On a bright June morning, when the London sky stretched wide and cloudless above the rooftops of Marylebone, Edmund Blake sat beside the window of his third-floor flat, sipping a cup of steaming black tea and nibbling on a slice of buttered toast. The chimes of St Mary's clock tower rang out eight o'clock with polite regularity, echoing faintly through the quiet street below. It was the sort of morning that made the city feel gentler than it was—sunlight dancing on brick facades, a light breeze teasing the lace curtains, and the distinct impression that something, somewhere, was about to change.
Blake was a man in his early forties, neat in dress and bearing, with short chestnut hair, a well-pressed navy waistcoat, and the kind of steel-grey eyes that always seemed to be solving a puzzle, even when staring into a cup of tea. Life had not dulled him with routine; rather, he cultivated the quiet with the precision of a man who knew it would not last.
And it didn't.
The unexpected arrived not with a knock, but a ring at the ground-floor bell, followed by the hurried footsteps of the building's young messenger climbing the stairs. A slender envelope was pressed into Blake's hand — cream-coloured, sealed with red wax, and addressed in a flowing, elegant hand: "Mr Edmund Blake, Marylebone."
Curiosity sparked, Blake broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside.
Dear Mr Blake,
It has been some time since we last met. I hope this letter finds you well. I would be honoured if you would join me for the summer at Seacliff Manor, perched above the cliffs of Cornwall. The house is bright, the gardens are blooming, and there is much to enjoy — not least the company of old friends and new faces.
Your presence would greatly add to the pleasure of our gathering.
Yours sincerely,
Charles Godfrey
Blake smiled faintly, recognizing the signature of the Earl of Seacliff, an old acquaintance with a fondness for the sea and fine company. The invitation was unexpected but welcome. London was busy as ever, with its fog, clatter, and endless bustle. A retreat to Cornwall promised fresh air, quiet mornings, and perhaps a break from the routine puzzles his mind so often chased.
He set down his tea, already imagining the cliffs, the gardens bursting with colour, and the sound of waves crashing far below. It was an opportunity he could not refuse.
The following hours passed in a blur of preparations. Blake packed his travelling bag with his usual careful precision—light clothes for the warm weather, a sturdy jacket for the coastal breeze, a notebook for observations, and a small revolver, more for peace of mind than necessity. The afternoon light waned as he made his way to Paddington Station, the familiar bustle a contrast to the quiet anticipation growing within him.
On the train southbound, Blake settled by the window, watching the English countryside blur past—emerald fields dotted with grazing sheep, quaint villages with stone cottages and thatched roofs, the occasional church spire rising through the mist. He was no stranger to travel, but Cornwall's rugged coastline and expansive sea always held a particular allure, a promise of fresh mysteries and unexpected revelations.
When he arrived at the small station nearest Seacliff, he was greeted by a tall man in a crisp uniform who handed him a telegram confirming his arrival and directed him to a sleek black car waiting outside. The journey from the station to the manor wound along narrow coastal roads, the cliffs falling steeply to the churning sea below. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows and bathing the landscape in golden hues.
Seacliff Manor stood proudly against the sky—a grand house of white stone, its large windows reflecting the fiery sunset. The gardens were alive with colour, the scent of roses and jasmine mingling with the salty air. As Blake stepped from the car, he felt a thrill of excitement. This was a place where stories began, and secrets waited patiently to be uncovered.
The main door opened before Blake could knock. Standing in the doorway was Charles Godfrey himself, a man of dignified presence with silver-streaked hair and piercing blue eyes. He smiled warmly, extending a hand.
"Edmund, it's been too long," the Earl said. "Welcome to Seacliff."
The other guests soon gathered in the spacious hall—each introduced with polite smiles and measured words. Lady Evelyn, the Earl's niece, greeted Blake with a graceful nod; Dr. James Ellsworth, a tall man with kind eyes, offered a firm handshake; Miss Clara Devlin, a bright-eyed young woman with an artist's flair, flashed a mischievous smile; and Mr. Thomas Harding, a businessman whose calm demeanor belied sharp intelligence, acknowledged him with a brief nod.
