The Royal Stewart Tartan Scarf
A PULP MYSTERY
By Vera Blackwood

Chapter One

The November fog crept across the Hertfordshire moors like a living thing, cold and malevolent, swallowing the landscape in thick grey folds. Miss Cicely Ashcombe shivered despite her heavy travelling coat as the ancient Daimler lurched through another pothole, sending her parcels sliding across the leather seat. Through the misted window, she could barely make out the skeletal shapes of dead elms reaching toward a sunless sky.

"Won't be long now, miss," called Ernie Blatch from the driver's seat, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of familiarity and insolence that made Cicely's skin prickle. "Just round the next bend and you'll see the old place. Still standing, more's the pity."

Cicely bit back a sharp retort. It wouldn't do to antagonize the chauffeur, however much his presumptuous manner grated on her nerves. She was returning to Andrew's Priory as a supplicant, not a mistress—an unmarried woman of nine-and-twenty, summoned by her formidable aunt to fulfill what Lady Honoria Greystowe termed her "sacred duty to the family."

In other words, to marry her cousin Julian.

The very thought made her stomach turn. Not that Julian was cruel or unpleasant—quite the opposite. Lord Julian Greystowe was gentle, artistic, dreamy to the point of distraction. But there was something fundamentally wrong about him, something that made Cicely's instincts scream danger whenever she contemplated a lifetime as his wife.

The motor-car rounded a curve, and Andrew's Priory rose before them like a vision from a fever dream. The house had been old when Good Queen Bess sat on the throne, and the centuries had not been kind. What remained was a jumble of grey stone and sagging timbers, crumbling chimneys and blind windows, all of it wrapped in creeping ivy that looked less like decoration and more like a strangler's embrace. The Tudor wing leaned drunkenly against the medieval keep, while the Georgian addition—added by some optimistic ancestor who thought he could modernize the pile—only served to emphasize the essential wrongness of the place.

"Home sweet home," Blatch muttered, pulling up before the great oak doors with a spray of gravel.

Before Cicely could gather her things, the doors swung open with a theatrical creak, revealing two figures in black livery. Latch and Hasp, the Greystowe footmen, stood like matching gargoyles in the shadowed entrance. They were uncanny, these two—tall and cadaverous, with faces that might have been carved from the same block of pale wood. Latch had a long, narrow face all angles and hollows; Hasp was rounder, softer, but no less unsettling. What made them truly disturbing was their habit of moving in perfect synchronization, as though they shared a single mind between them.

"Miss Ashcombe," they intoned in unison, their voices dry as old parchment rustling. "Her Ladyship expects you in the Blue Drawing Room."

No greeting, no welcome. Just that flat statement, delivered in perfect harmony. They turned as one and glided back into the gloom, leaving Cicely to follow. Blatch made no move to help with her luggage, merely lighting a cigarette and leaning against the motor-car with that familiar smirk playing about his coarse features.

The great hall of Andrew's Priory was exactly as Cicely remembered it—a cavern of dark oak paneling and disapproving ancestors, the air thick with the smell of damp stone and decades of wood smoke. A single electric lamp burned on the massive table, its inadequate glow creating more shadows than it dispelled. From somewhere deep in the house came the sound of a piano, the notes drifting through the corridors like something lost and searching.

Cicely recognized the piece—Chopin, one of the nocturnes. That would be Julian, of course. Her cousin spent his days at the keyboard or locked in his study with his beloved books, a sensitive soul imprisoned in this mausoleum of stone and secrets.

She made her way through the familiar maze of corridors, guided by the melancholy music. The Blue Drawing Room had perhaps been blue once, a century or more ago, but time and neglect had reduced it to a study in browns and greys. A struggling fire in the massive fireplace did little to warm the cavernous space. Lady Honoria Greystowe sat enthroned in her usual chair by the hearth, a monument in black silk and jet beads, her iron-grey hair swept back from a face that might once have claimed beauty but now commanded only respect born of fear.

"Cicely." Her aunt's voice could have cut glass. "You condescend to remember your family at last."

"Aunt Honoria, I came as soon as I received your letter—"

"Your letter, your telegram, your increasingly urgent messages," Lady Honoria interrupted. "One might almost think you were attempting to avoid your responsibilities, child."

Cicely clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. "I have been occupied in London. There were matters—"

"Matters? What matters could possibly take precedence over your duty to this family?" Lady Honoria's dark eyes bored into her like gimlets. "You are nearly thirty years old, Cicely. Unmarried. Your prospects diminish with each passing season. The world is changing—there are fewer and fewer places for women like us, women of breeding but limited means."

"I am not without options, Aunt Honoria. I have been considering a position as companion to Lady Hartley—"

"A companion!" The words dripped with contempt. "You would reduce yourself to paid servitude when you could be mistress of Andrew's Priory? When you could continue the Greystowe line?"

And there it was, laid bare as always. The great obsession that had ruled Lady Honoria's life since the death of her husband twenty years past—preserving the bloodline, keeping the estate in Greystowe hands. Never mind that the estate was mortgaged to the hilt. Never mind that the house was falling down around their ears. Never mind that Julian was manifestly unsuited to marriage or indeed to any normal human relationship.

The blood was all that mattered. The name was all that mattered.

"Julian is waiting to greet you," Lady Honoria continued, her tone softening fractionally. "He has been quite agitated since learning of your imminent arrival. You know how sensitive he is."

As if summoned by his mother's words, Lord Julian Greystowe materialized in the doorway with his characteristic silence. He was a slight man—"slight" being generous, as he had the build of a malnourished aesthete—with soft features and large, liquid eyes that never quite seemed to focus on the present moment. His hands, long-fingered and pale as marble, were never still, always plucking at his cuffs or stroking the velvet of his smoking jacket.

"Cousin Cicely," he murmured, his voice gentle and vague. "How delightful. Was the journey very terrible? I do so hate motor travel. All that noise and jolting. So very modern and unpleasant."

"It was tolerable, thank you, Julian."

"I've been playing the Chopin. Did you hear? The E-flat nocturne. So beautiful, so melancholy. Rather like autumn itself, don't you think? All those dying leaves, drifting down..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew distant, as though he were seeing something no one else could perceive.

A door opened somewhere in the depths of the house, and footsteps approached—confident footsteps, not the ghostly gliding of Latch and Hasp. Dr. Alaric Venn entered the drawing room with the easy assurance of a man who knew himself indispensable.

