CHP 1: The Body That Looked Away
Rain had a peculiar way of changing the city.
By day, the streets were loud with impatient drivers, hurried footsteps, and conversations that dissolved into the endless rhythm of ordinary life. But when rain came, everything slowed. Neon signs shimmered in puddles. Shopkeepers pulled down their shutters a little earlier. The air carried the scent of wet earth, old brick, and forgotten memories.
Tonight, the rain had arrived before sunset.
A steady curtain of silver fell from a sky hidden beneath thick clouds, swallowing the last traces of daylight. Thunder rolled in the distance—not violent enough to frighten anyone, but constant enough to remind the city that the storm had no intention of leaving.
At the end of Ashcroft Lane stood Blackwood Manor.
It had watched over the street for more than a century.
Tall stone walls enclosed the estate from every side, while towering oak trees leaned over the rusted iron gates as though protecting the secrets within. Time had not been kind to the mansion. Ivy climbed across its weathered walls, windows reflected nothing but darkness, and every gust of wind seemed to awaken another creak from the ancient structure.
To strangers, it looked abandoned.
It wasn’t.
Warm lights glowed behind a handful of windows, their golden hue softened by the rain-streaked glass.
Inside, the household continued its evening as it always had.
Dinner had ended nearly an hour ago.
The servants quietly cleared the dining room while members of the Blackwood family drifted to different corners of the house. Some retired to their rooms. Others remained downstairs, exchanging polite conversation that lacked warmth despite their practiced smiles.
Old houses remembered more arguments than laughter.
Blackwood Manor was no exception.
Margaret Ellis, the housekeeper, climbed the staircase with measured steps, balancing a silver tray in her hands. Upon it rested a porcelain teapot, a single china cup, and a small plate of untouched biscuits.
Every evening at precisely eight-thirty, she brought tea to the master of the house.
Never earlier.
Never later.
Routine, she believed, was the only thing that kept a household from falling into chaos.
She reached the second-floor corridor.
The grandfather clock at the far end chimed once.
Half past eight.
“Right on time,” she murmured to herself.
The library door stood slightly open.
That was unusual.
Mr. Edward Blackwood disliked interruptions while he read. The door was always closed.
Margaret frowned.
Balancing the tray carefully, she knocked twice against the wooden frame.
“Sir?”
Silence.
She waited.
Only the ticking of the clock answered.
“Mr. Blackwood?”
Still nothing.
A faint unease settled over her.
She pushed the door open another few inches.
The library was dimly lit, its towering bookshelves stretching from polished wooden floor to ceiling. Thousands of leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, carrying the scent of paper and age. A fire had burned earlier that evening, but now only grey ash remained within the fireplace.
Near the window stood Edward Blackwood’s favourite armchair.
He was sitting in it.
From the doorway, he appeared perfectly ordinary.
Head slightly tilted.
Hands resting comfortably on the armrests.
Eyes open.
As though he had simply paused in thought.
Margaret allowed herself a relieved smile.
“Your tea, sir.”
No reply.
She stepped inside.
The polished floor gave a soft creak beneath her shoes.
Margaret set the silver tray on a small oak table beside the chair, careful not to spill a single drop of tea. She glanced at Mr. Blackwood again, expecting him to complain that the tea had taken too long or that it had already begun to cool.
Instead, he remained perfectly still.
“Sir?”
Her voice was quieter this time.
No answer.
She frowned and stepped closer.
Something felt... wrong.
It wasn’t his posture. Edward Blackwood had often fallen asleep in that chair after spending hours with a book in his hands.
But there was no book.
The pair of reading spectacles he never seemed to misplace rested neatly on the side table beside an untouched lamp. The blanket usually draped across his knees had slipped onto the floor. Every object in the room seemed ordinary.
Everything except the man.
Margaret stopped less than an arm’s length away.
His eyes were open.
Not wandering.
Not blinking.
Simply fixed upon the cold fireplace opposite him.
A chill ran down her spine.
“Mr. Blackwood...”
