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Sir Richard Doyle had grief on his mind. He sank deeper into the plush depths of the leather armchair, letting his eyes drift over the luxurious contours of his private study at the Monarch Club. A glow from the single lamp on the side table illuminated the burgundy carpet underfoot, while the remaining corners lingered in shadow. It was well past midnight, and though the club remained open for those few souls who enjoyed poker and fine spirits at every hour, Sir Richard had retreated to this private domain—a world cut off from the prying eyes of other members.

He was in his sixties, a lean man whose erect carriage had begun to bow gently beneath the burden of time. His silver hair, which had once been so thick and dark, was carefully combed back, though a few rebellious strands curved across his brow. His face reflected both pedigree and weariness: high cheekbones, deep grooves around his mouth, and a wary sadness in his eyes. Dressed in a tailored midnight-blue suit that whispered of old money, he exuded an air of quiet command. Yet despite this refined exterior, a sense of emptiness gnawed at him.

The study itself mirrored his stature and age. Floor-to-ceiling shelves along the walls housed a trove of venerable books, their spines bound in leather and stamped with gold lettering. Many had not been opened in a decade, but Sir Richard refused to remove them, seeing them as monuments to his family's longstanding presence in London's upper crust. The corners of the room gave way to shadows, as though the Monarch Club had constructed a cozy darkness to protect its most privileged secrets. A wide fireplace, now cold and unlit, boasted a mantle where crystal decanters and framed photographs sat in tidy ranks.

But one piece stood out above the mantle: a portrait of Eleanor, Sir Richard’s wife, who had passed away the previous year. Even in the subdued glow, her painted eyes sparkled with life, as if she observed him from beyond the veil. There were moments—especially during these late hours—when he would almost convince himself that she might speak, chide him gently for brooding, or laugh at some story from their youth. But there was only silence. He had been alone since her passing, alone and childless, with no one to carry on the Doyle legacy other than a niece who refused to talk to him. Each night in this room served as a reminder that beyond his fortune and the exclusivity of the club, he possessed little of enduring substance.

He let out a soft sigh and reached for the aged decanter on the side table. The label on the bottle named a single malt whiskey hailing from Scotland’s western isles, reportedly older than some of the staff who served here. The heavy scent of peat drifted up from the tumbler as he poured, intensifying the hush that settled over the study. The Monarch Club had been his social fortress for decades—here he’d forged alliances, brokered deals, even nursed heartbreak. But in this small midnight hour, the club felt as hollow as he did, its corridors deserted except for a handful of night owls gambling their fortunes away.

He took a measured sip and inhaled, the liquor warming his throat. In that moment, his gaze moved toward a side table near the window, where heavy drapes fell to the floor. He fancied he saw the velvet folds shift, just slightly. Pausing mid-swallow, he steadied his eyes on the curtain. A faint breeze, perhaps? A draft in an older building like this was hardly extraordinary. But all the same, an unease pricked at him, tugging at his instincts.

Sighing, he set the glass down and rose from the armchair, wincing at the stiffness in his knees. As he stepped onto the thick carpet, his senses seemed amplified, detecting each creak of the aged wooden floor beneath him. In the stillness, even the faint hum of distant traffic outside felt magnified.

Eleanor would say I’m being paranoid , he thought, allowing himself the flicker of a smile.

She had always teased him for his ability to find drama in the smallest discomforts. Now, he had to make sense of such “trifles” alone. But the swirling in his chest told him something was off tonight. Perhaps it was only the lingering grief that shadowed him at every corner, a grief that leapt up in unexpected moments.

He turned to the portrait of his wife, her painted likeness capturing the warmth she had radiated in life. “I miss you,” he breathed softly, not quite daring to speak louder for fear the empty room might echo him cruelly. Sometimes, after the hush of the day gave way to the deep hush of night, he would converse with Eleanor’s portrait as though it were a confidant. But tonight, a mounting sense of tension stifled that inclination. Even so, he felt compelled to voice it: “I’m so sorry we never…” He stopped himself before finishing the sentence, the mention of children too painful a memory to utter in full.

A soft noise, like fabric brushing against the window, snapped his attention back to the drapes. His heart quickened. The material swayed gently, less than a breath of movement, yet somehow deliberate. Compelled by a strange mixture of dread and curiosity, he took a couple of steps forward. Each footfall on the plush carpet was almost soundless, a stealthy approach he might have found amusing under different circumstances. His fingertips hovered near the drapes, anticipating… what, exactly?

Then, cutting through his rising anxiety like a blade, came a resolute knock at the study door. The sound startled him enough that he nearly dropped the hand he had raised to the curtain. He turned, his pulse hammering. Even as relief swept over him —someone from the staff, presumably—he felt vexed by how jumpy he’d become.

He cleared his throat and called out, “Yes, come in,” his voice scarcely betraying the tremor he felt within. Brushing invisible dust from his suit, he approached the door.

The portal swung open to reveal Frederick—one of the newer staff members. The young man’s face looked drawn, and his uniform tie was slightly askew, suggesting he had been working nonstop for hours. Sir Richard recalled that Frederick was perhaps late twenties, a conscientious lad whose mild manner made him easy to overlook in the bustling environment of the club.

“Sir Richard,” Frederick began, then hesitated, offering a stammered apology as he realized the older man looked somewhat discomfited. “I do beg your pardon for disturbing you at this time of night.”

Sir Richard mustered a composed smile. “No disturbance at all, Frederick. What’s the matter?” He glanced past Frederick into the empty hallway, half expecting to see another staff member or perhaps a security guard. But it was just the young man, alone and radiating unease.

