beam of light that should've been intercepted by a band of gold.

"Mrs. Redgrave," he began, pacing slightly, "has your husband always had a preference for dining without his wedding ring? Or is this a recent culinary development?"

Her teacup reunited with its saucer—a seemingly rehearsed reaction. "Charles often takes off his jewelry when he dines. Lobster in particular, but it really doesn’t matter." Her neck remained as smooth as polished ivory as she inclined her head towards the unlit fireplace. "He’s a man of—well, he was a man of—many unusual habits."

Holt observed the minute quiver in her voice—trying to remain composed in the face of tragic death, or something else? Across the room, the grandfather clock ticked away for several seconds of silence before she reached for her napkin to pat her eyes dry.

Marital discontent, he pondered.

"Intriguing," Holt murmured, following her gaze as it evaded the portrait above the sideboard—a younger Charles Redgrave scowling from within an oil painting, wedding band prominent on his hand gripping a wine goblet. "Though one could argue that true sentiment doesn't need either metal or ceremony to validate it. Wouldn't you say?"

Lillian stared. "Sentiment, Mr. Holt, is what we claim to store in jewelry boxes when we've really buried it alongside other childhood keepsakes." Her smile could have frozen the warmest of souls. "But then, you don't seem like a man who would understand such a statement."

Across the Persian carpet, Henry Vance's cuff link struck a minor chord against his water glass. The financier sat military-straight in his chair, right thumb toying with the starched linen at his wrist. A rust-colored smudge breached the otherwise immaculate cuff.

Holt turned. "Mr. Vance—your tailor must weep into his shears. That's a Savile Row shirt if I'm not mistaken."

Vance's jawline hardened like a bank vault sealing. "Your point?"

"The blood, sir. It's marring the monogram."

An even more profound stillness descended on the table. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned behind plaster.

"You dare—" Vance half-rose, his bow tie grazing his Adam's apple. The tablecloth puckered under his whitening knuckles. "I'll have you—"

"Ever consider a switch to electric razors, Vance?" Holt asked, pulling out a small notepad from his pocket. "I noticed the fresh cut on your neck earlier this evening. A little slip of the hand during your pre-dinner shave?"

Vance's expression faltered, his face reflecting in the polished silverware. Holt flipped open his notepad and began scribbling out a note.

"I also saw the blood smear on your cuff before dinner started," he continued, locking eyes with Vance. "It was there when Dawson brought the first course. I’m just making a note to hand to the police when they arrive. Otherwise, they might get the wrong impression about who committed this murder."

Vance sank into his chair, visibly deflated as if an invisible weight had been lifted off him. "This is… unexpected."

"Isn't it, though?" Holt replied with a smile.

Holt turned from the deflated financier, his polished shoes catching the chandelier light as they crossed the Persian carpet. Near the pantry door, Dawson stood at parade rest with his gloved hands clasped behind his back—the perfect soldier awaiting orders.

"Your employer kept meticulous books, I imagine?" Holt asked, stopping precisely two feet from the butler.

"Mr. Redgrave believed in order above all else, sir." Dawson's vowels carried the crispness of starched linen. "The household accounts balanced to the penny at all times."

Holt tapped his fountain pen against his notebook. "Even after that unfortunate incident with the wine merchant's invoices? The ones that were altered for more than a year and a half—what—more than a decade ago?"

The grandfather clock tolled brass notes into the silence. A muscle twitched near Dawson's right eyebrow—the slightest tremor in an otherwise impassive face.

"I'm sure I don't—"

"Come now, Dawson." Holt flipped to a dog-eared page in his notes. "Charles discovered your creative accounting on what must have been a chilly November day all those years ago. Threatened to dismiss you without reference until you made reparations. Rather impossible, paying back just over one million dollars on a butler's wages. Must have required significant… sacrifices to stay out of jail."

Dawson's left thumb began rubbing the scar along his right palm—an old injury peeking past his immaculate cuff. "Well, since you’ve already done your homework. You see, one adapts to a gentleman's requirements."

"Or perhaps a lady's?" Holt observed the butler's eyes narrow, his gaze sharp. "Interesting thing about detailed ledgers and house notes—they record more than figures. Like a certain staff member who started making preparations for this dinner party six weeks ago—including seating arrangements. Under Mrs. Redgrave's orders, oddly enough."

Dawson's breath hitched, his usual composure faltering slightly. Across the room, Lillian delicately placed her water goblet on the table, the crystal singing a soft song as it made contact with the mahogany surface. "Housekeeping matters hardly seem pertinent to—"

"To a stabbing? Quite the opposite." Holt moved closer, observing Dawson's freshly shaven jawline with interest. "Tell me, when did it shift from embezzling money to stealing affection? Before or after Charles increased your repayment demands?"

The leather of Dawson's gloves strained as his fists clenched behind his back in silent protest. "You overstep, Mr. Holt."

"Do I?" The investigator turned towards the gathered guests, his voice echoing across the vast dining room. "Mr. Redgrave's absent wedding ring. And, our butler’s secret but burdensome financial redemption at the hands of a just blackmailer." His gaze shifted towards the silver service cart, where an impressive brandy decanter caught the glimmering light of chandeliers above. "But what a shame to waste such fine wine on such a dreadful evening."