She reached out with trembling fingers and gently touched his shoulder.
The body leaned sideways with unnatural ease.
A gasp escaped her lips.
The arm hanging over the chair felt impossibly heavy, lifeless.
The colour drained from her face.
For a heartbeat, the world became silent.
Then—
A scream tore through the manor.
It echoed along the corridors, bounced off the marble walls, and shattered the quiet evening like breaking glass.
Doors flew open.
Footsteps thundered across the upper floor.
“What happened?”
“Margaret!”
“My God—”
The first to reach the library was James Blackwood, Edward’s eldest son. Tall, well-dressed, and usually composed, he rushed through the doorway with his younger sister, Eleanor, only a step behind.
Margaret stumbled backward, one hand pressed against her mouth.
“H-he’s...”
She couldn’t finish.
James looked toward the chair.
His father sat exactly as before, except now one arm hung limply beside the armrest.
“Dad?”
He hurried across the room.
“Dad!”
Grabbing Edward’s shoulders, he shook him once.
Nothing.
“No... no...”
Eleanor froze near the entrance.
Her breathing quickened.
“This isn’t funny,” she whispered. “Father...”
James placed two fingers against his father’s neck.
He waited.
Then checked again.
His expression changed.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he looked at his sister.
“Call an ambulance.”
The words sounded hollow.
A young servant standing in the hallway didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll do it!”
He sprinted downstairs toward the telephone.
Within minutes, Blackwood Manor descended into chaos.
Servants whispered nervously in corners.
Family members gathered outside the library, each asking questions no one could answer.
“What happened?”
“Was he ill?”
“I saw him after dinner.”
“He looked perfectly fine.”
“No... this can’t be right.”
Rain continued to strike the windows in an endless rhythm.
As if the storm itself had become a silent witness.
Nearly twenty-five minutes later, the sound of approaching sirens cut through the rain.
Blue lights swept across the old stone walls before two police vehicles rolled through the iron gates.
Inspector Daniel Hayes stepped out first.
He buttoned his dark overcoat against the cold and looked up at the mansion.
Blackwood Manor.
The name alone carried influence, wealth... and decades of buried family history.
Hayes had been a detective long enough to know that old families rarely hid simple secrets.
A uniformed officer approached.
“Inspector.”
“What have we got?”
“Male. Sixty-eight. Found dead in his library by the housekeeper.”
Hayes nodded once.
“Natural death?”
The officer hesitated.
“The paramedics aren’t certain.”
Hayes looked toward the illuminated windows of the manor.
For reasons he couldn’t yet explain...
...he had the uncomfortable feeling that the night was only beginning.The front door swung open before Hayes reached it.
A middle-aged butler stood waiting, his posture impeccable despite the tremor in his hands.
“Inspector Hayes,” he said, forcing composure into his voice. “Please... this way.”
Hayes acknowledged him with a slight nod and stepped inside.
The warmth of the manor was almost unsettling after the cold rain outside. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft amber glow across polished marble floors. Portraits of generations of Blackwoods lined the walls, each face watching in silence as the inspector walked past.
Money had built this house.
Time had aged it.
Something else had poisoned it.
The scent of old wood, burning wax, and expensive cigars lingered in the air. Yet beneath it all was another smell—faint, metallic, almost impossible to notice unless one was looking for it.
Hayes paused for half a second.
“Has anyone entered or left the library since the body was discovered?”
“No, Inspector,” the butler replied. “We followed the paramedics’ instructions. The room has remained untouched.”
“Good.”
They climbed the broad staircase.
The murmur of anxious voices grew louder.
Outside the library, several members of the household stood together, though “together” was hardly the right word. They occupied the same space, but no one looked at anyone else for more than a moment.
Fear had a way of making strangers out of family.
James Blackwood stepped forward.
“You must be Inspector Hayes.”
“I am.”
“My father...” His voice caught briefly before he steadied himself. “Please find out what happened.”
Hayes studied him without appearing to.
Red eyes.
