Thunder struck Thornfield Hall as I crossed the threshold. The tall panes in the marble foyer rattled in their leaden frames; rain streamed down the glass in slanted, narrow ribbons. Behind me lay the gravel drive and iron gates, and beyond them a road that rising water was already tearing into churned, brown ribbons.

I stepped onto the checkerboard marble. Water pooled along the welts of my boots, slicking the stone. The heavy wool coat dragged at my shoulders. Beside the door stood a brass umbrella stand; beneath it gleamed a shallow crescent of runoff. A longcase clock on the eastern wall measured time against the gale, each pendulum strike audible until swallowed by the next peel of thunder.

The butler waited at the foot of the staircase. He ran a thumb along the stiff cuff of his sleeve, dropping his hand the moment my gaze caught the movement.

“You are the detective,” he said.

“Word travels quickly, it seems.”

“The Inspector is waiting in the parlour.” His voice remained level. “The master of the house is dead.”

I opened the small leather notebook without drawing the pencil. The butler stared at the blank page rather than my face. Behind him, the stairway rose toward the guest wing; another door stood slightly ajar to the lord's study. Neither quarter yielded a sound. The silence between the far rooms felt deliberate, yet the storm pressed hard against every seam, as if determined to fill it.

“And the remaining guests?” I asked.

“Inside.” He adjusted a cufflink that was already aligned. “Where they belong.”

The heavy front door clicked shut behind me. A second tremor of thunder set the chandelier crystals chiming. I stayed in the entrance hall, stationed between the stairs and the bolted outer doors; the parlour waited behind the double doors at the far end of the corridor.