Page 1: The Murder
On a radiant Sunday morning, vibrant with color and birdsong, Mrs. Felinchi decided to make her morning tea earlier than usual. She stood by the kitchen window, watching sparrows flutter past in hypnotic dances across the azure sky. The kettle's sharp whistle pierced the tranquil air, steam billowing from its spout.
She poured the steaming tea into the delicate porcelain cup—the one she'd given David for their thirtieth anniversary. The Earl Grey's bergamot aroma rose like incense as she carried it carefully toward his study, her slippers whispering against the marble floor.
"David, darling?" She knocked gently on the mahogany door. "Your tea."
Silence.
Mrs. Felinchi frowned. David was always an early riser, already deep in his correspondence by this hour. She gestured to Alfred, who was polishing silver in the nearby dining room.
"Alfred, would you mind? He must have fallen asleep at his desk again."
The elderly butler approached with measured steps, his keys jangling softly. "Of course, ma'am." He turned the lock with a quiet click and stepped aside. "After you, Mrs. Felinchi."
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The teacup slipped from her fingers, shattering against the Persian rug in a spray of porcelain and steaming tea.
"DAVID!"
Her scream tore through the manor's morning stillness. Alfred rushed past her, his composed demeanor cracking as he took in the scene. David Felinchi sat slumped in his leather chair, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes staring sightlessly at the ornate ceiling. A dark stain spread across his white shirt.
The study was in chaos. Papers that had been neatly stacked were now scattered like autumn leaves. The ivory chess set—David's prized possession—lay overturned, its pieces strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers. The heavy brass letter opener that usually sat on his desk was nowhere to be seen.
"Dear Lord," Alfred whispered, his weathered hands trembling. "Ma'am, please—you mustn't remain here."
But Mrs. Felinchi had already collapsed beside her husband's chair, her hands reaching toward him before pulling back in horror. "David, no, no, no..." She rocked back and forth, his name becoming a broken mantra on her lips.
Alfred steadied himself and hurried from the house. The morning sun beat down mercilessly as he mounted his bicycle and pedaled the mile into town, his formal butler's attire soon damp with perspiration. He arrived at the small sheriff's office, breathing heavily, and rushed through the door.
"Sheriff! Please, sir—Mr. Felinchi has been murdered!"
Sheriff Davies looked up from his paperwork, setting down his pen. "Steady now, Alfred. Take a breath and tell me what happened."
"My master, Mr. David Felinchi, is dead in his study, sir!" Alfred's voice trembled. "Someone has done him violence!"
Davies stood immediately, his face grave. "Show me." He reached for his hat and badge from the hook behind his desk. "We'll take my patrol car."
The drive back to Felinchi Manor took fifteen minutes, Davies driving carefully over the rural Kentucky roads. Upon arrival, Davies surveyed the scene with the methodical approach of a county sheriff who had seen his share of unnatural deaths, though nothing quite like this.
Mrs. Felinchi was still kneeling beside her husband's body, now eerily silent in her grief. Davies gently but firmly helped her to her feet.
"Mrs. Felinchi, I'm terribly sorry for your loss, but you cannot remain in this room. Evidence must be preserved."
Outside the manor gates, a small crowd of neighbors had begun to gather—word traveled quickly in their close-knit rural community. The local doctor, summoned by a housemaid, arrived in his Model T Ford, though his services were clearly no longer needed for the deceased.
Sheriff Davies stood in the doorway of the study, taking careful notes in his leather-bound notebook with a pencil. After thirty minutes of observation, he stepped outside to address the small gathering.
"Doc Harrison, if you would examine the deceased and give me your assessment. Mrs. Felinchi, I'll need to speak with you presently, and you as well, Alfred—but separately."
He gazed back at the manor's imposing facade, then at his patrol car parked in the circular drive. "I'll need to telephone the state police in Frankfort. A case of this magnitude..." He shook his head grimly. "They'll want to send Detective Allen down from Louisville. Until then, no one enters that study."
Davies pulled out his small notebook again, licking the pencil tip. "Mrs. Felinchi, when you're ready to speak, we'll begin with exactly what happened this morning. Every detail, no matter how small, may prove important."
The sheriff's weathered face showed the weight of responsibility as he looked back at the manor windows, where pale faces of servants peered out anxiously. In a rural Kentucky county where the most serious crime was usually moonshining or cattle theft, murder was an almost unthinkable occurrence. The call to Louisville would have to wait until morning—but Detective Allen's expertise would be essential for solving a case of this complexity.