He was handsome in an exotic, faintly disreputable way—olive-skinned, with black hair slicked back from a high forehead and dark eyes that gleamed with intelligence behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His well-tailored suit spoke of means beyond those of a typical country doctor, and the faint scent of expensive cologne preceded him like a visiting card.

"Lady Greystowe," he said, offering a precise bow. "Lord Julian. And this must be the long-lost Miss Ashcombe. Your aunt has spoken of little else these past weeks."

There was something in his tone—a knowing amusement, a hint of mockery—that made Cicely bristle. She had heard about Dr. Venn, of course, in letters from acquaintances in the district. How he had appeared two years ago, offering his services to Lady Honoria for her various ailments. How he had become a fixture at Andrew's Priory, calling three or four times a week. How Lady Honoria, who had never deferred to anyone in her life, seemed almost in thrall to the man.

"You must forgive my aunt," Cicely said coolly. "I fear she exaggerates my importance to the household."

"On the contrary, Miss Ashcombe. I suspect you are more important than you realize." Venn's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Family is everything, after all. Particularly in these uncertain times."

"How go your rounds, Doctor?" Lady Honoria inquired. "Is the influenza still making the rounds below stairs?"

"Nothing too serious. Young Betty is recovering nicely, and I've left instructions for her care. Though I must say..." He paused, exchanging a meaningful glance with Lady Honoria. "I've advised Blatch to be more cautious in his nighttime wanderings. A man can catch more than a chill in the November air."

The implication hung in the room like smoke. Everyone knew about Ernie Blatch and his sordid affair with Tilly Prout, the gamekeeper's wife. The scandal had been whispered about in servants' halls throughout the district for months. It was only a matter of time before the gamekeeper took matters into his own hands—everyone said so. Silas Prout was not a man to suffer such humiliation gladly.

"If you'll excuse me," Venn continued, collecting his medical bag, "I must return to London. But I shall call again on Thursday, as usual, Lady Greystowe. Unless, of course, you have need of me before then."

"Thursday will be satisfactory." Lady Honoria's tone was imperious, but there was something else beneath it—something that might almost have been anxiety.

After the doctor's departure, Cicely was shown to her room by Latch—or was it Hasp? Even after all these years, she couldn't reliably tell them apart. The room was freezing, damp, and smelled of mildew and ancient dust. A fire had been laid but not lit. The bed looked as though it hadn't been properly aired in months.

She unpacked mechanically, her mind racing. Two weeks. She had promised herself no more than a fortnight in this house of shadows. Two weeks to appease her aunt, to make clear her intentions regarding Julian, and then back to London and freedom.

Back to Miles.

Miles Denholm. The thought of him was like a candle flame in this suffocating darkness. She had met him three months ago at a gallery opening in Mayfair—a tall, fair-haired man with laughing eyes and an architect's precise way of looking at the world. He made her laugh. He made her feel young. He spoke of the future, of buildings rising clean and modern against the sky, of lives lived in sunlight rather than shadow.

He had kissed her, that last evening before she left London. A gentle, respectful kiss that nevertheless promised more. "You deserve better than a mouldering ruin in Hertfordshire," he had whispered. "You deserve a life, Cicely. A real life."

She stood at the window now, looking out over the darkening grounds. Fog wreathed the dead gardens, and in the distance, she could see lights in the gamekeeper's cottage. Was Tilly Prout there, trembling at every sound, wondering if tonight would be the night her husband discovered the truth? Was Silas cleaning his shotgun, nursing his rage?

The dinner gong sounded from the depths of the house—a hollow, funereal note.

The meal was the ordeal Cicely had anticipated. They sat at the massive dining table—three people lost in a space designed for twenty—with Latch and Hasp serving in their unsettling synchronization. Lady Honoria presided like a hanging judge, cutting her meat with surgical precision. Julian picked at his food, humming softly under his breath, occasionally making observations about music or poetry that no one acknowledged. Cicely pushed food around her plate and tried not to think about the hours stretching ahead.

"You will take breakfast with Julian tomorrow," Lady Honoria announced as the plates were cleared. "I wish you to become reacquainted. You have been apart too long."

"Of course, Aunt Honoria."

"And you will attend me in the morning room at eleven. There are matters we must discuss. Matters of settlement, of the future."

The trap was closing with every word. Cicely felt the walls pressing in, felt the weight of centuries of Greystowe expectation settling on her shoulders like a burial shroud.

She pleaded a headache—not entirely false—and retired early to her freezing room. Someone had finally lit the fire, but it gave off more smoke than heat. She lay in bed fully clothed beneath the insufficient blankets, listening to the house settle around her. Old timbers creaked. Wind moaned in the chimneys. From somewhere far off came the sound of the piano again—Julian, playing in the small hours, pouring his troubled soul into Chopin and Liszt.

She must have dozed despite her discomfort, because she woke with a violent start to the sound of shouting. Men's voices, rough with alarm and something else—horror, perhaps, or rage.

Cicely threw on her dressing gown and hurried into the corridor. Other doors were opening—Lady Honoria emerged wrapped in furs, her face pale without its customary powder. Julian appeared, looking like a frightened child in his silk pajamas.

"What is it?" Cicely whispered. "What's happened?"

"I don't know." Julian's voice trembled. "I heard Silas—the gamekeeper—he was shouting—"

They rushed downstairs together, following the commotion. The great doors stood open to the November night, and a knot of people had gathered on the gravel drive. The fog had lifted slightly, and in the glow of the garage lamps, Cicely could see Latch holding a lantern aloft, his usually impassive face slack with shock. Hasp stood beside him, for once not in perfect synchronization—his hands were shaking.

In the doorway of the garage, wild-eyed and disheveled, stood Silas Prout. His massive frame seemed to fill the space, and in his trembling hand he held a shotgun.

At his feet, sprawled in the grotesque attitude of violent death, lay Ernie Blatch.

The chauffeur's face was purple and swollen, his eyes bulging obscenely from their sockets. His tongue protruded between his teeth, blackened and horrible. And around his neck, twisted tight and knotted with brutal efficiency, was a scarf—a distinctive red wool scarf in the Royal Stewart tartan, the bright crimson shocking against the grey stones.

Cicely heard someone make a small, animal sound of horror and realized it had come from her own throat. Lady Honoria appeared at the top of the steps, drawing her furs tight around her, and for once her commanding voice shook.

"Get that weapon away from him," she snapped, pointing at Silas. "And someone fetch Dr. Venn. At once. And telephone to London. To Scotland Yard."

Julian swayed beside Cicely, one pale hand pressed to his mouth. "Dead," he whispered. "He's dead. Someone killed him. Someone here..."