Over a leisurely dinner served in the grand dining room, conversations flowed freely—about the local harvest, upcoming festivals, and the charm of coastal life. Blake listened attentively, noting subtle exchanges and quiet tensions beneath the surface. There was something unspoken among the group, a layer of reserve that spoke of histories better left untold.
Later, Blake was shown to his room—a comfortable space overlooking the sea. As he unpacked, he found himself reflecting on the day's events. The invitation had come unexpectedly, but it felt deliberate, as if the Earl sought more than mere company. Blake's mind began to piece together possibilities, his curiosity sharpened by the manor's serene yet enigmatic atmosphere.
He moved to the window, gazing out at the darkening horizon where the sun melted into the ocean. The air was fragrant with salt and summer blooms, but beneath the tranquility lay a tension Blake could sense keenly.
Tomorrow, he thought, would be the true beginning.
After breakfast, Blake joined the other guests for a leisurely stroll through the estate gardens. The air was fresh and sweet with the scent of roses and wisteria. The path curved past marble fountains, sun-warmed stone benches, and shaded alcoves hidden behind tall hedges. Just beyond the formal gardens, the land dropped away into a dramatic view of the sea, endless and blue, flecked with distant sails.
Lady Evelyn walked beside him, her parasol open though the sun was mild. She spoke easily of her childhood summers at Seacliff, of garden parties and croquet tournaments, of late-night storytelling on the cliff terrace. Her voice had a soft, musical quality, though now and then Blake thought he detected a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes—something shadowed.
"You must find this place rather… idyllic," she said.
"I do," Blake replied, watching the sunlight dance across the waves. "But sometimes, idyllic settings hold the most curious secrets."
She laughed lightly. "Ever the detective."
"Always," Blake said with a small smile.
They paused at a wrought iron gate that led toward the greenhouse, where Miss Devlin had set up her easel. The young artist waved cheerily as she dabbed at a canvas, already thick with color.
"Isn't the light here extraordinary?" she called. "You must promise not to leave before I've finished your portrait."
"I wasn't aware I'd agreed to sit," Blake replied, amused.
"You didn't. I decided for you."
As the morning wore on, more guests arrived—Lord Finlay, a wiry man with a reputation for gossip and gambling; Miss Margaret Hensley, a widow with sharp opinions and a louder voice; and Captain Leonard Pryce, recently returned from India, who carried himself with rigid posture and measured speech. The manor began to hum with life, its parlors and terraces filled with the murmur of introductions and polite conversation.
Lunch was served in the orangery, a long sunlit room filled with potted citrus trees and trailing vines. The mood remained light, though Blake noted an odd shift in the Earl's demeanor when Miss Hensley asked about the west wing of the manor.
"It's closed for repairs," Godfrey said with a practiced smile. "Some old plumbing we're replacing. Nothing worth seeing."
But something about the way he said it—too smooth, too quick—pricked at Blake's curiosity.
After lunch, the guests dispersed: some to the drawing room, others to walk the cliffs. Blake returned to his own quarters for a short rest. He took the time to unpack fully, placing his notebooks, magnifying glass, and leather document folder in neat order on the writing desk beside the bay window. The distant sound of waves calmed him.
As he poured himself a glass of water from the crystal decanter provided, he noticed a small brass key resting on the nightstand. It hadn't been there earlier.
He picked it up.
It was old, with an ornate head—clearly designed for some interior door. But to what?
Blake frowned slightly. Had the staff left it by mistake? Or had someone else placed it there, knowing he would find it?
He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
That evening, Seacliff Manor came alive with music and wine. The Earl hosted a formal dinner, complete with string quartet and candlelight. The meal was exquisite—local seafood, roast duck, fresh greens, and a trifle soaked in brandy. The guests dined beneath a crystal chandelier, their laughter echoing through the high-ceilinged hall.
But beneath the elegance, Blake could sense it again—that strange tension, like a thread pulled taut beneath fine fabric. Each guest, for all their charm and grace, seemed to be hiding something.