Page 2: The Detective's Arrival
One week later - Sunday, February 11th, 1930
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the steel tracks provided a steady accompaniment to Detective Henry Allen's thoughts as he reviewed the case file one final time. The week-long delay in his arrival had been unavoidable—state police bureaucracy moved slowly, and Henry had been completing another case in Chicago when Sheriff Davies' urgent call came through. Now, as the Louisville & Nashville Railroad carried him south through the Kentucky countryside, the complexity of the Felinchi case intrigued him: a locked study, no obvious motive, and a prominent victim with many potential enemies.
The train's whistle pierced the night air as they approached Louisville. Henry looked out the window, gazing at the beautiful full moon basking the landscape in pale light, his soft blue eyes reflecting the moonlight. Looking at his watch, which was a few minutes behind as always, he began making his way to gather his belongings.
The train came to a screeching halt at Louisville station. Henry lifted the window curtain, squinting as morning light flooded his compartment—he had dozed longer than expected, and dawn was breaking over the city. He retrieved his luggage and made his way through the narrow corridor, the train's final rattling motions nearly knocking him off balance as other passengers began their own departures.
Stepping onto the platform, Henry was immediately approached by a newspaper vendor. "Morning paper, sir? Fresh news, twenty-five cents!"
Henry hesitated, then agreed, exchanging coins for the Louisville Courier-Journal. The headline immediately caught his attention: "Felinchi Murder Baffles County Sheriff." The date confirmed his timing—February 11th, 1930, exactly one week after the murder. This delay might actually prove beneficial; sometimes the most valuable insights came after the initial shock had settled and people's true thoughts emerged.
Henry made his way to a nearby café, settling into a corner booth to study the newspaper account while sipping coffee. The reporter had done his homework—details about the locked study, the overturned chess set, and the mysterious circumstances surrounding David Felinchi's death filled the front page. After an hour of careful reading, Henry folded the paper, left payment and a generous tip on the table, and headed across the street to the boarding house where he'd reserved a room.
The modest establishment's front desk was unattended when he arrived. Henry rang the small bell, and after a moment, the receptionist appeared—a well-dressed woman whose expensive jewelry seemed oddly out of place in such humble surroundings. Her earrings and necklace appeared genuine and costly, catching Henry's detective instincts. When he casually complimented the pieces, asking if they were family heirlooms, the woman's demeanor shifted nervously.
"Oh, these? From my late grandmother," she said quickly, handing him the key to room 106 before retreating to the back office. Henry filed the interaction away mentally—in a murder case involving a wealthy victim known for his jewelry collection, such details couldn't be ignored, though they might prove entirely innocent.
Henry climbed to his room, his suitcase banging against each step of the narrow staircase. The old lock required some coaxing, but eventually yielded. Inside, he left his luggage mostly packed—this was a working visit, not a vacation. The early arrival would give him time to observe the town and gather information before officially beginning his investigation. Sometimes the most valuable clues came from understanding the victim's place in the community, and now, a full week after the murder, witnesses might be more willing to share details they'd initially withheld.
Henry woke at 5:00 AM, his internal clock adjusted for the investigation ahead. He dressed quickly and gathered his detective equipment case, ensuring his magnifying glass, measuring tape, and notebook were properly organized. The morning air was crisp as he hired a horse-drawn carriage for the twenty-minute journey through the Kentucky countryside to Felinchi Manor.
As the manor came into view—an imposing structure of white stone and tall windows—Henry paid the driver and approached the front entrance. The early morning light cast long shadows across the circular drive where Sheriff Davies' patrol car had sat a week ago. Henry knocked three times on the heavy oak doors, the sound echoing in the morning stillness.
The door opened to reveal Alfred, the elderly butler whose composed demeanor had cracked under the strain of discovering his master's body. Recognition flickered in the man's eyes—Henry had telephoned ahead to arrange this meeting.
"Detective Allen, I presume? I am Alfred, the family butler. We've been expecting you, sir." Alfred's voice carried the weight of the past week's grief and uncertainty.
Henry removed his hat as he stepped across the threshold. "Thank you for accommodating me, Alfred. I know this has been a difficult time for everyone here." He paused, taking in the manor's elegant interior—polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and portraits of previous generations of Felinchis lining the walls. "I'd like to begin by examining the study, if you don't mind. Sometimes a fresh perspective can reveal details that initial investigations might have missed."