The fog swirled around them, and Cicely felt ice flood her veins. Murder. Here at Andrew's Priory. And somewhere among this small gathering of family and servants stood a killer—someone who had strangled the life out of Ernie Blatch with their bare hands.

She thought of Miles, safe in London, in the world of light and life. She thought of the letter in her valise upstairs, the letter she had been carrying for a week, in which she had tried to explain why she could not, must not, return to this place.

But she had returned. And now she was trapped here with death.

From somewhere in the house, the clock began to strike midnight—twelve hollow chimes that seemed to echo across the moors and into the darkness beyond. Latch and Hasp stood like stone sentinels, their twin faces reflecting the lamplight with identical expressions of shock. Lady Honoria's mouth was a thin, bloodless line. Julian had begun to shake, his whole body trembling as though in the grip of a fever.

And at Silas Prout's feet, Ernie Blatch stared at the stars he could no longer see, the red scarf around his neck like a grotesque cravat, a final mockery in death.

The nightmare had begun.

Chapter Two

The local constabulary arrived with the dawn—three men in a wheezing Ford that coughed to a halt beside the Daimler where Ernie Blatch had died. Constable Davies, a pink-faced young man who looked as though he should still be at school, was violently sick behind the garage after viewing the body. His superior, Sergeant Robbins, a grizzled veteran with the weary eyes of a man who had seen too much during the Great War, conducted a perfunctory examination of the scene before declaring it "a clear case of passion, this one."

"The gamekeeper's been threatening Blatch for weeks," Robbins announced to the assembled household, which had gathered in the cold morning light like mourners at a funeral that hadn't yet been arranged. "Everyone in three villages knew about it. About him and the gamekeeper's wife. Poor fool should have known better than to play fast and loose with another man's property."

Cicely, who had not slept and whose nerves were stretched to breaking, felt a flash of anger at the casual dismissal of Tilly Prout as mere "property." But she held her tongue. This was not her battle, not now.

Silas Prout had been taken to the constable's office in the village—not arrested, precisely, but removed from the scene for his own safety and everyone else's peace of mind. The shotgun had been prised from his grip, though he had surrendered it willingly enough once the initial shock had passed. He had maintained a stubborn silence throughout, his granite face revealing nothing, his massive hands clenched into fists.

"Did he confess?" Lady Honoria demanded, wrapped in her furs like some ancient queen surveying a conquered province.

"Not as such, m'lady," Robbins said, tugging his cap respectfully. "But he doesn't deny being on the premises. Says he was looking for his wife—thought she might have come here to meet with the deceased." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The, ah, scarf is distinctive. Royal Stewart tartan, red wool. Mrs. Prout's sister in Edinburgh sent it to her last Christmas. Several people remarked on it at the time. Silas would have seen it often enough."

"There you have it, then." Lady Honoria's voice was crisp with satisfaction. "The man had motive, means, and opportunity. I trust you'll charge him accordingly."

But Sergeant Robbins looked troubled. "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but it's not quite so simple. The scarf was Tilly Prout's, true enough, but she swears it went missing from their cottage three days ago. Says she thought she'd mislaid it, but now..." He shook his head. "And there's the matter of Silas's hands. No marks on them, no scratches or bruising such as you'd expect from a man who'd strangled another with his bare hands, even using a scarf as leverage."

"He could have worn gloves," Julian offered in his vague way. He looked ghastly in the morning light, his face the color of tallow, dark circles beneath his eyes. "Doesn't everyone wear gloves in November?"

"That's true enough, your lordship. But still..." Robbins hesitated, clearly reluctant to contradict the family. "Scotland Yard's been notified, as per Lady Greystowe's instructions. They'll be sending someone up from London. Should be here by afternoon, I reckon. They'll sort it all out proper-like."

The household dispersed slowly, unwillingly, as though reluctant to leave the scene of the crime. Cicely found herself walking back toward the house with Dr. Venn, who had arrived an hour after the initial discovery, summoned by a frantic telephone call from Latch or Hasp—she still couldn't tell them apart.

"A grim business," Venn said, his cultured voice carrying that faint trace of amusement that never seemed to leave it entirely. "Poor Blatch. Not a particularly pleasant fellow, but hardly deserving of such a violent end."

"Did you know him well?" Cicely asked, studying the doctor's profile.

"As well as one knows a chauffeur, I suppose. We spoke occasionally. He fancied himself a man of the world, did Ernie. Full of stories about the War, about London, about his various conquests." Venn's mouth quirked. "Most of them probably fabricated, but entertaining nonetheless."

"And the gamekeeper? Do you know Silas Prout?"

"I've treated his wife for nervous complaints." Something flickered in Venn's dark eyes. "A fragile creature, our Tilly. Rather like a bird with a broken wing. One can see why Blatch might have found her appealing—there's something compelling about damaged things, don't you find?"

There was an edge to his words that made Cicely uncomfortable, but before she could respond, Lady Honoria appeared at the top of the steps, her expression thunderous.

"Dr. Venn, a word, if you please. In the morning room. Immediately."

It was not a request.

Cicely retreated to the Blue Drawing Room, where a fire had finally been coaxed to life. Julian sat at the piano, not playing but simply resting his long fingers on the keys, pressing them down soundlessly as though performing some private concert only he could hear.

"Do you think he did it?" Cicely asked quietly, settling into a chair by the window.

Julian didn't look up. "Silas? I don't know. He seemed capable of violence—all that barely contained rage. But murder?" His fingers moved across the keys in a slow, silent arpeggio. "Murder requires a certain coldness, doesn't it? A willingness to cross a line that can never be uncrossed. I'm not certain Silas Prout possesses that particular quality."

"Then who?"

Now Julian did look at her, and his eyes held a strange intensity that made her shiver. "That's the question, isn't it, cousin? Who among us is capable of murder?"

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

Chief Detective Inspector Oswald Hargreaves arrived at Andrew's Priory at half-past three that afternoon, accompanied by his sergeant, Frederick Cotrill. They came in an unmarked police motor, Hargreaves driving with the comfortable competence of a man who enjoyed machines and understood them.

Hargreaves was not what Cicely had expected. She had pictured someone in the mold of Sergeant Robbins—weathered, cynical, brutal in the way of men who dealt daily with violence. Instead, the Chief Inspector was a compact, neat man in his middle forties, with shrewd grey eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles and the careful, deliberate movements of a watchmaker. He wore a well-cut suit that had seen better days, and his shoes were scuffed but meticulously polished. There was something of the scholar about him, or perhaps the priest.