When the meal ended, they retired to the library for brandy and conversation. The room was vast, with oak shelves rising to the ceiling, leather-bound volumes lining every wall. A fire crackled in the hearth. Clara Devlin played softly on the piano in the corner, a tune both beautiful and faintly melancholic.
Charles Godfrey stood by the window, gazing out into the night. Blake approached him.
"You've gathered quite the company," Blake said.
Godfrey chuckled. "Yes, quite. Friends, family, distant connections. Summer is best shared, don't you think?"
"Indeed. Though I admit, I'm curious. Why me, Charles?"
Godfrey turned. His expression was unreadable for a moment.
"Because," he said slowly, "something tells me this summer won't pass as quietly as the last. And I'd feel… safer, with you here."
Blake raised an eyebrow. "Safer?"
Godfrey hesitated, then shook his head. "Just an old man's instinct."
Before Blake could press further, the Earl raised his voice to the room.
"Shall we toast?" he said, lifting his glass. "To Seacliff. And to the days ahead—may they be filled with peace, laughter, and fine weather."
Glasses clinked. Smiles were exchanged. But as Blake looked around the room, he saw again the signs: a glance too quick, a smile too wide, a silence too long.
Something was coming.
And by the time it arrived, peace would be the last thing left at Seacliff.The following day broke with a gentle mist rolling in from the sea, softening the edges of the cliffs and veiling the manor's gardens in a delicate silver haze. Seacliff Manor stood solemn and silent, the usual birdsong muted, as though nature itself was holding its breath.
Blake rose early, as was his habit. After a light breakfast taken in solitude, he made his way to the library, the same room where the guests had gathered the night before for brandy and music. It was his favorite sort of room—lined with history, saturated with silence, and filled with the scent of old books and polished wood.
The door creaked gently as he pushed it open.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting golden rectangles on the parquet floor. The curtains had not been drawn yet. A fire had been laid but not lit. A tray of empty glasses still stood near the decanter on the sideboard—remnants of last night's gathering.
Blake moved through the room slowly, noting details. A chair slightly askew. A book left open on a side table: The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne. A pair of gloves resting beside it—small, elegant, surely a lady's. He lifted one and inspected it.
"Evelyn's," came a voice from behind.
Blake turned to see Dr. Ellsworth entering the room, dressed immaculately in a morning coat and navy tie. He crossed the room with quiet, deliberate steps.
"She must've left them here last night," Ellsworth added, nodding at the gloves.
Blake nodded. "She seemed quite taken by the piano."
"She always is," the doctor said. "She finds solace in music, I believe. Something we all could use now and then."
They stood for a moment in silence, the only sound the ticking of a brass clock on the mantelpiece.
Ellsworth broke the pause. "Do you find it strange, Mr. Blake? This gathering. All these people, brought here for no clear reason?"
Blake looked at him thoughtfully. "You do?"
"I'm a physician, not a detective," Ellsworth said with a small smile. "But even I can sense when something is… out of place."
Blake's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What would you say is out of place?"
But the doctor only offered a noncommittal shrug and turned to browse the bookshelves.
Blake remained still for a moment longer, then turned his attention to the large globe near the fireplace. It had been spun recently—he could tell by the trail of faint fingerprints in the dust. Someone had been fidgeting while pretending to listen, or perhaps searching for a place they had once been—or planned to go.
He turned the globe slowly, noting that one spot—Bombay—had been smudged more than the rest. Captain Pryce?
He made a mental note.
The rest of the morning passed with a sense of expectation that none of the guests could quite explain. Lady Evelyn remained unusually quiet during their stroll to the cliffside garden. Thomas Harding declined his usual cigar, claiming a headache. Clara Devlin kept glancing toward the manor, as though waiting for someone to appear.
At luncheon, the Earl was absent.
"He's resting," said his valet, discreetly. "Slight fever. Nothing to worry about."
Blake found it curious. Charles Godfrey had appeared perfectly well the night before.
After lunch, the guests scattered once more. Blake returned to the library shortly before dusk, intending to read, perhaps nap, and clear his mind.
