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T he steady clip of hooves on gravel announced their arrival before the footman had even reached the door.

Dr. Manning and Judge Scofield stepped down from the carriage, their expressions already set with grim understanding.

Townsend and Mrs. Bainbridge, having secured their assistance, led them through the entrance hall, where the hush of the household had thickened into something near suffocating.

Dr. Manning, a man of precise movements and keen observation, wasted no time. “Where is he?” he asked, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

“This way,” Barrington said, his tone clipped, leading them toward the icehouse.

The scent of damp stone and lingering cold met them as they stepped inside. Alastair’s still form lay undisturbed, death turning his once-vibrant features into something unfamiliar. Dr. Manning efficiently moved beside the body while the others watched in tense silence.

Judge Scofield, normally a man of unwavering authority, stood near the entrance, his face drawn. He had known Alastair since he was a babe. He had watched him grow into a man of standing and respect. Now, he was tasked with ensuring justice for him.

Dr. Manning placed his hands on Alastair’s limbs, pressing along the joints, feeling for fractures. He lifted one of Alastair’s eyelids, studying the dull, clouded iris before pausing.

His brow furrowed. He leaned in slightly, adjusting his spectacles, then examined the other eye.

“What is it?” Barrington asked, watching the doctor’s sharp focus.

Dr. Manning didn’t immediately answer. He pressed two fingers against Alastair’s jaw, tilting his head slightly before exhaling.

“His pupils,” he murmured, “They are…unnaturally dilated.”

Bridget, standing just behind Grenville, felt a prickle of unease. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Manning glanced at her, then returned his focus to the body. “The eyes do not respond to light after death, but such pronounced dilation suggests something more.” He hesitated, then sniffed the air subtly before lowering his nose toward the wound near Alastair’s ribs. His face hardened.

A slow tension rippled through the gathered onlookers.

Grenville took a step forward. “Doctor?”

Dr. Manning straightened, rubbing his chin in thought. “The wound is small, precise. Not a deep cut but placed with intent.” He leaned down again, inhaling briefly before his expression turned grim. “And there is… a smell.”

Barrington frowned. “A smell?”

Dr. Manning gave a sharp nod. “It is faint, but unmistakable. Belladonna.”

A hush fell over the room.

Judge Scofield, who had been silent until now, stiffened. “Belladonna? Are you saying he was poisoned?”

Dr. Manning exhaled slowly, his voice firm.

“Yes. But not in the way you might expect.” He turned to the others.

“A blade, dipped in belladonna, delivered the fatal dose directly into his bloodstream. The poison would have acted swiftly, his pupils show classic signs of belladonna poisoning.” He gestured toward the slight rigidity in Alastair’s fingers.

“Muscle paralysis would have set in almost instantly. He wouldn’t even have time to cry out. ”

“The magistrate at Bamburgh Castle should be notified,” Scofield said. “I’ll leave at once.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode briskly from the icehouse, the door creaking shut behind him.

Bridget’s stomach twisted. A stab wound alone could have killed him, but this? This was something else. This was deliberate, insidious.

Grenville’s voice was quiet but cold. “He was lost the moment the blade struck.”

Dr. Manning nodded. “Precisely.” He stepped back from the body, glancing between them. “Whoever did this was skilled. They knew that even a small wound, if laced with the right poison, would be just as deadly as a sword to the heart.”

“Then the fall was a ruse,” Townsend restated. “Whoever did this wanted us to believe it was an accident.”

Grenville exhaled slowly. “And they nearly succeeded.”

Bridget stared down at Alastair’s still face, a deep unease settling within her. She found it all difficult to believe. The wound, the poison, the deception, this was no crime of passion or momentary rage. This had been planned. Carefully. Methodically.

She turned to Grenville. “I had hoped we were wrong. This was more than murder. It was an execution. What do we do?”

Grenville briefly met her gaze, and for once, he did not argue. “We find his executioner.”

Bridget inhaled, steadying herself. “And whoever did this… is still here.”

The gravity of her words settled over them like a storm rolling in.

Dr. Manning turned back to his grim work, his voice low as he spoke to Judge Scofield. The conversation drifted beyond Bridget’s awareness, a steady hum of duty and procedure, necessary, but not something she could bear to hear.

The walls of the icehouse seemed to close in, the air too heavy, too thick with the scent of cold stone and death. She had seen enough.

Bridget stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, though no one stopped her.