Sergeant Cotrill, by contrast, was a large, ruddy-faced man with the build of a prize-fighter and hands like hams. But his eyes were kind, and when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle.

Hargreaves spent an hour examining the garage where Blatch had died, measuring, photographing, making notes in a small leather-bound book. He interviewed Sergeant Robbins, then Latch and Hasp separately (though Cicely would have bet good money their testimonies were identical), then the cook, the maids, the gardener who had been the first to hear Silas Prout's initial shout.

Finally, he summoned the family to the library—Lady Honoria, Julian, Cicely, and Dr. Venn, who had remained at the house at Lady Honoria's insistence.

"I won't keep you long," Hargreaves began, settling into a chair with his notebook balanced on his knee. "I'm simply trying to establish a timeline. Dr. Venn, I understand you were not on the premises when the murder occurred?"

"I was in London," Venn replied smoothly. "I have a flat in Harley Street. I'd returned there after my evening call yesterday—I believe I left Andrew's Priory at approximately seven o'clock. I can provide witnesses to my whereabouts thereafter, if required."

"That may be necessary. And you were summoned back by telephone this morning?"

"At approximately one o'clock. I drove through the night."

Hargreaves made a note. "Lord Greystowe, I'm told you were playing the piano until quite late?"

Julian nodded, his fingers plucking nervously at his cuffs. "I often do. Music helps me think. Or rather, helps me not to think, which is sometimes preferable."

"And you heard nothing unusual?"

"The piano is in the east wing. The garage is quite distant. I heard... nothing." His voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.

"Miss Ashcombe?"

Cicely started slightly. "I retired early with a headache. I was awakened by the shouting—Silas Prout, I believe. That must have been shortly before midnight."

"And you, Lady Greystowe?"

"I was in my chambers." Lady Honoria's tone suggested that her whereabouts should not be questioned by anyone, Scotland Yard included. "I sleep poorly these days. Dr. Venn has prescribed a tonic, but it does little good. I heard the commotion and investigated. That is all I can tell you."

Hargreaves nodded, making another note. Then he looked up, his grey eyes moving from face to face with uncomfortable penetration. "I must tell you that I'm not entirely convinced by the gamekeeper theory. Oh, Silas Prout had motive enough, certainly. And the scarf belonging to his wife is damning. But there are... inconsistencies."

"Such as?" Lady Honoria demanded.

"The hands, for one. Sergeant Robbins mentioned it. A man who strangles another, even using a scarf, will have marks—rope burns, scratches, bruising from the victim's struggles. Silas Prout's hands are clean. Moreover, the knot used to secure the scarf is unusual—a surgeon's knot, or something very like it. Not the sort of thing one expects from a gamekeeper."

Dr. Venn had gone very still.

"Then there's the question of timing," Hargreaves continued. "According to the medical examination—and Dr. Venn, I'll want you to confirm this—Blatch died sometime between nine and eleven o'clock. During that time, Silas Prout was seen in the village pub by at least a dozen witnesses, drinking steadily and making threats against Blatch loud enough for the whole establishment to hear. He didn't leave until after eleven, and the walk from the village to Andrew's Priory takes a good twenty minutes. By the time he arrived here, Blatch was already dead."

The silence that followed this pronouncement was absolute.

"Then who—?" Cicely began.

"That," Hargreaves said quietly, "is what I intend to discover."

The investigation that followed was methodical and thorough. Hargreaves was everywhere, asking questions, examining objects, measuring distances. He interviewed the servants again, this time separately and at length. He tramped across the grounds in the rain, Sergeant Cotrill at his heels, examining the paths and the gamekeeper's cottage and the woods beyond.

And always, his attention seemed to return to Dr. Venn.

On the second day, Cicely found Hargreaves in the library, surrounded by reference books. He looked up as she entered, and something in his expression made her pause.

"Miss Ashcombe. Please, sit down. I was hoping to speak with you privately."

She settled into a chair, her heart beating faster. "Have you discovered something?"

"Perhaps. Tell me, what do you know of Dr. Venn's history? Before he came to Andrew's Priory?"

"Very little. He appeared two years ago, as I understand it, and made himself indispensable to my aunt. She suffers from various ailments—real or imagined, I couldn't say—and he has become her primary physician."

"Has it not struck you as odd that a doctor of his apparent caliber should choose to practice in such a remote location?"

Now that he mentioned it, it was odd. Venn's education, his manner, his expensive habits—all suggested a man destined for Harley Street consulting rooms, not rural house calls.

"What have you learned?" she asked.

Hargreaves removed his spectacles and polished them carefully. "Dr. Alaric Venn was attached to the Indian Army Medical Corps from 1919 to 1922. He was court-martialed and dishonorably discharged for forgery—specifically, for falsifying medical records to cover up his involvement in the death of a patient. A native woman who had been his mistress."

Cicely felt the blood drain from her face. "How did she die?"

"She was strangled." Hargreaves replaced his spectacles, his grey eyes steady on her face. "With a red scarf. Royal Stewart tartan, to be precise. Venn was known to wear such a scarf—considered it a good-luck charm, apparently, something from his youth. The woman had either stolen it or it had been given to her. The investigation was inconclusive. Venn was never formally charged with her murder, but the suspicion clung to him. He returned to England under a cloud."

"Dear God." Cicely's mind was racing. "Does my aunt know?"

"I suspect your aunt knows a great deal more than she's willing to admit. I've made some inquiries—discreet ones. Dr. Venn has been treating Lady Greystowe not just for her physical ailments but for an opium dependency developed over many years. He supplies her with the drug and maintains her addiction. In return, she protects him, provides him with a respectable position, access to society."

"But why would he murder Blatch?"

"Ah. That's where it becomes interesting." Hargreaves leaned forward. "I had a long conversation with Tilly Prout this morning. Weeping, terrified, but eventually forthcoming. It seems Blatch had been attempting a bit of blackmail on the side. He claimed to have information about Dr. Venn's past—specifically, about a woman who died under suspicious circumstances in India. He hinted that he knew Venn was guilty, that he could prove it. He demanded money for his silence."

"And Venn killed him?"

"It's a working theory. The surgeon's knot, the method of strangulation, the use of the red scarf—it all points to Venn. Moreover, we know he left Andrew's Priory at seven o'clock but claims to have driven straight to London. The journey should take two hours at most. Yet he didn't arrive at his club until after ten. Where was he during those missing three hours?"

"You think he came back? Killed Blatch and then continued to London?"