But the door was ajar—and the moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong.
The fire had not been lit, yet the room was stifling, the air heavy and unmoving. The shadows cast by the setting sun stretched longer now, darker. A window was open—the only one—and the gauzy curtain flapped lazily in the breeze.
Then he saw the figure slumped in the armchair near the hearth.
A man.
Blake crossed the room in two swift strides.
It was Thomas Harding.
His body was twisted awkwardly, one arm dangling toward the floor, the other clenched at his chest. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, wide and unseeing. A crystal glass lay shattered beside him, brandy pooling beneath the chair leg.
There was no blood.
Blake crouched down, fingers to the neck.
No pulse.
A faint scent lingered in the air. Almonds.
Cyanide.
Blake rose and shut the door quietly behind him. He locked it from the inside, slipped the key into his pocket, and crossed to the bell.
He rang three times—sharp, deliberate.
Within minutes, the Earl's butler, Mr. Hargrove, arrived. His usually impassive face went pale when Blake let him in and silently pointed to the armchair.
"Call no one," Blake said quietly. "Not yet. Inform the Earl privately. Then bring Dr. Ellsworth. No one else enters this room."
The butler nodded and hurried off.
Blake stood alone in the library, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the body.
So it begins, he thought.
Seacliff Manor, for all its beauty, was now a crime scene.
Dr. Ellsworth arrived within ten minutes, his medical bag in hand and his face tight with concern. Blake watched him closely as he examined the body, noting every flicker of expression, every hesitation.
"Dead, certainly," Ellsworth said after a few minutes, his voice low. "Stiffening has begun. Time of death… roughly within the last hour. No obvious trauma."
He leaned closer, sniffing the air.
"That smell," he muttered. "It's faint, but unmistakable."
Blake nodded. "Cyanide."
Ellsworth gave him a sharp look, then nodded grimly. "So it would appear. Though how it was administered…"
Blake gestured toward the shattered glass on the floor. "Brandy. Poisoned?"
"Possibly. I'll need to examine it properly."
"Harding was a cautious man," Blake said thoughtfully. "He wasn't the type to drink without noticing something off. Either he trusted the drinker—or he was distracted."
Ellsworth straightened. "What are you thinking?"
Blake didn't answer immediately. He crossed the room, staring out the open window. The curtains fluttered like nervous fingers. Beyond, the garden fell away toward the cliffside path, the ocean still aglow with the last remnants of sunlight.
"I think," Blake said slowly, "that Thomas Harding may not have been the intended target."
By the time the Earl arrived, escorted by the ever-stoic Hargrove, the sky outside had darkened to a bruised lavender. Charles Godfrey looked pale but composed, his walking stick in hand and a silk scarf knotted at his throat.
He took in the scene with a grave nod.
"Harding," he said softly. "I feared something was coming. But not this."
"You suspected danger?" Blake asked.
Godfrey hesitated, then nodded once. "The past has a way of resurfacing in old houses. Especially when too many secrets gather under one roof."
Blake's brow furrowed. "And you thought inviting us all here would… what? Cleanse it?"
"Reveal it," the Earl said simply. "Light always finds a crack."
As the night deepened, Blake took control.
He asked that all guests remain in their rooms until further notice—under the pretense of an accident, for now. Dr. Ellsworth would examine the brandy glass and the remains of the bottle. Clara Devlin, Lady Evelyn, Captain Pryce, and the others were informed that Mr. Harding had taken ill. Only Blake, the doctor, and the Earl knew the truth.
By ten o'clock, the library had been sealed.
Blake retired to his room but didn't sleep.
Instead, he laid out his notes, drawing a rough sketch of the library's layout. He wrote each guest's name on a separate card and began arranging them by proximity, motive, opportunity.
Who had been nearest to Harding during the library gathering?
Who had served the drinks?
Who had a reason—any reason—to want him dead?
And if Harding was not the target… who was?
At midnight, a soft knock came at the door.
It was Lady Evelyn.
Blake opened the door, surprised. She wore a light dressing gown, her hair loosely tied back, eyes wide and pale in the candlelight.