Sleeves rolled unevenly.
A wedding ring.
No smell of alcohol.
Grief seemed genuine—but grief alone had never cleared anyone of suspicion.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hayes said. “I’ll need everyone to remain in the house until we’re finished.”
“Are you saying this is murder?” Eleanor asked sharply.
“I haven’t said that.”
“But you think it.”
Hayes met her gaze.
“I think nothing until the evidence gives me permission.”
The corridor fell silent.
He pushed open the library door.
The room was exactly as the officer had described.
Thousands of books.
Dark oak shelves.
A cold fireplace.
A single armchair facing it.
Edward Blackwood still sat where death had claimed him.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
No broken glass.
No overturned furniture.
No signs of panic.
The room looked less like the scene of a violent death and more like a painting frozen in time.
Hayes slipped on a pair of gloves and approached the body.
The paramedic waiting nearby handed him a brief report.
“We couldn’t determine a clear cause of death,” she said quietly.
“No visible trauma?”
“None.”
“Heart attack?”
“We can’t rule it out, but...” She looked toward the body. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Hayes had learned never to ignore instincts, especially from experienced professionals.
He crouched beside the chair.
Edward’s skin had already begun to cool.
His face was peaceful.
Almost unnaturally so.
Then Hayes noticed the eyes.
Open.
Unblinking.
Focused.
Not on the ceiling.
Not toward the door.
Toward the fireplace.
He slowly turned his head and examined the hearth.
Only grey ash.
Blackened logs.
An old brass poker resting against the stone.
Nothing else.
“What was burning tonight?” he asked.
The butler answered from behind him.
“Just firewood, Inspector. I lit it myself before dinner.”
“And when was it extinguished?”
“It burned out naturally, sir.”
Hayes stood and walked to the fireplace.
He crouched again, letting his eyes wander over every inch of stone, brick, and ash.
Years in homicide had taught him one lesson above all others:
People lied.
Rooms lied.
But details...
Details were incapable of deceit.
He brushed a gloved fingertip across the stone mantel.
No dust.
Interesting.
His gaze shifted lower.
There, half-hidden near the edge of the hearth, was something so small that anyone entering the room would have walked past it without a second glance.
Hayes leaned closer.
A single drop of dark red wax.
Fresh.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then, without taking his eyes off the fireplace, he spoke.
“Seal this room.”
The officers exchanged puzzled glances.
“Inspector?”
Hayes straightened.
“I don’t know whether this is murder yet.”
His expression hardened.
“But I know one thing.”
He looked once more at Edward Blackwood’s lifeless eyes.
“This room is telling a story.”
“And someone has already tried to erase part of it.”
The words lingered in the library.
No one spoke.
An officer carefully stretched yellow evidence tape across the doorway while another began photographing every corner of the room. The sharp flash of the camera briefly illuminated the shelves, the fireplace, and finally Edward Blackwood’s lifeless face before darkness reclaimed the room.
Hayes walked slowly toward the nearest bookshelf.
Every murder scene had a rhythm.
Most detectives searched for what looked out of place.
Hayes searched for what looked too perfect.
His eyes moved from shelf to shelf.
Leather-bound classics.
Family journals.
Old law books.
Not a single volume lay out of line.
“You said he spent every evening in here?” Hayes asked without turning around.
The butler, still standing by the entrance, nodded.
“Without fail, Inspector. Dinner at seven. Library by seven-thirty. Tea at eight-thirty.”
“Always alone?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
Hayes glanced at the armchair again.
“If he was reading...”
He looked toward the side table.
“...where’s the book?”
The question settled over the room.
The butler frowned.
“There should have been one.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am, sir. Mr. Blackwood never sat in that chair without a book in his hands.”
Hayes said nothing.
He simply looked back at the empty table.
The reading glasses were there.
A brass bookmark lay beside them.
Even a folded handkerchief rested neatly near the lamp.
Everything a reader needed...
Except the book itself.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
One of the forensic officers approached.