"I think it's possible. And I intend to prove it." Hargreaves stood, gathering his papers. "Tomorrow, Sergeant Cotrill and I will be traveling to London to search Dr. Venn's flat. If there's evidence to be found, we'll find it."

Cicely watched him go, her mind in turmoil. Dr. Venn a murderer? The exotic, charming doctor who had seemed merely mysterious now revealed as something far darker. She thought of her aunt's dependency, of the strange power Venn seemed to wield over the household. How deep did the corruption run?

That night, she wrote to Miles, pouring out everything she had learned, begging him to come to her, to help her escape this nightmare. She sealed the letter and placed it on her nightstand, intending to post it first thing in the morning.

She never got the chance.

Hargreaves and Cotrill left for London at first light. Cicely watched from her window as the police motor disappeared into the morning mist, carrying with it her hopes for a swift resolution. The household settled into an uneasy routine—Lady Honoria taking to her bed with her "nerves," Julian retreating to his music, the servants moving through their duties with frightened, furtive glances.

Dr. Venn had returned to London ostensibly to attend to his other patients, but everyone knew he was fleeing Hargreaves' scrutiny. His absence left a strange vacancy in the house, as though something that had been holding the structure together had been removed.

The hours crawled past. Cicely tried to read, tried to write another letter to Miles, tried to find some occupation for her frantic thoughts. But she kept returning to the window, watching the drive, waiting.

They came at six o'clock.

Hargreaves and Cotrill, their motor roaring up the drive at reckless speed. Cicely flew downstairs, her heart pounding. Something had happened. Something significant.

She found them in the entrance hall, Hargreaves speaking rapidly to Latch and Hasp, his voice tight with urgency.

"Where is Lady Greystowe? I must speak with her immediately."

"In her chambers, Inspector," Hasp—or was it Latch?—replied. "She has been indisposed all day."

"Fetch her. And Lord Greystowe. Everyone. I need everyone in the drawing room. Now."

Twenty minutes later, they had assembled—a pale Lady Honoria wrapped in shawls, Julian looking more ethereal than ever, Cicely's hands clasped so tightly her knuckles showed white. Even the servants had been summoned, standing in an awkward cluster by the door.

Hargreaves faced them, his expression grave. "We searched Dr. Venn's flat in London this afternoon. In his study, concealed in a false drawer in his desk, we found a collection of red scarves—Royal Stewart tartan, identical to the one used to kill Ernie Blatch. There were fourteen of them, each carefully folded, each..." He paused, his voice dropping. "Each marked with a date and a set of initials."

"Dear God," Lady Honoria whispered.

"The earliest date was 1920. The most recent was three days ago. We believe each scarf represents a victim, though we've only been able to confirm a few of the deaths so far. The woman in India. A nurse in Bombay. Two prostitutes in the East End of London. And now Ernie Blatch."

"You're saying Venn is a madman?" Julian's voice was barely audible. "A serial murderer?"

"I'm saying we have sufficient evidence to arrest him and charge him with multiple counts of murder. But there's a problem." Hargreaves looked from face to face. "Dr. Venn is dead."

The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water.

"A telegram reached us an hour ago," Hargreaves continued. "From Hasp—I believe it was Hasp. It read: 'Come at once. Dr. Venn found murdered at Andrew's Priory. Same method as Blatch.'"

All eyes turned to the twin footmen, who stood impassive as ever.

"I sent no telegram," Hasp said.

"Nor I," Latch added, their voices overlapping eerily.

"Then who—?" Lady Honoria began.

"We need to search the house," Hargreaves interrupted. "Immediately. Sergeant Cotrill, take the west wing. I'll take the east. Miss Ashcombe, Lord Greystowe, Lady Greystowe—you will wait here. No one is to leave this room until I say so. Is that clear?"

They waited in frozen silence, the clock ticking, the fire crackling, no one daring to speak. Cicely's mind was reeling. Venn dead? Here, at Andrew's Priory? When had he returned? And who had killed him?

The answer came forty minutes later, when Hargreaves and Cotrill returned, their faces grim.

"We found him in Lord Greystowe's study," Hargreaves said quietly. "Strangled with a red tartan scarf, just like Blatch. He's been dead approximately six hours."

Julian swayed, and Cicely caught his arm to steady him.

"But that's impossible," Lady Honoria protested, her voice shrill. "We've all been here all day. No one could have—"

"Not impossible at all, Lady Greystowe. In fact, devastatingly simple." Hargreaves turned to look at Julian, and his eyes were full of something like pity. "Someone in this house is a murderer. Someone who killed Blatch, perhaps to protect themselves from his blackmail, perhaps for other reasons. Someone who realized that Dr. Venn would be blamed for the crime, given his history. And someone who, having established Venn as the perfect scapegoat, decided to eliminate him permanently to close the case."

"You can't possibly think—" Lady Honoria began.

"I think," Hargreaves said with terrible gentleness, "that we need to search Lord Greystowe's private chambers. With his permission, of course."

Julian said nothing. His face had gone the color of old parchment, and his eyes had taken on that distant, unfocused quality that Cicely had seen so often.

"Julian?" Lady Honoria's voice cracked. "Julian, tell him. Tell him he's wrong."

But Julian only turned and walked toward the stairs, moving like a sleepwalker, his footsteps echoing through the silent house.

And Cicely knew, with terrible certainty, that the true nightmare was only just beginning.

Chapter Three

They climbed the stairs in procession—a grim parody of some medieval ritual. Julian led the way, his slight figure seeming to diminish with each step, as though he were receding into himself. Lady Honoria followed, gripping the banister with white-knuckled hands, her face a mask of rigid control that threatened to crack at any moment. Hargreaves and Cotrill came next, then Cicely, who found herself unable to look away from her cousin's back, at the way his shoulders hunched forward as though anticipating a blow.

The servants had been dismissed to the kitchens, all except Latch and Hasp, who glided behind them like twin shadows, their identical faces revealing nothing.

Julian's private chambers occupied the oldest part of Andrew's Priory—the medieval keep, where walls were three feet thick and windows mere slits in the stone. It was always cold here, always dark, even at midday. The passageway leading to his rooms was lined with portraits of long-dead Greystowes, their painted eyes following the procession with what seemed like accusation.

At the heavy oak door to Julian's study, Hargreaves paused. "Lord Greystowe, if you would be so kind as to unlock the door?"

Julian's hand trembled as he produced a key from his waistcoat pocket. The lock turned with a sound like breaking bones, and the door swung inward on protesting hinges.

