The rain had returned, gentler this time — a misting drizzle that clung to the windows like breath. Crosswind Manor had fallen into a tense stillness, the kind that settles after too much truth has been spoken... and not enough understood.
Locke sat in the study, the second will spread before him. The gladius seal broken. Julian's signature scrawled beside D. Harrington's. Yet his thoughts were elsewhere — on Avery's calm acceptance of guilt, and the doubt that now shadowed it.
He poured himself tea from the silver pot left for him.
Then paused.
A bitter scent, faint but familiar, drifted upward.
He set the cup down and didn't touch it again.
The manor's staff had been dismissed, except for Isobel. She remained under Eliza's protection, now kept mostly in her chambers. The rest of the guests stayed close to their rooms, watched over by local officers summoned from the village.
But one name had re-entered Locke's notebook: Maud Pembroke.
The housekeeper. Absent during the storm. Quietly returned the morning after. Said she'd left to tend to her sister's illness in Scarborough. No one questioned it — Maud had been part of the household for years.
Too long, perhaps.
He found her dusting the portrait hall, eyes red from fatigue, movements too practiced.
"You knew about the second will," Locke said, voice low.
She froze.
"I—"
"Julian told you something before he died. You've been lying by omission."
Her cloth trembled in her hand.
"He said… he feared someone close. Someone trusted." She swallowed. "He asked me to send a letter, but it was gone before I could find it again. I think someone took it."
Locke watched her carefully. "Avery confessed freely. Too freely. Did someone ask him to take the fall?"
Maud's silence answered enough.
That evening, the rain turned to sleet.
Locke, restless, returned to the library — the crime scene. He ran his fingers along the edge of the desk where the drawer had once held Julian's journal. Then, on instinct, he returned to the teacup he'd left untouched.
He carried it to the kitchen and quietly asked the constable to test it.
An hour later, the answer came: digitalis. A heart-stopping poison in the right dose. It would've made Locke drowsy. Disoriented. Slowed his breath.
Or stopped it entirely.
At midnight, Locke called another gathering.
Only a few guests responded.
Victoria. Douglas. Isobel. Colonel Stratton.
Maud stood in the corner, arms crossed. Her eyes flicked to Avery — who had been brought up from the cellar under guard, pale and silent.
"There was a second attempt," Locke said.
The room froze.
"Someone laced my tea with poison this morning. The same tea that came from the same tray… Avery used to serve Julian."
A flicker crossed Maud's face.
"You still believe he acted alone?" Locke asked the room. "Because I don't."
He turned slowly, stopping at Douglas Harrington.
"You benefited the most from Julian's removal. You assumed you'd inherit, didn't you?"
Douglas smirked — a shaky, fragile smirk. "And yet, I didn't."
"Because someone tampered with the will. Maybe not to take the fortune, but to keep the truth buried. About Julian. About the rest of you."
He stepped closer.
"I don't think Avery killed out of pride. I think he was told to kill. By someone who promised protection. And when that began to crack… they turned on me, too."
A gust of wind howled through the hall.
No one spoke.
But in the silence, Locke knew: the conspiracy ran deeper. Avery was just the knife.
The hand that guided it still walked free.