Alfred nodded solemnly. "Of course, sir. Sheriff Davies left strict instructions that nothing was to be disturbed. This way, please." As they walked through the corridors toward the fateful room, Alfred added quietly, "I do hope you can find answers, Mr. Allen. Mrs. Felinchi... she hasn't been the same since that terrible morning."
Page 3: The Study
Alfred led Henry through the manor's oak-paneled corridors, their footsteps muffled by thick Persian runners. As they approached the study, the butler's pace slowed, his keys jangling softly in his trembling hand.
"Here we are, sir," Alfred said, his voice barely above a whisper. He inserted the key with the same careful precision he had used a week ago when Mrs. Felinchi had asked him to unlock the door. "Everything remains exactly as Sheriff Davies instructed—untouched since that morning."
The heavy oak door, adorned with intricate flower carvings, creaked open at Alfred's gentle push. Henry stepped into the study, immediately struck by the unnatural stillness that seemed to permeate the air—a stark contrast to the vibrant morning he had enjoyed during his carriage ride. The thick velvet curtains remained drawn across the tall windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor and preserving the scene in a kind of temporal suspension.
Henry's trained eye began cataloging the scene methodically. The chessboard lay overturned on the floor, its ivory and ebony pieces scattered like fallen soldiers across the rich carpet. Papers that had presumably been stacked with David Felinchi's characteristic precision now lay strewn about the room. On the Persian rug beneath the desk, a dark stain marked where Mrs. Felinchi's teacup had shattered, while the mahogany desk itself bore a separate, more ominous stain—a silent testament to the violence that had transpired.
"Alfred," Henry began, his voice gentle but professional, "I appreciate you granting me access to this room. Tell me, has anything been altered since the discovery? Even the smallest detail?"
The butler, who had served the Felinchi family for decades with quiet dedication, stood just inside the doorway, his hands clasped respectfully in front of him. "No, sir. Following Sheriff Davies' explicit orders, I have ensured that no one entered this room. I personally stood guard to make certain everything remained exactly as it was when..." His voice faltered slightly, the usual steady tone trembling with the memory of that terrible morning.
Henry moved deeper into the room, his attention drawn to the overturned chessboard. The pieces lay scattered in a pattern that spoke of either struggle or deliberate staging. "Lord Felinchi was fond of chess, I understand?"
"Indeed, sir," Alfred replied, his eyes drifting to the scattered pieces with a mixture of sadness and familiarity. "His Lordship found great pleasure in the game. He kept the board set up with meticulous care, each piece positioned just so. He would spend hours studying different configurations, always thinking several moves ahead."
Henry knelt closer to the mahogany desk, drawn by the dark stain that marked its surface. The pattern suggested more than simple spillage—there was something deliberate about its placement. "And this stain? Can you tell me exactly what happened when Mrs. Felinchi discovered her husband?"
Alfred's composure wavered as he recalled the scene. "Mrs. Felinchi had brought Lord Felinchi his morning tea, as she had done faithfully for years. Earl Grey with bergamot, served in the porcelain cup she had given him for their thirtieth anniversary. When she found him..." Alfred paused, steadying himself. "The cup fell from her hands immediately. She ran to him, crying out his name repeatedly. The shock was... overwhelming."
"Can you describe her exact reaction? Her words, her movements, anything that stood out to you?" Henry remained calm and observant, his detective's mind noting every detail Alfred provided.
"I remember her dropping the tea service—the sound of porcelain shattering seemed to echo through the entire manor. She ran toward his chair, reaching out as if to help him, then pulling back in horror when she realized... when she saw..." Alfred's voice shook with the memory. "She kept saying his name over and over, 'David, David, David,' as if repetition could somehow bring him back. She's continued that pattern throughout this past week—his name has become a constant refrain."
Henry's attention was drawn to a document partially hidden beneath the desk, its surface marred by a large ink stain. "This paper here, do you recognize it? Can you tell me anything about its contents?"
Alfred approached cautiously, peering at the document. "Mr. Felinchi maintained extensive correspondence regarding his various business ventures—financial agreements, investment opportunities, legal documents. The specific nature of his papers was not something he typically discussed with the household staff, but I know he was meticulous about his record-keeping."
Henry carefully lifted the ink-stained document, examining it closely. "This ink blot—does it appear recent to you? Had you noticed it before?"