The study was exactly as Cicely remembered it from her visits years ago—a scholar's refuge, lined floor to ceiling with books, their leather spines creating a mosaic of burgundy and brown and faded gold. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface buried under stacks of papers, musical scores, volumes of poetry. The air smelled of old paper and beeswax and something else—something faintly sweet and cloying that made Cicely's stomach turn.

Incense, she realized. The same scent she had detected occasionally in the drawing room, in corridors, wherever Julian had recently passed.

"If you would wait here, please," Hargreaves said to the assembled group, gesturing toward a threadbare Turkish carpet near the fireplace. "Lord Greystowe, I must ask you to accompany us."

Lady Honoria made a sound—half protest, half moan—but said nothing. She sank onto a settee, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on her son with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

Hargreaves and Cotrill moved through the study with practiced efficiency, opening drawers, examining papers, running their hands along shelves and behind furniture. Julian stood motionless in the center of the room, watching them with that strange, distant expression, as though witnessing events happening to someone else entirely.

"Tell me about your relationship with Dr. Venn," Hargreaves said, not looking up from a drawer he was methodically emptying.

"We... we were acquainted. He treated Mother. He was here often." Julian's voice was barely audible.

"More than acquainted, I think. We found correspondence at his flat. Letters from you. Rather intimate letters, one might say."

Lady Honoria's sharp intake of breath cut through the room like a knife.

"We discussed music," Julian said, his fingers plucking at his cuffs in that nervous gesture Cicely had seen a hundred times. "Literature. Art. He was an educated man. There are so few educated people in this benighted countryside."

"And did you discuss India? His time in the Army Medical Corps?"

"Sometimes."

"Did he tell you about the woman who died? The one in Bombay?"

A pause. Too long. "He mentioned... an incident. A misunderstanding."

Hargreaves straightened, turning to face Julian directly. "A misunderstanding. Is that what he called murder?"

"It wasn't murder!" The words burst from Julian with surprising force. "She was—it was an accident. She had stolen from him. The scarf. It was precious to him, you understand. From his mother. He only meant to frighten her, to retrieve what was his. But she struggled, and—" He stopped abruptly, his pale face flushing. "That is what he told me. What he explained."

"I see." Hargreaves exchanged a glance with Cotrill. "And when did Dr. Venn tell you this?"

"I don't... I don't remember. Some months ago."

"Before or after Ernie Blatch began his blackmail attempts?"

Julian's eyes went wide, startled, like a deer catching sight of the hunter.

Hargreaves pressed forward, his voice soft but relentless. "Did Blatch approach you as well? After he discovered that you and Dr. Venn had become... close? Did he threaten to expose something? Perhaps not about Venn at all, but about you?"

"I don't know what you mean." But Julian's voice shook, and his hands had begun to tremble so violently that he thrust them into his pockets.

"Inspector Hargreaves." Lady Honoria rose from the settee, drawing herself up to her full height. Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "I must insist that you cease this interrogation at once. My son is unwell. You can see that clearly. He is sensitive, high-strung. These accusations are unconscionable."

"I'm afraid I must continue, Lady Greystowe. There has been a second murder on these premises. Dr. Venn's body was found in this very room, strangled with a method identical to that which killed Blatch. The killer is someone with access to this house, someone who—"

A crash interrupted him. Sergeant Cotrill, searching near the fireplace, had accidentally knocked over a small cabinet. It fell with a splintering of wood, and from the wreckage tumbled an avalanche of red.

Scarves. Dozens of them. Red wool scarves in the Royal Stewart tartan, identical to the one that had killed Blatch, identical to those found in Venn's flat.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Cicely stared at the pile of crimson wool, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. Lady Honoria made a small, strangled sound. Julian swayed on his feet, one hand reaching out to grasp the edge of the desk.

"My God," Hargreaves breathed. He knelt beside the broken cabinet, gathering up the scarves with careful hands. "There must be thirty of them here. Forty, perhaps."

"They're mine." Julian's voice was distant, dreamy. "I collect them. Have done for years. Ever since—" He stopped.

"Ever since when, Lord Greystowe?"

"Ever since I was young. When Father was alive."

Hargreaves stood, a handful of scarves draped over his arm like blood. "Your father. The late Lord Greystowe. He died twenty years ago, is that correct? In the locked room in the east wing?"

"He did." Lady Honoria's voice was sharp. "My husband suffered an apoplexy and died in his study. The door was locked from within. It took us hours to break it down. This is ancient history, Inspector, and entirely irrelevant—"

"Is it?" Hargreaves turned to face her fully. "Because I've been making inquiries, Lady Greystowe. Speaking to people in the village who've been here long enough to remember. And do you know what I've learned? That your 'son' Julian looks remarkably like your younger brother. A brother who disappeared from society around the time of the late Lord Greystowe's death. A brother who was known to be... unstable."

The color drained from Lady Honoria's face. "How dare you—"

"His name was Julius, wasn't it? Julius Blackwood. But the family called him Julie. He had musical talent, they said. And a violent temper when crossed. There were incidents—a maid who nearly died after an altercation, a groom who left the estate with a broken arm. Your parents sent him away eventually, to an asylum in Switzerland. But then your husband died, and Julius disappeared from the asylum, and suddenly Lady Honoria Greystowe had a son named Julian. A son who had never been mentioned before. A son of convenient age to inherit."

"No." Lady Honoria's voice cracked. "No, you don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Hargreaves voice was gentle now, almost pitying. "Your husband was dying without an heir. The estate would have passed to a distant cousin, and you would have been left with nothing. So you brought your brother back from Switzerland. You claimed he was your son, hidden away at school all these years. You locked your husband in that room in the east wing and let him die—or perhaps Julius helped him along. And for twenty years, you've maintained the fiction. Kept Julius here, isolated, drugged with music and books and whatever medicines you could persuade doctors to prescribe. Kept him hidden from society except for brief, carefully managed appearances."

"He's my brother." The words tore from Lady Honoria like a confession dragged under torture. "My baby brother. I raised him when our parents couldn't manage him. I've protected him his whole life. Everything I've done—everything—has been for him, for the family name, for—"

"For control." Hargreaves finished. "But control only works when the secret remains hidden. And Ernie Blatch discovered the truth, didn't he? Perhaps he saw old photographs, heard gossip from longtime servants. He was clever enough to piece it together—that Julian wasn't Lady Greystowe's son at all. That there had been no legal heir. That the entire Greystowe succession was built on a lie."

Julian had begun to hum—a low, tuneless sound that raised the hairs on Cicely's neck.