"I heard something," she said. "In the hallway. Outside Thomas's room. A whisper. Then nothing."
Blake didn't hesitate. He took his coat and followed her quietly down the corridor. The house was utterly still—no wind, no creak of wood, only the sound of their soft footsteps on the Persian runner.
Harding's room was unlocked.
Inside, the bed was neatly made. A suitcase stood by the door, half-packed. A notebook lay on the writing desk, open to a page filled with neat handwriting. Blake scanned it quickly:
"—convinced there's more to Godfrey's illness than he admits. Evelyn asks too many questions. I'll need to speak with Clara—she may know."
Blake frowned.
"Did you know Harding well?" he asked Evelyn.
She shook her head. "Not particularly. Only through the Earl. But I always felt he was… watchful. As though he were studying us."
Blake nodded. "He was. And he may have known something dangerous."
They heard a sudden crash behind them—a picture frame had fallen in the hallway.
Blake rushed out, but the corridor was empty.
Only the painting lay shattered on the floor. A portrait of a younger Earl Godfrey, standing in the garden, holding a riding crop.
Lady Evelyn stared at it. "I don't like this," she whispered.
"Nor do I," Blake said.
He didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he read through Harding's notebook, line by line, piecing together the man's observations. They were sharp, detailed—sometimes almost paranoid. He had suspicions about the Earl's finances, hints of a failed investment, rumors of a deal gone wrong.
And there were lines about the guests.
"Pryce drinks too much. Seems angry beneath the polish."
"Ellsworth knows more than he lets on. I've seen him watching Evelyn."
"Clara's paintings—always the cliffs. Almost obsessive."
Blake underlined that.
A man like Harding wouldn't write anything down unless he believed it mattered.
At dawn, he dressed again and made his way to the cliff path. The air was crisp, the mist thinning as the first rays of sun pierced the horizon. The garden was quiet.
He passed the greenhouse.
Inside, Clara Devlin stood at her easel.
She hadn't slept either.
Her canvas showed a new painting—half-finished—but it was no longer a seascape. This time, it depicted the library. The chairs. The fire. The very armchair where Thomas Harding had died.
Except in the painting… the room was empty.
The shadows were longer. And the open window looked out on something that wasn't quite the sea.
It was a figure.
A silhouette standing just outside the window.
Watching.
Waiting.
Blake's breath caught for a moment.
Clara turned, startled by his presence. "I— I couldn't sleep. I just started painting. It just came out of me."
"Have you painted this room before?" he asked.
"No… I don't know why I did. I just… felt like I had to."
Blake stepped closer. "That shape in the window. Do you know who it is?"
She looked at it, then slowly shook her head.
"No," she whispered. "But it's always there."
The morning brought with it a strange hush. Breakfast was served, but barely touched. The guests sat around the grand table in the solarium, faces pale, glances guarded. The usual polite chatter had evaporated, replaced by silence and spoon clinks.
Lady Evelyn sipped her tea with trembling fingers. Captain Pryce stirred his porridge with soldierly detachment. Clara Devlin seemed far away in thought, her eyes unfocused, as though still painting in her mind.
Blake, meanwhile, observed everything.
He noted that no one asked after Thomas Harding.
Not out of indifference—but out of fear. They knew something had gone terribly wrong. Even without a formal announcement, the house whispered it into every creak of wood, every footstep echo.
Only the Earl appeared composed, though his voice lacked its usual warmth.
"I've asked that no one leave the manor today," he said, glancing around the table. "The grounds are open, of course, but I would appreciate if we stayed close. We are… experiencing an unfortunate complication."
A quiet understatement.
Blake put down his napkin and rose. "If I may, I'd like to revisit the library. Alone. I won't disturb the body."
The Earl gave a short nod. "Hargrove will unlock it for you."
Ten minutes later, Blake stood once more in the library.
The air had grown colder overnight, and the room felt more like a crypt now than a place of reading. The curtains had been drawn, and the fireplace loomed dark and cold. Harding's body had been covered, respectfully, but had not yet been removed. Dr. Ellsworth would return shortly for further examination.
