The gaslight in the manor hall slipped through a thin veil of dust above the vine-patterned carpet. The pendulum clock beside the staircase swung with a steady tick…tock…as if it dictated the house's every breath. Duskborn and Inspector Hayes stepped through the oak doors at the invitation of Mr. Larkin, the family solicitor. The lord of the house had requested a neutral eye—someone to keep tempers cool during the reading of the will. Gear perched on the banister, extending his neck so the light gleamed across his brass frame.
"Permission to taste a lamp breeze," he whispered, letting out a polite hiss of steam. "Promise not to touch any guns."
Hobbs, the butler famed for precision, pointed at the clock face. "Fifteen minutes, Inspector." His tone was as measured as the rhythm that Duskborn already counted in his head. Hobbs was the kind of man who remembered every footstep through the hall and which door handle squeaked on which night.
Nell, the maid, whisked the dust covers off portraits of ancestors, releasing the sharp scent of polish. A faint trace of pale powder brushed against the dark shawl of Evelyn, the lady of the house—a detail small enough that only trained eyes caught it.
"Objects on the wall are meant for viewing, not shooting," Lord Hawthorne said in a slow voice, though his gaze was sharp as his cufflinks. He stood by a side table, his suit immaculate, the crest brooch on his chest reflecting the gaslight.
"Then the objects on the wall should tell true stories, not false ones," Duskborn replied softly.
Hayes studied the drawing room arranged for ceremony. Chairs stood in tidy rows, the will lay sealed in its envelope upon the center table, and beneath the portraits hung two "honor pistols" mounted on polished wood. Beside the hearth, long curtains hung evenly. Nell had just set down a tray of tea under a silver dome.
"His lordship cleans the pistols at the end of every month," Hobbs explained. "I record the time in the household ledger."
"Good," Duskborn murmured. "Anything that belongs in a fixed place will reveal itself the moment it's moved."
Henry, the eldest grandson, paced restlessly, running his fingers along the frames and teasing his cousin Thomas. "My turn to take care of the place, eh?" he boasted. Thomas sniffed. "Try not to forget the rest of us when you do." Their stepmother, Madam Ida, fanned herself slowly—more for control than comfort.
"Don't play with the ornaments," Evelyn warned calmly. She wore a thick dark shawl, her gestures neat and composed. Duskborn noticed the same faint polish dust clinging inside the hem—like powder not yet brushed away.
"I'll fetch a needle," Evelyn said. "The left curtain's loose at the seam." She slipped through a side door. Duskborn glanced at the faint white dust on the floor catching the light and fixed it in memory. He was used to "measuring time" by dust and footprints as much as by clocks.
Henry leaned toward Mr. Bryce, the trust manager. "Is it true the estate's restructuring tomorrow?"
Bryce, expression carved from stone, nodded. "Meeting at ten sharp. If no objections arise, the assets transfer as written."
"That's if nothing happens tonight," Thomas muttered. Ida's fan stopped midair. "Don't speak omens in this house."
Nell passed them, murmuring, "Soap's been changed, sir—almond scent. Mind the floor, it's slippery." The sweetness lingered in the air longer than her words. Gear tilted his head. "Almond scent. Noted. I shall not taste it."
Evelyn returned unchanged in expression, now wearing thin gloves. She stood near the right-hand gun mount, half hidden by a curtain. Her gaze lingered briefly on the envelope of the will before turning back to the lord.
Hobbs adjusted the gas valves. Shadows from the chandelier spread across the portraits in neat bars, tracing where smoke would drift later. Duskborn listened to the fireplace draft—rising straight, not swirling. "Wind's steady," Gear whispered. "Good for reading smoke later."
Larkin cleared his throat to begin. The family gathered. Henry stood by the wall; Thomas sat beside the sofa; Madam Ida straight-backed near the window; Evelyn kept to her corner. Hobbs stationed himself by the east door. Nell faded into a shadowed corner. As the solicitor unfolded the document, the hall clock struck the hour.
For half a minute the room was framed in silence. Someone joked, "Show off one of those pistols, Henry! An heirloom shouldn't scare you." Henry lifted the left gun from its mount, cocked it, and pointed it toward the ceiling—an instinctive motion from a man used to ranges. Duskborn started to warn him but held back, watching instead. Evelyn shifted closer to the right mount, her shawl brushing its edge. Lord Hawthorne stood beneath his portrait, the chandelier shadow cutting half his face.