“Inspector, we’ve dusted the chair, table and door handle.”
“Find anything?”
“Plenty of fingerprints, but that’s expected. It’s the family’s home.”
Hayes nodded.
“Collect every set anyway.”
The officer scribbled another note before stepping away.
Hayes walked toward the tall windows.
Rain streamed down the glass in uneven trails, distorting the gardens outside.
He unlatched the window.
It opened with a soft groan.
Cold air drifted into the room.
The flowerbeds beneath the window were untouched.
No footprints.
No broken branches.
No signs that anyone had entered from outside.
He closed it again.
“So.”
Hayes turned toward the family waiting beyond the doorway.
“I’ll need to speak with each of you separately.”
James stepped forward first.
“Ask whatever you need.”
“I intend to.”
Hayes led him into the adjoining study.
The door closed behind them.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Hayes opened a small notebook.
“When did you last see your father alive?”
James took a slow breath.
“At dinner. Around seven.”
“How was he?”
“The same as always.”
“What does ‘the same as always’ mean?”
James looked away.
“Reserved. Quiet. Difficult to read.”
“Were you close?”
A faint smile crossed James’s face, though there was no warmth in it.
“He was my father.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Silence.
Finally, James answered.
“No.”
Hayes wrote a single line.
“Did your father have enemies?”
James laughed once.
It wasn’t amusement.
“It would be easier to list the people who didn’t.”
Before Hayes could ask another question—
A constable knocked twice on the study door.
“Inspector?”
“What is it?”
“The medical examiner would like a word.”
Hayes stepped into the corridor.
The examiner’s expression was unusually tense.
“I’ve completed the preliminary examination.”
“And?”
“I still can’t tell you how he died.”
Hayes frowned.
“No trauma?”
“None.”
“Poison?”
“No visible indication.”
“Heart failure?”
“It doesn’t fit.”
The examiner lowered his voice.
“There’s something else.”
Hayes waited.
“I checked beneath his collar while documenting the body.”
“What did you find?”
“A tiny puncture mark.”
“Needle?”
“Possibly.”
“Fresh?”
The examiner nodded slowly.
“Very.”
Hayes’s eyes drifted back toward the library.
A locked room.
No apparent struggle.
No obvious cause of death.
A missing book.
A drop of red wax.
And now...
A puncture mark no larger than the head of a pin.
The inspector slipped his notebook back into his pocket.
There was only one person he knew who could take scattered details like these and see the shape they formed.
He reached for his phone.
“It’s time,” he said quietly.
“Call Adrian Ash.”
Across the city, rain traced silver lines across the windows of a small café that remained open long after most others had closed.
It stood at the corner of an old street, tucked between a bookshop and a tailor’s store whose faded sign had not been repainted in years. The café was quiet.
Three customers.
A sleepy waiter.
Soft jazz drifting from an old radio.
And, near the window, a man who seemed entirely unaware of the world around him.
A cup of black coffee rested on the table.
Cold.
Beside it lay a worn leather notebook, a fountain pen, and a folded newspaper carrying the day’s headlines.
The man wasn’t reading it.
He was watching the rain.
Not the storm itself.
The reflections.
Headlights rippled across puddles. Umbrellas collided as strangers hurried home. A cyclist slowed before a blind corner without ever looking up. A child tugged impatiently at his mother’s sleeve, pointing toward a toy shop already closed for the night.
Tiny details.
Most people never noticed them.
Adrian Ash did.
Twenty-six years old, dressed in a simple charcoal shirt with his overcoat draped neatly across the back of his chair, he sat perfectly still. A faint burn scar crossed the back of his left hand as he absent-mindedly turned a page in his notebook.
The waiter approached.
“Another coffee, Mr. Ash?”
Adrian glanced at the untouched cup.
“No.”
“It’s gone cold.”
“I know.”
“I could bring you a fresh one.”
Adrian looked out the window again.
“If I wanted hot coffee, I would’ve drunk this one.”
The waiter opened his mouth, thought better of it, and quietly returned to the counter.