Alfred studied the stain with the careful attention of someone who had spent years maintaining the orderly appearance of the household. "It's difficult to say with absolute certainty, sir. I don't recall seeing it during my regular cleaning of the study, but Mr. Felinchi worked with his correspondence daily. It's possible it occurred recently and I simply hadn't noticed it yet."
At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by a familiar voice. "Alfred? Mr. Allen?" Sheriff Davies appeared in the doorway, his weathered face showing both relief and curiosity. "I wanted to check on your progress and see if you needed any assistance."
Henry rose from his examination of the document, extending his hand in greeting. "Sheriff Davies, I'm pleased to meet you properly. Your initial work on this case has been thorough—I appreciate the care you've taken to preserve the scene."
"Officer Davies will do just fine, sir," the sheriff replied, his tone polite but carrying a hint of professional reservation. "I understand you're taking the lead on this investigation. I'm here to provide whatever support you might need."
"I was just beginning to form my initial impressions of the scene with Alfred's invaluable assistance," Henry explained, gesturing toward the butler. "Perhaps you could share your own observations from that first morning? Sometimes comparing different perspectives can reveal details that might otherwise be overlooked."
Sheriff Davies stepped fully into the study, his experienced eye taking in the familiar scene of disorder. "From the beginning, something about the arrangement struck me as unusual. The overturned chessboard, the scattered papers—it suggested a struggle, but there was something almost... theatrical about it. As if someone wanted us to see evidence of a fight."
Page 4: The Missing King
Sheriff Davies moved deeper into the study, his gaze methodically sweeping over the scene he had first encountered a week ago. "The more I've thought about it over the past week, the more convinced I've become that we're looking at something staged," he continued, pointing toward the overturned chessboard. "A real struggle would have created a different pattern of destruction."
Henry knelt beside the mahogany desk, his attention focused on the dark stain that marked its surface. "This blood," he murmured, touching the edge of the stain carefully with his fingertip, "Alfred, you mentioned Mrs. Felinchi's reaction when she found her husband. Was this stain already this size when she first discovered him?"
Alfred frowned, his weathered face creasing with the effort of precise recollection. "I must admit, sir, my attention was entirely focused on Mrs. Felinchi's distress and Lord Felinchi's condition. The exact size of the stain at that moment... I cannot say with certainty."
Sheriff Davies offered a practical explanation, drawing from his years of experience with various crime scenes. "Blood stains can spread over time, Mr. Allen, especially on polished wood like this. What you're seeing now might be larger than what Mrs. Felinchi first encountered."
Henry nodded thoughtfully, then noticed a small, almost circular indentation near the edge of the blood stain. He made a mental note to examine it more closely later, then turned his attention to the scattered papers littering the floor around the desk. "Alfred, you mentioned that Lord Felinchi was extremely meticulous in his habits. Would you say this level of disorder was completely out of character?"
"Absolutely, sir," Alfred replied without hesitation. "His Lordship maintained his study with almost obsessive precision. Every document had its proper place, every pen and pencil arranged just so. This chaos..." he gestured at the scattered papers, "would have been deeply disturbing to him."
Henry picked up one of the papers, noting a fresh crease that ran diagonally across what appeared to be a business correspondence. "This crease—does it look recent to you, Alfred?"
Alfred approached for a closer look, his expression troubled. "Again, sir, it's difficult to say with absolute certainty. Lord Felinchi was very particular about the condition of his documents. Such a crease would have been unusual, but whether it occurred recently..."
While Henry continued his examination of the papers, Sheriff Davies had moved to the area where the chess pieces lay scattered. He knelt among the ivory and ebony figures, his eye taking in their positions.
Davies paused in his examination, his brow furrowing as he methodically counted the pieces. "That's odd," he said, looking up at Henry with a puzzled expression. "I'm coming up short on the black pieces."
Henry immediately moved to join the sheriff beside the scattered chess set. "What's missing?"
"The black king," Davies confirmed, conducting a thorough visual sweep of the immediate area. "I can account for all the other pieces—pawns, rooks, bishops, knights, even the queen. But the black king is nowhere to be found."
Henry's detective instincts sharpened immediately. In his experience, seemingly small details often proved to be the most significant. "Have you searched the entire room for it?"
"We conducted a thorough examination when we first secured the scene," Davies replied. "Every drawer, every shelf, behind every piece of furniture. The black king simply isn't here."