The first shot cracked—Bang! Smoke burst upward, carrying scraps of burning paper. A heartbeat later came a second report—Bang! The room reeled. Lord Hawthorne staggered, one hand to his chest. Blood darkened his waistcoat before he fell.
Every gaze converged on Henry, still frozen with the smoking pistol. Evelyn rushed to the fallen man, calling for Doctor Selby with perfect concern. Ida collapsed, her fan clattering to the carpet. Thomas swallowed hard; Bryce's expression tightened as if recalculating inheritance.
"Don't wipe anything. No one moves," Duskborn ordered. Hayes raised his hand. "Seal the doors. Everyone who was here stays here."
Gear glided to a portrait frame, perching on a chair. "Permission to taste gun smoke—ah, denied. I'll taste the air instead." He leaned close to the frame, inhaled delicately, and tilted his head like a connoisseur.
Duskborn bent to the frame, his lens gleaming. "Smoke rises sharp, points straight to the ceiling—note that." He crouched by the curtain, gently flicking aside a small blackened wad of paper from the floor—wadding from a black-powder round. He sealed it in a glass vial. "Wadding found near the mantel and curtain," he murmured to Hayes.
"The tea hasn't been touched," Hayes said, lifting the dome. The cups were full, the liquid clear, the scent of bitter leaves faint beneath the stronger almond smell wafting from the washroom.
"It's the new soap," Nell said quickly. "Soaking in the basin."
Doctor Selby knelt beside the body. "Medium range. The powder didn't scorch the skin. Entry angled slightly from the right." He cleaned his hands, stepping aside for Duskborn to study the wall.
Blood sprayed in a fan toward the right at chest height, not from the front. Duskborn turned to Henry. "Your arm, please."
Henry extended it. Soot streaked the sleeve. Duskborn brushed it, checked the inner lining—clean, unburned, the hairs on his wrist intact. "You caught smoke, not flame," he said. Henry's voice cracked. "I—I only cocked it. I didn't aim!"
Duskborn looked at the right mount. A small crack lined the wooden frame. He plucked out a short dark thread—velvet fiber. "From a shawl, perhaps." His gaze met Evelyn's. The hem of her cloak still trembled faintly, though her expression remained serene.
"I told you not to play with things," Evelyn said evenly, looking at Henry as though repeating an old warning.
"I just picked it up," Henry stammered.
"I need everyone's exact place when the shots rang," Duskborn said.
"I was by the east door," Hobbs answered. "At the first bang everyone looked at Mr. Henry. The second came right after. I turned and saw the lord fall."
Duskborn sketched the room on a card, marking each position with initials. "You?" he asked Thomas.
"By the sofa, complaining about my share," Thomas admitted.
Madam Ida pressed her fan to her cheek. "I'd barely sat down when it happened."
Bryce said quietly, "I was beside the table reading the list of assets."
Larkin nodded. "I'd just begun the first line."
Nell hesitated. "There was polishing powder on someone's shawl earlier." Evelyn brushed her shoulder as if dusting away an invisible speck.
Duskborn let the clock tick twice before speaking. "Two guns on the wall. Let's begin with the simplest question." He nodded to Hayes. "A short test, Inspector."
Hayes called two constables. Duskborn set up a pale canvas and sheet of paper. "We'll fire blanks only—powder and wadding, no shot. The cloth will show residue without danger."
Gear perched nearby. "Wind steady. Ready for truth."
The constable fired. Bang! The wadding leapt upward, smoke trailing in a narrow column. The canvas stayed intact. Duskborn pointed. "A blank—sound, smoke, and wadding but no bullet." He held the canvas beside the real frame; the smoke marks aligned almost perfectly. "That's what we saw after the incident."
He turned toward the body. "But the blood tells us the bullet came from the right, not the front."
"Meaning a second gun," Hayes said.
"Exactly. Gun A—the one Henry held—fired a blank. Gun B—on the right—fired the real shot." Duskborn sealed the sample vial.
Selby confirmed, "The wound's angle supports it."
Thomas frowned. "Then why the soot on Henry's sleeve?"
"Blanks leave smoke too," Duskborn said. "But close fire burns hair and fabric. None here."
Ida sniffed. "The almond smell—poison?"
"Soap," Duskborn replied. "The tea's untouched; poison's off the list."
Evelyn's tone stayed cool. "So he played with toys and caused a tragedy."
Duskborn shook his head. "We have two answers from two guns, but the picture isn't complete." His voice meant not yet convinced.
