The drawing room of Elderwick Manor was heavy with rain-dampened wool and suspicion. Lamps cast golden pools upon oak-paneled walls, their glow flickering over decanters and the lined faces of the assembled guests. Wind pressed itself against the leaded windows with a long, whining breath, and the grandfather clock ticked with a solemn rhythm, as though marking not time, but fate.

Colonel Ambrose Grey stood near the hearth, one elbow resting upon the carved mantle. His face, once burnished by foreign sun and war's violence, was drawn and pale. Across from him, Lady Eugenia Whitcombe—tall, imperious, with her silver hair swept into a bun like a coiled serpent—regarded the room as though it were a courtroom and she its judge. To her left sat young Timothy Harrow, nervously twisting his gloves in his lap, while the vicar, Reverend Elmsley, stood at the sideboard, his hands folded over his ample stomach.

Dr. Thaddeus Bell, recently retired from practice in Marylebone, warmed his fingers over a cup of brandy and muttered to no one in particular, "It is always the silence before the truth that weighs most heavily."

From the corner, by the high-backed chair near the library shelves, a voice cut through the expectant hush.

"I suppose," said Mr. Alastair Dorrance, "you are all wondering why I have called you here tonight."

The guests shifted. A log cracked in the fireplace. A draft stirred the heavy curtains.

"Let us not pretend," Lady Eugenia said, voice like chilled steel. "You sent for each of us, with urgency, after the events of last week. We deserve an explanation."

"Indeed," said the vicar. "And I should like to know why my vestry keys were among the items requested of me."

Mr. Dorrance, slender and severe in his tailored coat, moved with the precision of a man accustomed to scrutiny. His face bore the hallmarks of long, patient calculation—deep-set eyes, narrow mouth, hands that rarely fidgeted. He stood beside a small table, atop which lay a folded velvet glove.

"You see," he said, lifting the glove and holding it between two fingers, "it all began with this."

Timothy swallowed audibly.

"I found it last Tuesday morning, just there—" he pointed to the oriental rug near the east window, "—beneath the tulipwood escritoire. A left-handed glove, made of velvet. Unmistakably feminine. But the embroidery—" he turned the cuff so they could see the tiny monogram—"was not Lady Eugenia’s."

Eugenia narrowed her eyes. "I do not require embroidery to mark my things."

"Precisely," Dorrance said. "But it did match something else. Something I found tucked behind a loose board in the butler’s pantry."

The room drew taut. The colonel exhaled through his nose. The rain, momentarily forgotten, resumed its tapping.

Dorrance reached into his coat and removed a slip of parchment, folded thrice. He laid it down with quiet reverence.

"This note, written in haste, speaks of a rendezvous. A betrayal. A whispered secret on a moonless night. It was unsigned. But the language—poetic, precise, laced with a subtle hand—spoke to me of one among us."

He let the silence swell.

"You found all this... and didn’t call the police?" the colonel said at last.

"I had no need. The crime, if any, was of a far subtler nature."

The guests leaned forward, collective breath held.

"Now—observe this," he said, lifting the velvet glove again. "A faint smear of ochre pigment on the inner lining. And not just any pigment. It matches a shade found only in one place—on the canvas of The Fallen Sibyl, which hung for decades in the west gallery."

Reverend Elmsley blinked. "But that painting was removed during the renovations last spring."

"And replaced," Dorrance continued, "by a copy."

Lady Eugenia's voice dropped low. "You dare suggest art forgery?"

"No, madam," Dorrance said. "I suggest something much worse."

The grandfather clock struck the hour, its toll echoing through the paneling.

Dorrance stepped back from the table. "I have laid out the evidence. The misplaced glove, the note of assignation, the pigment smear, and finally, the pair of candlestick wax drippings found on the upstairs stairwell—colors matched to the candle you, Colonel, use only in your study."

"Get to the point, man," Grey growled.

Dorrance allowed himself a measured breath.

"All of it," he said, "points to one singular conclusion:"

They held still.

"You have been ignoring the household maintenance schedule."

There was a pause.

"A—what?" the vicar stammered.

Dorrance gestured to the table. "The glove was dropped by Mrs. Penfold, the housekeeper, as she was retrieving the letter I left behind the pantry board—the letter outlining the overdue repairs to the west gallery windows. The ochre pigment is flaking because the copy of the painting is improperly sealed. The wax drips? From you, Colonel, who left your candles burning while napping—again—during the electricians' walkthrough last Thursday. This is why the house smells faintly of scorched wool."

"Then the note?" Timothy asked, blinking.

"A memo. It read, 'Tuesday. Re-plastering east corridor. Do not forget.' And yet—" he turned to face them fully—"you all did."

Dorrance clasped his hands behind his back.

"I assembled you here because the roof is leaking. The paneling is bowing. And not one of you has responded to the maintenance ledger in four months. Elderwick Manor is on the verge of collapse—not from scandal or murder, but from sheer negligence."

He paused. Rain drummed harder above them.

"So no one is dead?" Timothy asked.

"Only the southeast corner of the drawing room ceiling," Dorrance said, pointing upward.

At that precise moment, a damp clump of plaster fell with a wet thwack behind the colonel.

"Ah," Dorrance murmured, "right on time."