A minute later, the bell above the café door chimed.
Someone stepped inside, carrying the smell of rain with her.
She folded her umbrella, brushed a damp strand of dark hair behind her ear, and walked straight toward Adrian’s table.
Without asking permission, she sat opposite him.
“You know,” she said, removing her gloves, “one day I’m going to arrive early just to ruin your deductions.”
Adrian didn’t look up immediately.
“You tried.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“I did?”
“You left your apartment twenty minutes earlier than usual.”
Her smile faltered.
“...Go on.”
“You were delayed.”
“Traffic?”
“No.”
He finally met her eyes.
“You stopped twice.”
Claire leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“I’m listening.”
“First, at the newspaper office.”
She blinked.
“Second, at the florist across the street.”
She stared.
“You’re making that up.”
“You have fresh printer’s ink on your thumb.”
She instinctively looked at her hand.
“And?”
“You brushed against wrapping paper.” He nodded toward a faint green fiber caught on her sleeve. “The florist uses dark green paper.”
Claire plucked the tiny fiber free and laughed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It usually is.”
She folded her arms.
“Fine. One more.”
“You also argued with someone.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“You did.”
“Who?”
“The taxi driver.”
Her eyes widened.
“How on earth—”
“Your umbrella.”
She frowned.
“What about it?”
“The strap is tied inside out.”
Claire looked at it.
It was.
“You always wrap it neatly. Tonight you did it while annoyed.”
She stared at him for several seconds before shaking her head.
“I’ve officially given up trying to impress you.”
“You never stopped trying.”
“I was hoping you’d let me keep that illusion.”
A smile escaped Adrian.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But real.
Claire noticed it anyway.
“There it is,” she said triumphantly. “Proof that you’re capable of smiling.”
“It was an accident.”
“I’ll write today’s date down.”
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small notebook.
“No need,” Adrian said.
“You’ll remember it?”
“I remember everything worth remembering.”
Claire smiled, but before she could reply, her phone buzzed once.
She glanced at the screen.
Her expression changed.
“One of my police sources,” she said.
Adrian waited.
She looked at the message again.
“That’s... odd.”
“What is?”
She turned the screen toward him.
Three words.
Hayes. Blackwood Manor. Urgent.
“That’s all?” Adrian asked.
“That’s all.”
She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“My source never sends messages like this unless something big has happened.”
“A raid?”
She shook her head.
“He would’ve said so.”
“A kidnapping?”
“He would’ve mentioned it.”
Adrian remained silent for a moment.
“Then he wants you to ask questions.”
“About Blackwood Manor?”
“About why Inspector Hayes is there.”
Claire frowned.
“You think that’s the story?”
“I think,” Adrian replied calmly, “someone wanted to tell you something... without saying it.”
Almost on cue, Adrian’s phone vibrated across the table.
The screen lit up.
Inspector Daniel Hayes.
Claire looked from the phone to Adrian.
“I have a feeling,” she murmured, “we’re about to find out why.”
Adrian answered the call.
“Ash.”
“Adrian, it’s Hayes.”
There was no greeting.
Only urgency.
“We have a dead man in a locked library.”
Adrian’s expression didn’t change.
“Who?”
“Edward Blackwood.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
Hayes continued.
“No signs of violence. No obvious cause of death.”
Adrian closed his notebook.
“And?”
“A puncture mark.”
A pause.
“A missing book.”
Another.
“And a drop of red wax near the fireplace.”
For the first time that evening, Adrian fell completely silent.
“What are you thinking?” Hayes asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Will you come?”
Adrian stood.
He slipped the leather notebook into the pocket of his charcoal overcoat.
Then, quietly, he said,
“Every lie casts a shadow, Inspector.”
He ended the call.
Claire was already on her feet.
“So?”
Adrian glanced at the cold coffee he had never touched.
Then he looked out at the rain.
“We’re going to Blackwood Manor.”
“Why?”
He opened the café door.
“To meet a dead man.”