Lillian's pearls clinked softly together as she swallowed uneasily while Dawson remained rigidly still despite a bead of sweat making its way down his starched collar.

Holt began to circle Dawson slowly like a predator closing in on its prey.

"The police will be here soon enough, but we have time to get things in order before they do. You. You were counting on everyone assuming that Vance was responsible for Charles' death due to their heated argument earlier," he began, holding up one finger for emphasis before continuing:

"Firstly, the knife. Everybody had to have access to a sharp knife. So, steak. We had steak. Everybody had knives as dinner started, and there were an intriguing number of extras, for some strange decoration perhaps, at first glance. But—someone had to stab one in Charles' chest when the lights were out. And so, that was the plan for the weapon.

"Secondly," Holt continued, pointing to the threatening letter on the table near Redgrave’s elbow. "This anonymous letter delivered at the perfect time to ensure a heated exchange between Redgrave and Vance just before the murder. Of course, they had already started that beforehand, but there was no way to ensure it without the letter." He arched an eyebrow at the butler, "Quite a unique strategy leading to an opportunity when paired with… let's say, a motive."

The damask walls seemed to lean closer. Even the clock paused its ticking.

"A motive?" Dawson's voice emerged half an octave higher than usual. “I have no motive. The blackmail means nothing at this point. It’s been too long. I could have left—staying out of jail—without needing to resort to murder.”

Holt stopped directly before him. "You seem to forget, I see everything. It's hard not to put two and two together that a certain staff member had developed a particular habit of coming and going from a certain—newly married—lady's bedroom."

Gasps ricocheted around the table. A chair screeched as Lillian stood, her composure fracturing like dropped porcelain.

"The affair means nothing!" Her cultured accent frayed at the edges. "We were careful—"

"Careful people," Holt interrupted softly, "don't rewrite what I can plainly see. Don't touch hands and feign unknowing. And certainly don't..." He reached into his jacket pocket, producing a folded square of stationery. "...leave love letters in the lining of a spare coat. A retired detective may just so borrow that coat. You never stood a chance."

The dining room doors exploded inward. Three uniformed officers cut through the amber glow of the chandelier, their black boots thudding against the Persian carpet's intricate vines. Adrian observed Dawson's left pinky twitch first—a nearly imperceptible tic in the butler's otherwise immaculate posture.

"Mr. Dawson, we have been listening. You're under arrest for—" one of the officers started.

The rest was cut short as Dawson moved with startling precision. His manicured hand closed around Mrs. Vance's steak knife while the rest of the guests jumped up and knocked over several goblets. A mixture of spirits spread across the tablecloth like a bloodstain as the leading officer’s tackle sent Dawson careening into the sideboard next to Lillian.

She screamed.

Adrian adjusted his cuff links while the scuffle resolved itself, his gaze cataloging every detail. Dawson's parted hair now hung in disarray over furious eyes. The torn lapel of his coat revealed a monogrammed handkerchief still perfectly folded in the breast pocket. Even in disgrace, the man maintained standards.

"You've made an error," Dawson said, his refined accent unwinding like a moth-eaten dinner jacket. "I've served this family for fifteen years. I’m owed—"

"A time of service about two months longer than your predecessor, from what I uncovered in the same notes that betrayed your embezzling," Adrian chided, idly brushing imaginary dust off his cuff.

The grandfather clock ticked three times before chaos erupted again. Lillian's chair screeched backward as she surged upward, her crumpled napkin fluttering to the floor. "This is absurd! Dawson never—"

"Never what?" Adrian produced a slim remote from his pocket, its chrome surface gleaming under the crystal lights. "Your devoted butler left this remote with me when he attempted his attack just now—or rather, it seems to have fallen into my hands somehow or other because of his nearness. Tell me, Mrs. Redgrave—was it you or Dawson who came up with the remote-controlled blackout?"

Dawson's rigid posture collapsed like autumn leaves under frost. "She knew nothing!" The confession tore from him, raw and unfiltered. "Lillian was… not in the details."

The room collectively leaned forward. Mrs. Vance's diamond choker caught the light as she craned her neck, while Chancie surreptitiously adjusted her hairpin.

Adrian circled the table, footsteps muffled by the rug. "You orchestrated the blackout to stab Mr. Redgrave in front of witnesses. Very bold. All to frame his business partner, Mr. Vance."

"Frame?" Dawson's bark of laughter startled the youngest officer, who jumped despite himself. "That idle child of a man was bound to do just as I did eventually. I merely… accelerated what would have been his work."

Lillian's porcelain complexion drained to ash. "You told me your plan was foolproof. Wouldn’t fail!"

"Necessary fiction." Dawson's shackled hands flexed as if polishing imaginary silver.

Adrian signaled the officers. As steel cuffs clicked shut, Lillian's composure shattered. She lunged past an overturned chair, silk skirt snagging on a carved leg.