A spark of genuine interest crossed Henry's features. The missing chess piece represented something more than simple coincidence—in a carefully staged scene, every element had potential meaning. "Sheriff Davies," Henry said, his tone becoming more urgent, "I want to expand our search beyond this room. If the black king was taken deliberately, it might have been moved elsewhere in the manor, or..." He paused, considering the implications. "Or the killer might have taken it as some kind of trophy or symbol."
Davies nodded grimly. "That's what I was thinking too. In my experience, killers sometimes take mementos from their victims, especially in cases where there's a personal connection."
Henry stood, his mind already working through the implications of this discovery. The way the curtains were drawn to block out the bright Sunday morning light, the specific chess pieces scattered in their particular pattern, the precise location of the ink-stained document, and now the missing black king—each detail was beginning to form part of a larger, more complex picture.
"Alfred," Henry began, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "I need you to think very carefully. Did Lord Felinchi have any unusual habits or routines that might seem significant now? Any deviations from his normal schedule in the days leading up to his death?"
Alfred considered the question with the thoroughness that had characterized his years of service to the family. "Well, sir, now that you mention it specifically, there were some changes in his routine. His Lordship didn't take his usual evening brandy the night before his death—something he had done religiously for years. And during dinner that evening, he seemed preoccupied, more distant than usual. Even Mrs. Felinchi remarked on his unusual quietness."
This information aligned with what they would later learn from Mrs. Felinchi herself, but Henry was eager to gather more details. "Can you be more specific about his preoccupation? Did he mention anything that was troubling him? Any concerns about business matters or personal relationships?"
"He didn't confide in me directly, sir," Alfred replied carefully, "but I did notice he spent considerable time reviewing certain documents that evening. More time than usual, and with what seemed like greater intensity. He also asked me to ensure that all the doors were properly locked before retiring—not unusual, but he seemed more concerned about security than normal."
Henry exchanged a meaningful glance with Sheriff Davies. The missing black king, combined with Lord Felinchi's apparent anxiety in his final hours, suggested that the victim might have been aware of some threat to his safety.
"Sheriff," Henry said, his voice filled with new determination, "I'd like to speak with Mrs. Felinchi as soon as possible. If her husband was troubled about something specific, she might have insights that could help us understand not just who killed him, but why they took the black king." His gaze returned to the scattered chess pieces, a silent question forming in his mind about the deadly game that had been played out in this room—and whether the missing piece held the key to solving the entire mystery.
Page 5: Mrs. Felinchi
With the mystery of the missing black king weighing heavily on his mind, Henry followed Sheriff Davies through the manor's elegant corridors toward the drawing room. The afternoon sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows through the tall windows as they walked. Henry's thoughts remained occupied by the accumulating evidence: the missing chess piece, the staged appearance of the study, and Lord Felinchi's apparent anxiety in his final hours.
The drawing room where they found Mrs. Felinchi reflected the same refined taste that characterized the rest of the manor. Heavy velvet drapes framed windows that overlooked manicured gardens, while oil paintings of previous generations of Felinchis gazed down from gilded frames. Mrs. Felinchi herself sat in a high-backed armchair near the marble fireplace, still dressed in the deep black mourning clothes that had become her constant attire since that terrible Sunday morning a week ago.
Her eyes, red-rimmed from days of crying, showed the exhaustion of profound grief, yet she had managed to compose herself sufficiently for this interview. The woman who had once been the vibrant mistress of this grand estate now appeared fragile, diminished by the weight of her loss.
"Mrs. Felinchi," Henry said gently, removing his hat in a gesture of respect as he approached her chair. "I'm Detective Allen, and I want to express my deepest condolences for your loss. I know this is an incredibly difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions that might help us find whoever was responsible for your husband's death."
Mrs. Felinchi looked up at him with eyes that held both hope and wariness. The past week had brought a parade of officials, reporters, and well-meaning neighbors, each asking questions about that horrible morning. Yet something in Detective Allen's manner suggested a different approach—more thorough, perhaps more understanding.
"Of course, Detective," she replied, her voice carrying the refined accent of someone who had been educated in the finest schools. "I'll do whatever I can to help. David deserves justice, and I want his killer found and punished."
Sheriff Davies settled into a nearby chair while Henry pulled up a seat directly across from the widow, close enough to observe her expressions but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. The room felt heavy with grief and the weight of unanswered questions, the kind of atmosphere that seemed to permeate spaces where violent death had shattered the normal order of life.
"Mrs. Felinchi, I understand how painful this must be, but I need you to tell me about the morning you found your husband," Henry began, his voice gentle but professional. "Every detail you can remember, no matter how small it might seem, could prove important to our investigation."