Blake moved quietly, his eyes scanning the room again. Now that the shock had passed, details became clearer.
He knelt near the hearth and looked inside.
The fireplace had not been lit for days. But there, amid the old ashes, something glinted.
He reached in carefully with the fire poker and drew it forward.
A metal button.
Slightly scorched at the edges, but intact.
Military style.
Interesting.
Blake bagged it carefully and returned to the hearth. There were other fragments among the ashes—half-burned scraps of paper. He coaxed them out, piece by piece, reconstructing what he could on the nearby writing desk.
One piece bore a letterhead: Bexley and Hargreaves Solicitors, London.
Another: a signature at the bottom, almost lost to flame.
—Charles Godfrey.
Blake narrowed his eyes.
Had someone tried to destroy legal documents in the fireplace? Contracts? Letters? Why here, and why now?
He stepped back and stared at the room as a whole.
The open window. The brandy glass. The button in the fireplace. The painting Clara had made—showing a figure outside the same window. And now, these papers, half burned.
It wasn't just murder.
Someone had used the chaos to cover something else.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
It was Hargrove again. "Doctor Ellsworth is ready to perform his examination," he said.
Blake nodded and stepped aside. "Call me the moment he confirms the means."
Then, as Hargrove turned to go, Blake stopped him.
"Tell me something," he said. "Was anyone else in the library this morning before I arrived?"
Hargrove hesitated. "Just Miss Devlin. Very briefly. She asked to see if she'd left her sketchbook."
"She found it?"
"I believe so, sir."
Blake's mind stirred. Clara had painted the room without reference. She had seen something.
Or remembered something she wasn't ready to say.
Later that afternoon, Blake joined Captain Pryce for a walk on the southern lawn. The Captain was nursing a pipe and watching the sea with the distant look of a man halfway between memories and suspicion.
"Were you close with Harding?" Blake asked.
Pryce grunted. "Close? No. We served in different worlds. He knew finance. I knew war. We met at the club. That's all."
"But you trusted him."
"No one trusts a financier, Blake." The Captain gave a wry smile. "But he gave good advice. Told me not to buy into something… Can't recall what now. Some mine in Ghana."
"Did the Earl invest?"
Pryce looked at him sharply, then shrugged. "Wouldn't surprise me."
Blake let the silence stretch. Then: "Did Harding confide anything unusual lately?"
Pryce puffed his pipe. "Only that he had 'unfinished business.' Kept going on about legacies. Secrets."
Blake nodded. "Did he mention Clara Devlin?"
Pryce gave him a curious glance. "The painter? No. Why would he?"
"Just curious," Blake said.
He wasn't. He was certain now: Harding had stumbled upon something he shouldn't have. Something to do with the Earl's past—and with Clara Devlin.
That evening, just before dinner, Dr. Ellsworth summoned Blake to the study.
"It was cyanide," he confirmed. "Most likely ingested with the brandy. But that's not the strange part."
Blake raised a brow.
"The amount was exact," Ellsworth said. "Lethal, but not excessive. It was measured. Precise. As though administered by someone who knew pharmacology well."
Blake considered this. "Like a doctor."
Ellsworth stiffened. "I assure you, I had nothing to do with it."
"I'm not accusing," Blake said gently. "But I am observing. And right now, you're the only one in this house with access to both poisons and precision."
Ellsworth sighed. "I see. You're thorough."
"I must be," Blake replied. "Murder demands it."
That night, Blake returned once more to the fireplace. He knelt and sifted through the ashes again, guided by instinct more than reason.
This time, he found a key.
Tiny. Brass. Hidden under a curl of blackened paper.
Not part of the room. Not ornamental.
A drawer key.
He held it up to the firelight.
What had Thomas Harding been trying to protect—or reveal—before he died?
Blake stood slowly.
And for the first time since arriving at Seacliff Manor, he allowed himself a thought he had resisted until now:
This case was far more dangerous than he had imagined.
And someone inside this beautiful, sunlit estate had killed to keep the truth buried.