"Blatch demanded money," Hargreaves continued. "But more than that, he threatened exposure. If the truth came out, the estate would revert to the rightful heirs. You would lose everything—position, home, reputation. And Julius would be sent back to an asylum, this time forever."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this." Lady Honoria's voice was barely a whisper now. "Julius was doing so well. The music helped. The isolation helped. He was calm, manageable. But then that wretched man started making his demands, and Julius could sense something was wrong. He's always been sensitive to atmosphere, to tension. He began having his... episodes again."

"Mother." Julian's voice was sharp, sudden, cutting through the room like a blade. "Don't."

But Lady Honoria couldn't stop now. Twenty years of secrets poured out like poison from a lanced wound. "Dr. Venn was supposed to help. When I realized Julius was becoming unstable again, I brought Venn into our confidence. He had experience with difficult cases, he said. He could manage Julius with the right medications. But then I discovered Venn's own history, his own crimes. I thought—I thought I could use it. Keep him here, keep him compliant by threatening to expose his past if he exposed ours."

"A devil's bargain," Hargreaves said quietly.

"It worked! For two years, it worked. Julius was calm. The medication kept him placid, dreamy. He had his music, his books. He was happy, in his way." Lady Honoria's hands twisted in her lap. "But then Blatch began making trouble. And Venn—Venn realized what Blatch had discovered. He saw an opportunity. He told me that if I didn't increase his payments, guarantee him a position in my will, he would tell Blatch everything. Confirm his suspicions. The two of them would have bled us dry."

"So Julius killed Blatch." It wasn't a question.

"No!" Lady Honoria's denial was fierce but hollow. "I don't know. I wasn't there. I was in my chambers that night, I swear it. I heard nothing until the shouting began."

Hargreaves turned to Julian, who had stopped humming and now stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on something only he could see.

"Julius," Hargreaves said gently. "Did you kill Ernie Blatch?"

For a long moment, Julian said nothing. Then, slowly, he smiled—a sweet, childlike smile that was somehow more terrible than any expression of rage could have been.

"He was going to tell," Julian said softly. "He was going to tell everyone. About Mother, about me, about how I'm not really Julian at all but just Julie, poor mad Julie who hurt people and had to be locked away. He laughed about it. Said everyone would know. Said they'd take the house and put me back in that place, that terrible place with the white walls and the screaming."

"Where were you when Blatch died? Were you in your study, playing the piano?"

"I was walking. I walk sometimes, at night, when the thoughts get too loud. The music helps, but sometimes I need movement, need to feel the cold on my face. I saw him. Blatch. In the garage, smoking one of his filthy cigarettes, smirking at his own cleverness. And I thought—I thought if he was gone, the danger would be gone. The secret would be safe."

"Did you plan to kill him?"

"No! I don't—I don't remember planning it. I just... there was a scarf. One of my scarves. I always carry one. Mother gives them to me, you see. Dozens and dozens of them. She says they're good luck, that I must keep them close. And Blatch was there, and the scarf was in my hands, and then—"

His voice trailed off, his expression puzzled, as though he were trying to recall a dream.

"And then he was dead," Hargreaves finished quietly.

"He stopped moving. It was easy, really. Easier than I expected. Like stopping a clock. Just a matter of pressure, of time. And then he was still, and everything was quiet again."

Cicely felt bile rise in her throat. Beside her, Cotrill had gone pale, his large hands clenched into fists.

"What about Dr. Venn?" Hargreaves pressed. "When did you kill him?"

"This morning." Julian's tone was conversational now, almost cheerful. "He came back early, you see. Mother had telephoned him, told him about the police, about the searches. He was frightened. He wanted to leave, to flee to the Continent. But I couldn't let him go. He knew everything. He'd known from the beginning. Mother told him, thought she could trust him because he had his own secrets. But you can't trust anyone with secrets, can you? They always use them against you eventually."

"So you killed him. Here, in your study."

"He came to say goodbye. Actually said goodbye, as though we were friends." Julian laughed—a high, brittle sound. "He sat there, in Father's chair—my father's chair—and told me he was sorry but he had to look after himself. That I would understand. But I did understand. I understood perfectly. He was another threat, another person who would tell. So I used the scarf. The same way as before. It works so well, you see. Quick and quiet and certain."

"And then you sent the telegram? Pretending to be Hasp?"

"I thought—I thought if the police came and found him, they'd think someone else had done it. That there was another killer, someone mysterious. I thought I'd been clever." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I wasn't clever, was I? I never am."

Lady Honoria had collapsed onto the settee, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. All her imperious dignity, her iron control, had crumbled away, leaving only a desperate, broken woman who had gambled everything and lost.

Hargreaves removed his spectacles and polished them slowly, his face grave. "Julius Blackwood, I am arresting you for the murders of Ernest Blatch and Dr. Alaric Venn. Sergeant Cotrill, if you would assist?"

But as Cotrill moved forward, Julian's expression changed. The dreamy vagueness vanished, replaced by something sharp and feral. His hand darted into his pocket and emerged holding a folded straight razor—the old-fashioned kind used for shaving, the blade gleaming wickedly in the lamplight.

"No," he said, his voice suddenly firm, commanding. "No, I won't go back to that place. You can't make me."

"Julius, put down the razor." Hargreaves voice was calm, steady. "No one wants to hurt you."

"But you'll lock me away. Put me in a cell, or worse, send me back to Switzerland, to the asylum with the white walls and the leather straps and the doctors who hurt you to make you better. I won't go back. I won't!"

He moved with shocking speed, the razor flashing toward Hargreaves. But Cotrill was faster, his boxer's reflexes serving him well. He caught Julian's wrist, twisting it with practiced ease until the razor clattered to the floor. Julian screamed—a high, inhuman sound—and collapsed, all the fight draining out of him as suddenly as it had appeared.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, curling into himself on the floor like a child. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I never mean to hurt anyone. The thoughts just come, and then I can't stop them, and everything goes red, and then it's over and there's blood and I don't remember, I never remember properly—"

Hargreaves knelt beside him, his expression full of a compassion that seemed to surprise even him. "I know," he said quietly. "I know you didn't mean it. But people are dead, Julius. Good or bad, guilty or innocent, they're dead by your hand. And that must be answered for."

Cotrill produced a set of handcuffs—standard police issue, nothing so cruel as the restraints Julian feared—and secured the broken man's wrists. Julian didn't resist. All the violence had left him, replaced by a terrible, childlike resignation.

Lady Honoria looked up, her face ravaged by tears. "Where will you take him?"