Slipping out, she moved through the dim corridors of the manor, each step precise, though her thoughts raced ahead. The hush of the house was deafening, thick with uncertainty and suspicion. Each guest was now a potential killer.

Scofield had already departed for Bamburgh Castle. His absence, though reasonable, left the household in an uneasy limbo, and not everyone believed it was wise.

At last, she reached the quiet sanctuary of her room. The moment the door shut behind her, she released a slow breath and crossed to the window.

Now, she sat staring out over the estate, the landscape stretching before her in eerie stillness.

The chase had been for sport. But the real hunt had only just begun.

*

Catriona stood by the wardrobe, carefully folding one of Bridget’s shawls. The mood was subdued, but the silence was overwhelming.

“What’s the gossip below stairs?” Bridget asked lightly.

Catriona turned with a small smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Oh, the usual sort. The scullery maid’s got her eye on the new footman, but he’s too green to notice. And everyone’s fretting over Lady Marjory. They say she hasn’t been eating much.”

Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “Poor Marjory. I suppose it’s to be expected after such a shock.”

Catriona hesitated, her expression faltering. “There is… something else, my lady.”

Bridget looked up from the fire. “Go on.”

“Well,” Catriona began, glancing toward the door, “Killian heard from his lordship’s valet that the staff are uneasy. They think there’s no closure, not for Lady Marjory, and not for themselves. They’re wondering whether they should prepare for the funeral.”

“A funeral,” Bridget repeated softly, her gaze distant. “Yes… it would provide some solace.”

Catriona nodded. “The valet also said his lordship was meeting someone the morning of the chase. That’s why he was near the lowlands and that he was told to stay behind, which wasn’t like him at all.”

Bridget frowned. “Did the valet know who Alastair was meeting?”

Catriona shook her head. “No, but he said Lord Alastair seemed nervous. Almost as if he knew something was wrong.”

Bridget tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair, her mind racing. “And Killian? Did he hear anything?”

Catriona nodded. “The stable lads mentioned a visitor, a man none of them recognized, came by a few days ago. He and Lord Alastair spoke privately in the stables. It was brief, but it left everyone wondering. The visitor didn’t stay long.”

Bridget leaned back, her thoughts churning. “Thank you, Catriona. This is helpful. If you or Killian hear anything else, no matter how small, tell me immediately.”

“Of course, my lady.” Catriona hesitated, then added softly, “It’s troubling, isn’t it? To think someone might have meant him harm.”

“It is,” Bridget agreed quietly. “But we’ll get to the truth.”

As Catriona left the room, Bridget stared into the empty hearth. The scullery maid’s infatuation and Marjory’s grief were harmless enough, but the rest? A secret meeting, a mysterious visitor, and Alastair’s unusual behavior painted a much darker picture. One that she knew she couldn’t solve alone.

The drawing room hummed with quiet conversation as the guests gathered for lunch. Miss Hathaway, seated near the hearth, gestured for attention.

“I believe it’s time we address the matter on everyone’s mind,” she began, her voice gentle but resolute. “The staff are understandably shaken, and Lady Marjory… well, she hasn’t made a decision yet, but surely a funeral would provide a sense of closure for everyone.”

The room fell silent as the weight of her words settled over the group. Davenport, his usual cheer subdued, nodded. “It would. But has anyone spoken with the magistrate? I assume Judge Scofield would need to approve arrangements.”

Barrington, seated near the window, cleared his throat. “I spoke with Scofield earlier. He’s asked that everyone remain here until the investigation is concluded. However, a funeral might be permissible, provided it does not interfere with the inquiry.”

Miss Hathaway glanced toward the hallway where Marjory had last been seen. “Someone should speak to her. Perhaps broach the subject.”

Bridget exchanged a glance with Grenville, a silent question passing between them. Grenville inclined his head slightly, deferring to her.

“I’ll speak to her,” Bridget said, her voice steady. “If she’s amenable, the staff can begin planning.”

Miss Hathaway offered a small smile. “Thank you, Lady Bridget. I’m sure it will bring her comfort.”

Bridget left the room and followed the quiet sound of footsteps down the corridor. In a secluded corner near a carved oak door, she found Marjory seated alone, staring out at the gardens. The recent events seemed to take their toll. Bridget gently cleared her throat.

“Marjory,” Bridget began softly, “there’s talk of planning the funeral. They say it might bring some measure of comfort.”