Hayes ordered, "No one leaves. Sign the time of departure with Hobbs if you must step out."
Bryce cleared his throat. "And the trust meeting tomorrow—"
"Nine o'clock," Duskborn said. "We'll conduct a full demonstration then—confirm smoke, wadding, and trajectory. The meeting at ten can wait. Until this is solved, Mr. Henry's rights are suspended."
Henry swallowed hard. "I'll keep quiet."
Gear fluttered near the right mount, sniffing delicately. "Permission to taste velvet—no? Then air through velvet." He inhaled softly. "Air passed through thick fabric recently."
"Velvet fiber, right mount," Duskborn noted in his book. He checked the blood pattern again: smoke rising vertical, blood sweeping right. "The room says so itself," he murmured.
Gear tilted his head. "If two guns fired almost together, who heard which first?"
"Mr. Henry's shot was higher pitched," Hobbs said. "The other lower."
Duskborn nodded. "Blanks sound sharper."
He turned to Nell. "Still smell any polish dust?"
"Faint now," she said. "But earlier it was strongest on Miss Evelyn's shawl."
"I just mended the curtain," Evelyn said calmly. "Dust sticks; that's all."
"Yes," Duskborn agreed. "But where the dust clings tells where the hand has been." He left it there for now.
"Seal the will for tonight," Hayes told Larkin. The solicitor pressed it shut with wax.
"Where's the maintenance record for the guns?" Duskborn asked.
Bryce produced a hardbound log. The last entry, written by the deceased, read: Cleaned. Not loaded. Duskborn tapped the line with a fingertip. "Important note."
Gear eyed the untouched tea. "Wind of tea—safe, bitter, and politely boring." He hissed softly, easing the tension.
Duskborn addressed the room. "You may rest, but inform Hobbs before leaving. Hands and coats will be checked. Time is our witness; we let it speak."
Thomas frowned. "Time will speak?"
"Yes," Duskborn said. "This room tells its story through smoke, wadding, blood, fibers, and shadow. Some parts spoke already. The rest will speak in the morning."
Henry sank into a chair, sweating. "If I live through tomorrow, I'll never touch anything on a wall again."
"You may," Duskborn said with a faint smile, "just not while everyone in the room breathes out of rhythm."
Evelyn glanced at the clock. "It's late. May I retire?"
"After inspection," Hayes said. "Nell will check the hem of your shawl; wipe your hands with white cloth before Hobbs, then sign the time." Evelyn smiled lightly, removed her thin gloves, and set them on the table. Duskborn noticed a faint dark stain along the edge but said nothing yet.
Madam Ida folded her fan. "May truth arrive before dawn."
"Truth keeps perfect time," Duskborn replied. "We only need to set our clocks to it."
Hobbs checked the windows and dimmed the lights. The hall clock struck the next hour—tick…tock…like a nail that never misses its slot. The tray of tea sat untouched, almond scent fading. The right mount hung silent, the showpiece that hid its secret well. But silence only meant waiting; tomorrow it would speak.
Before leaving, Gear perched on Duskborn's shoulder and peered at the vial of wadding. "Today we have two answers from two guns," he said with a chirp. "Tomorrow we'll find the one who asked the wrong question."
Duskborn nodded and turned to the room. "Smoke rose to the ceiling, but blood pointed right. Tonight we rest; truth does not. Nine o'clock, we meet here again."
Larkin sealed the envelope with wax. Hobbs oversaw the signatures. Hayes summed up: "Everyone stays in sight. We'll settle this by daylight."
The gaslight dimmed. Footsteps softened into the carpet. The drawing room grew still again—too still, heavy with something unseen pressing down. Duskborn stood a moment, memorizing the room's breath: polish dust, untouched tea, almond soap, wadding on the curtain, velvet fiber by the mount, a column of smoke on the frame, and blood sweeping right. Everything in its place, waiting to speak.
He packed his notebook, punched a small hole in tracing paper, and slid it into his pocket—a rough map of smoke. Hayes nodded. "Bring a white sheet tomorrow. Let them all see the pattern with their own eyes."
"And a gun that doesn't aim at people," Gear added. "I'll be right beside it—tasting air.""Wind only," Duskborn said, smiling faintly.
He turned from the ancestral portraits and walked into the hall, the pendulum still swinging in time with his steps—tick…tock…tick…tock…as if the house itself promised to testify in the morning. When the drawing room door closed behind them, the truth seemed to stand waiting behind the glass, ready to emerge once every clock struck the same hour.