"To London first, for trial," Hargreaves said. "After that... probably Broadmoor. The criminal lunatic asylum. He'll be cared for there. It's not pleasant, but it's not the torture chamber he imagines. He'll have medical attention, supervision. Perhaps, in time, treatment."

"He's not a monster," Lady Honoria whispered. "He's ill. He's been ill since childhood. I only wanted to protect him, to give him a life outside those terrible institutions—"

"I know." Hargreaves voice was gentler than Cicely had ever heard it. "But your protection killed two men, Lady Greystowe. And that's a price neither you nor Julius can escape paying."

They left that night—Hargreaves, Cotrill, and their prisoner, wrapped in a travelling rug and seated between the two policemen in the motor car. Julian had retreated into himself completely by then, humming snatches of Chopin, his eyes seeing nothing.

Cicely stood on the steps with Lady Honoria, watching the taillights disappear into the November darkness. The fog had returned, thicker than ever, swallowing the world beyond the drive.

"What will happen to you?" Cicely asked quietly.

Lady Honoria was silent for a long moment. Then: "The estate will be contested. The rightful heirs—whoever they may be—will come forward. I'll be left with nothing, as I always feared. But that hardly matters now. I spent twenty years trying to save Julius from his fate, and in the end, I only hastened it." She turned to look at Cicely, her eyes hollow. "I loved him. My brother. Is it so wrong to love someone, even when they're broken?"

"No," Cicely said softly. "It's not wrong to love. But love isn't always enough to save someone. Sometimes it only keeps them from the help they truly need."

Lady Honoria nodded slowly, as though accepting a truth she had always known but never wanted to face. "You'll leave tomorrow, I suppose. Back to London. Back to your architect."

Cicely started. "How did you—?"

"I read your letters. The ones in your room. Forgive me, but I needed to understand why you were so resistant to Julian. I thought if I knew, I could find a way to persuade you." A bitter smile crossed her face. "But you were right to resist. You felt the wrongness in him, even when I was blind to it. The heart knows things the mind refuses to see."

"I am sorry, Aunt Honoria. Truly."

"Don't be. I made my choices. Now I must live with them—or die with them, as the case may be. This house has seen enough tragedy. Let it crumble. Let the ivy pull it down stone by stone. It's all it deserves."

Cicely left her there, standing alone on the steps of Andrew's Priory, a solitary figure in black against the grey stone, already becoming one with the house she had sacrificed everything to preserve.

The telegram reached Miles Denholm the next morning. Cicely sent it from the village post office, her hands shaking as she wrote out the words: "Coming home. Crisis resolved. Need you. Meet me Victoria Station 4 PM. All my love, C."

She rode to the station in the hired motor, her few possessions packed in a single case. She had left most of her things at Andrew's Priory—let the house keep them, along with all the other relics of the past. She was travelling light now, towards the future, towards the life she had almost lost in the shadows of that terrible place.

The train bore her south through the autumn countryside, through fog and rain and finally, as they approached London, into pale sunshine. She watched the landscape change, the dead moors giving way to farms, then suburbs, then the crowded, vital chaos of the city. Life. Movement. The present, not the past.

Miles was waiting at Victoria Station, just as she'd known he would be. Tall and fair and solid, his face breaking into a smile of pure relief when he saw her. She ran the last few yards and fell into his arms, feeling them close around her like safety, like home.

"Tell me," he said quietly, his lips against her hair.

And she did. All of it. The murders, the secrets, the terrible revelation of Julian's true nature and Lady Honoria's desperate deception. Miles listened without interrupting, his arms steady around her, his presence an anchor in the storm of memory.

When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Then: "A red scarf. Royal Stewart tartan. What a strange thing to become a symbol of death."

"Hargreaves said Julius had collected them for years. His mother gave them to him as gifts, dozens of them. She thought they brought him comfort. Instead, they became his weapon of choice."

"And Lady Greystowe? What will happen to her?"

"I don't know. Ruin, certainly. Perhaps prison, though I suspect Hargreaves will be merciful if he can. She's a broken woman now. All her schemes, all her lies, and in the end, she couldn't save the person she loved most. There's a kind of justice in that, I suppose."

Miles tilted her face up to meet his eyes. "And you? Are you all right?"

Cicely considered the question. Was she all right? She had witnessed murder's aftermath, seen madness clothed in gentility, watched a family destroy itself through secrets and shame. She had been frightened, horrified, changed by the experience in ways she was only beginning to understand.

But she was free. Free of Andrew's Priory, free of her aunt's demands, free of the obligation to marry a man whose madness she had sensed but never understood. Free to build a life of her own choosing, in the light, with this good man who loved her.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'm all right. Or I will be."

"Good. Because I've been thinking." Miles reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. "I know this isn't the most romantic setting—a railway station, hardly ideal. But I can't wait any longer. Cicely Ashcombe, will you marry me? Will you let me build you a house full of light and warmth and laughter? Will you help me design a future that has nothing to do with mouldering ruins and everything to do with living?"

Through her tears—happy tears, healing tears—Cicely laughed. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

He kissed her there on the platform, as trains whistled and passengers hurried past and the great city roared its eternal song around them. And for the first time in weeks, Cicely felt the darkness lift, felt hope bloom in her chest like spring after the longest winter.

Behind her, Andrew's Priory stood empty in the Hertfordshire mist, its secrets exposed, its tragedy complete. In time, it would fall to ruin, just as Lady Honoria had predicted. The ivy would pull down the stones, the roof would collapse, the portraits of long-dead Greystowes would moulder in the rain. Future travelers might pause at the ruins and wonder what had happened there, what lives had been lived and lost within those crumbling walls.

But Cicely would not look back. She was done with ghosts and shadows and the weight of the past. She had a future to build, and it would be built on stone and steel and glass—solid, modern, real. A house that let in light. A life lived in truth.

The red scarf—the Royal Stewart tartan that had become Julius Blackwood's instrument of death—would be stored in Scotland Yard's evidence rooms, eventually forgotten among a thousand other sad relics of human violence. In the end, it was only wool and dye, meaningless without the madness that had given it purpose.

And Julius himself, poor mad Julius who had killed to protect a secret that was never worth protecting, would spend his remaining years in Broadmoor, surrounded by others whose minds had broken in ways society could neither understand nor forgive. Perhaps there he would find a kind of peace. Perhaps the music would still come to him, filling the hollow spaces where reason had once lived.

Or perhaps there would only be silence, and the endless grey days, and the memory of scarves—red as blood, soft as mercy, deadly as love gone wrong.

The End