"You promised me!" Her shriek echoed off oil-painted ancestors. "Swore we'd finally be—"

"Silence!" Dawson's roar startled everyone this time. For three heartbeats, the ex-lovers locked gazes—more than a year’s worth of unsaid words crackling between them. Then the butler inclined his head, posture perfect once more. "My apologies, miss. It seems I'll be unable to dress for dinner tomorrow."

As officers led him out, Lillian crumpled. Not the graceful swoon of Victorian heroines, but an ugly, gasping collapse onto the Persian rug. Her trembling fingers clawed at the carpet as childhood asthma attacks resurfaced in ragged wheezes.

"He… he said I’d be free of him," she choked, mascara pooling in the hollow above her collarbone. "That with a proper plan—" A sob hijacked the sentence. "—everything would work out."

Adrian knelt, producing a handkerchief starched stiffer than his principles. "From Dawson. Also in the borrowed jacket."

Her laugh came out half-hysterical, echoing off the incredible scene. “A borrowed jacket.” She roared as she and Dawson were led from the dining room.

As the doors swung shut behind the duo of distress, Lillian whispered something that might've been "Thank you" or a surprising expletive, depending on one's hearing.

Once more, the crystal prisms of the chandelier threw fractured light across Mrs. Vance’s trembling hands as she adjusted her cameo brooch for the seventh time. “Well,” she announced to no one in particular, “I always said that girl had the emotional regulation of a caffeinated terrier.” Her voice hitched on the final word, betraying the tremor beneath her performative disdain.

“Perhaps,” murmured Mr. Vance, extracting his fingers from his wife’s grasp with exaggerated care, “we might adjourn to more comfortable surroundings?” His hopeful glance toward the door contained all the desperation of a man who’d just realized his favorite cuff links were monogrammed with a killer’s initials.

Adrian had moved, observing the unraveling sketch from the shadow of the marble hearth, his thumb rubbing absent circles against Chancie’s palm where their hands remained loosely joined. The scent of her perfume cut through lingering traces of panic-sweat and spilled wine.

“You’ve made quite a mess of their evening,” Chancie observed, tilting her head toward the cluster of glittering disarray. Her diamond earrings swayed gently.

“Me? I’d say I cleaned it up. Or merely accelerated the inevitable.” Adrian’s gaze tracked a police sergeant collecting caviar-stained napkins into evidence bags. “No one invites an ex-detective to a simple dinner party in which they plan to commit murder unless they’re compensating for something.”

Chancie’s chuckle warmed the space between them. “Says the man who still polishes his old badge.”

“Habit, my dear.” He nudged a stray crumb of shortbread beneath the carpet’s edge with his shoe. “Unlike our friends here, I signal virtue with full awareness.” His shoulder brushed Chancie’s as he leaned closer. “Shall we escape before the police start demanding we help with the paperwork?”

“Oh, come now,” she murmured, eyes tracking the head of forensics discreetly photographing the silverware. “Mrs. Vance’s had enough to drink, she’s working herself into requesting a police escort to the powder room.”

They drifted toward the entrance. Chancie’s burgundy skirts swept against mahogany as she paused before a silver-framed photograph of their host from happier days—a younger Charles Redgrave astride an Arabian mare, his smile untroubled by future betrayals.

“Do you suppose he knew?” she asked softly. “Or guessed at how he would meet his end?”

Adrian thought for a moment. “Charles always preferred pretty lies to ugly truths. Though, he probably had a notion.”

Chancie’s fingertip traced the photograph’s beveled edge. “And you? Do you know your end?”

He considered the fragmented reflections in the portrait’s silver frame—their images warped beyond recognition. “I have no such notion. Pride makes fools of us all.”

Her hand found his sleeve, the weight real and present. “You couldn’t have prevented this, you know?”

“Perhaps delayed. If I had been more on top of it all. But no, I don’t think I could have stopped its eventuality.”

Chancie nodded. “I do wonder...”

“Hmm?”

“Whether Lillian truly believed Dawson meant to leave with her after…” She gestured through the dining room doorway toward the now empty chair where their host should have presided.

Adrian laughed despite himself. “My love, even the most desperate romantics don’t coordinate getaways with a man who irons his own handkerchiefs.” He raised an imaginary glass. “To shattered illusions.”

“And clearer vision,” she countered. Their quiet toast dissolved into companionable silence.

As they descended the front steps where their modest car waited, Chancie paused. “Will you miss it? Him?”

Adrian glanced back at the manor’s glowing windows, seeing not the current chaos but memories of university weekends—Charles playing tennis, Adrian silently replenishing brandy as winter winds rattled their dorm room.

“The man I knew back then died long before tonight,” he said finally, helping Chancie into the passenger seat. Leather upholstery sighed beneath them as he slid behind the wheel. “This was simply… meeting up after decades apart for one final goodbye.”

The engine purred to life, cutting through the night’s fragile stillness. As gravel crunched beneath their tires, Chancie’s hand rested lightly on his forearm. “Home, then?”

He smiled, taking the curve of the drive with ease. “Wherever you’ve hidden my good reading glasses.”

Behind them, the Redgrave estate’s lights dimmed one by one until only the porch lanterns remained—golden eyes blinking in the dark, watching until the shifting shadows reclaimed their secrets.