Frederick stepped in, glancing at his own feet. “We… we’re having an electrical problem in the kitchen, sir. They say it’s become dangerous, so we’re closing the kitchen for the night until an electrician can see to it. I just—I wanted to let you know.”

Sir Richard’s shoulders relaxed. He couldn’t hold back a dry laugh. “At my age, eating after midnight is frowned upon, so you needn’t worry about me.” Indeed, he had no appetite. Whiskey was more than enough to occupy his taste buds at this hour. “But you might have trouble when the stragglers at the poker tables come looking for snacks.”

Frederick paled, then nodded nervously. “Yes, sir, precisely my concern. They’ll be—”

“—aggravated, wanting sandwiches or pastries to soak up their liquor?” Sir Richard supplied, lips quirking in faint amusement. “Ah, don’t fret. Just be sure to keep their glasses filled, and I suspect they’ll be too merry to care.” He paused, noticing how uncomfortable Frederick looked. The lad was likely imagining a night of wealthy patrons complaining about the lack of a gourmet midnight snack. “Here,” Sir Richard said, and reached into his breast pocket. He produced a neatly folded fifty-pound note. “A little something for your trouble, hmm?”

Frederick’s eyes widened. “Sir, that’s very generous. I… I hardly know what to say.”

“Say you’ll put it to good use,” Sir Richard replied gently, placing the note into the younger man’s own pocket. “You deserve some thanks, especially dealing with those late-night gamblers. You’d think men of empire would have calmer nerves, but not always. Now run along, and let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Frederick bobbed his head appreciatively. “Thank you, Sir Richard. Please, have a good evening. I’ll see myself out.”

Then the staff member disappeared back into the hall, closing the door with a soft click. For a moment, Sir Richard stood by the door, straining to hear the departing footsteps. Silence crept in like a cunning predator. The tension from before seeped back into his mind, drawn by the memory of that strange shifting curtain. But he exhaled slowly. Likely it was just a quirk of this old building’s ventilation system, or a draft from a slightly open window.

Let’s not let fears run wild, old fellow , he told himself.

His gaze fell again upon the portrait of Eleanor hanging over the mantle. The love of his life had once teased that he had the mind of a restless investigator, forever seeking drama where none existed. He felt a new pang of sorrow. If only she were still here to soothe his worries. He rubbed his eyes, which felt hot with tears he refused to let fall. “My darling,” he whispered, the words almost swallowed by the hush of the study.

A swirl of conflicting emotions enveloped him: longing for Eleanor, regret over the childless house he would leave behind, and the residual discomfort from that odd moment near the curtains. Taking a fresh gulp of the whiskey, he let the warmth trickle through his body. A fleeting sense of calm settled into his chest.

But that was when he heard it: a subtle creak from somewhere by the window. Perhaps the wood was contracting from the cool night air, but the timing felt too deliberate. His stomach knotted. Curiosity and apprehension waged war within him. He could dismiss it as nothing more than old floors or a gust of wind. Or he could check properly.

Swallowing the last drop, he set the empty glass down on a side table and moved toward the window once more. The heavy drapes were parted slightly, allowing a faint glow from the streetlamps outside to slant onto the carpet. From this vantage, he noticed the latch on the frame, confirming it was indeed closed—locked, in fact. He lifted a hand and ran his fingertips over the cool glass, ensuring it was shut tight. The smoothness reassured him.

“I’m letting my nerves get to me,” he muttered. For all his wealth and status, he felt powerless under the weight of his own imagination. Each passing second, though, heightened the sense that something wasn’t right.

He was about to turn away when, in the corner of his eye, the drape appeared to bulge. A quick inhalation froze in his throat. The fabric that had been so still after Frederick’s visit now shifted abruptly, as though an unseen figure stood behind it.

In a burst of terror, Sir Richard pivoted to face the drape fully, determined to yank it aside and unmask whatever was lurking. His heart thundered, filling his ears with its urgent drumbeat. Summoning what courage he had, he lifted an unsteady hand.

But before he could pull the curtain away, something shot out from behind the velvet folds—a hand, gloved or otherwise cloaked in darkness. It latched onto his neck, strong fingers crushing his windpipe. He tried to gasp, tried to cry out, but an iron grip pressed across his mouth. In his stunned state, he barely registered the glint of a blade.

Then the knife found him, a surge of violent agony exploding in his torso. First a brutal stab to his chest, then another that cut deeper to his side, as if the assailant meant to carve away his very life. The silent study erupted in chaos: his glass overturned, shards scattering across the carpet, and the lamp wobbled precariously on the table.

The pain was unlike anything he’d felt before, a blazing heat and a paralyzing cold coursing simultaneously through his veins. He staggered backward, wrestling with the figure’s arms, but they moved with lethal coordination. Another jolt of pain pierced his neck, doubling him over. Blood surged at the corners of his vision.

He tumbled to the ground with a defeated cry, back colliding with the rug as he gasped for breath that would not come. His sight blurred, and in that haze of terror, he glimpsed the final, horrifying sight: droplets of his blood spattered across Eleanor’s portrait. The painting’s once-serene expression was tainted by a crimson smear that defiled her memory, a last violation that shattered his heart in a way the knife could not.

A ragged exhalation left his lips, all strength fleeing his limbs. He wanted to think of something profound—some last vestige of life, some fleeting image of days gone by—but his mind spiraled down into darkness. His chest spasmed once, then fell still.

In the cold hush of midnight, Sir Richard Doyle’s world winked out forever, leaving only the drip-drip of blood and the silent watcher behind the velvet curtain, whose work was now complete. The Monarch Club’s grand study, so regal and sumptuous, had become a macabre tomb for one of its oldest members. And somewhere beyond the walls, London slumbered on, unaware that a killer had taken the first step in a scheme that would rattle the highest echelons of society.