Mrs. Felinchi's hands trembled slightly as she clasped them in her lap, her voice breaking as she began to relive that terrible morning. "I... I was making David his morning tea, just as I had done every day for thirty years of marriage. Earl Grey with bergamot, served in the special porcelain cup I had given him for our anniversary. It was such a beautiful morning, and I thought he would enjoy taking his tea a bit earlier than usual."
She paused, collecting herself before continuing. "I brought the tray to his study and knocked on the door several times, calling his name. When he didn't answer, I assumed he had fallen asleep at his desk again—it had happened before when he was working late on important correspondence. That's when I asked Alfred to unlock the door."
Her voice broke completely as she reached the crucial moment. "When I stepped inside and saw him... the cup just fell from my hands. I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. David was slumped in his chair, and there was blood, and the room was in such terrible disorder. It was like stepping into a nightmare."
Henry leaned forward slightly, his expression compassionate but focused. "Mrs. Felinchi, this is very important—did you notice your husband acting differently in the days before his death? Any changes in his behavior, his routine, his mood?"
"Yes," she replied, her voice gaining strength as she focused on providing useful information. "David was definitely not himself in those final days. He seemed preoccupied, distant, as if his mind was constantly elsewhere. It was most noticeable during our evening meals—he would normally discuss his day, his business dealings, his correspondence. But lately, he had become unusually quiet."
Sheriff Davies leaned forward in his chair. "When did you first notice this change in his behavior, Mrs. Felinchi?"
"It began after he received a visitor late one afternoon," she replied, her brow furrowing with the effort of precise recollection. "A woman I had never seen before—tall, slender, dressed entirely in black. She arrived without an appointment, which was unusual, as David typically scheduled his meetings well in advance."
Henry's interest was immediately piqued. "Can you describe this woman in more detail? Did you recognize her, or did your husband mention who she was?"
"I was in the garden when she arrived, but I could see her clearly from the window," Mrs. Felinchi explained. "She was elegantly dressed but severe-looking, with dark hair pulled back severely. She carried herself with the bearing of someone accustomed to authority or high social position. When I asked David about her later, he was evasive—said it was just a business matter that didn't concern me."
"What time did this visit occur, and how long did they meet?" Henry asked, making mental notes of every detail.
"It was around four o'clock in the afternoon, and they spoke privately in David's study for perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes," Mrs. Felinchi replied. "I know because I was watching the clock, wondering if she would stay for tea. But she left without any social pleasantries—just walked to her carriage and departed. After she left, David seemed deeply troubled, more so than I had ever seen him."
Henry and Davies exchanged significant glances. The mysterious woman in black had been the last known visitor before Lord Felinchi's death, and her visit had clearly disturbed him greatly.
"Mrs. Felinchi," Henry continued, "did your husband say anything specific about this meeting? Any hint about what they discussed or why it upset him so much?"
She shook her head sadly. "David was a private man when it came to his business affairs. He always said he didn't want to burden me with such matters. But I could tell this was different—whatever that woman told him, it changed him. He spent the rest of that evening locked in his study, going through papers, and he didn't take his usual brandy before bed. The next morning..." Her voice trailed off as she reached the end of her husband's life.
"One final question," Henry said gently. "Did you notice anything missing from your husband's study? Anything that should have been there but wasn't?"
Mrs. Felinchi considered this carefully. "The room was in such disorder that it was difficult to tell. But now that I think about it, David's chess set was his most prized possession—he was very particular about keeping it properly arranged. I didn't examine the scattered pieces closely, but if something was missing from that set, it would have been significant to him."
As the afternoon shadows continued to lengthen across the drawing room, Henry stood and replaced his hat. "Thank you for your time and patience, Mrs. Felinchi. I know this has been incredibly difficult, but the information you've provided may prove crucial to our investigation."
Walking back through the manor with Sheriff Davies, Henry's mind was already working through the expanding puzzle. The missing black king, the mysterious woman in black, and Lord Felinchi's sudden change in demeanor were all connected somehow. The game being played was indeed more complex than it had first appeared, and the stakes had proven deadly.
"Sheriff," Henry said as they reached the main entrance, "I think we need to focus our investigation on identifying this mysterious woman. She may not be our killer, but she certainly holds key information about why David Felinchi died. And somewhere in this case, that missing black king is going to tell us exactly what kind of game we're really dealing with."