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The rumble of the old red Corvette’s engine echoed through the narrow streets of central London, though “rumble” might have been too generous a word. It coughed and sputtered at low speeds, complaining loudly each time Finn pressed the accelerator. At a stoplight, Amelia eyed him from the passenger seat, her lips wry with amusement.

“I still say you’d be better off on a unicycle,” she remarked, raising her voice to compete with the protesting growl of the motor.

Finn rested both hands on the worn steering wheel and shot her a lopsided grin. “Give me time. Once I’ve restored this baby, you’ll be begging me to drive you everywhere.”

She rolled her eyes, though not unkindly. “We’ll see, Mr. American Muscle. For now, it sounds like we’re herding cats under the hood.”

He laughed, the sound momentarily drowned out by the car’s noisy idle. The truth was, the Corvette was indeed in dire need of mechanical TLC—Finn knew that. But it also had a classic silhouette he couldn’t resist, a piece of vintage Americana in a city saturated with hatchbacks and double-decker buses. It gave him a sense of continuity with his old life back in the States, even though everything about that old life had changed.

Another light turned green, and Finn guided the corvette forward, weaving through traffic. The air outside was crisp, not quite warm enough to be pleasant, but no longer freezing as winter gave way to early spring. London’s skyline rose majestically on the horizon, a reminder that the city never truly slept—even in broad daylight, it buzzed with a restless energy.

“The Chief said The Monarch Club is in Mayfair, right?” Amelia checked, scrolling through details on her phone.

Finn gave a curt nod. “That’s what he told me over the phone. A place for Britain’s upper crust to feel a bit more upper than the rest, I guess.”

“Possibly,” she mused, “but also the site of a murder that’s causing quite a stir. Sir Richard Doyle’s death isn’t just a random tragedy—he was knighted, rumored to have ties all over the place. This will be under a hell of a spotlight.”

The car rattled slightly as Finn slowed down near a grand square lined with centuries-old buildings. Ornate carvings decorated their facades: rosettes, gargoyles, and fluted columns all celebrating architectural prowess from another era. Silk banners, hung between second-floor windows, fluttered in a stiff breeze.

“Must be the place,” Amelia said, pointing toward a cluster of police tape and the two uniformed constables standing guard at one building’s entrance. The building itself soared several stories high, each floor featuring tall, arched windows. The stone facade was an off-white that had weathered with time, its pillars carved to resemble classical figures. Above the enormous double doors, a dignified bronze plaque read, The Monarch Club .

Finn eased the Corvette to the curb with minimal fuss—though the engine sputtered defiantly one last time as he turned the ignition off. “See?” he quipped. “Got us here in one piece, no unicycle needed.”

Amelia shook her head, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Immediately, she took in the sight of official vehicles, a swirl of curious onlookers, and the steady presence of uniformed officers. The square seemed like a place of notable affluence to Finn, but today it bristled with tension and unwanted publicity.

A familiar figure emerged from between two parked squad cars: Chief Constable Rob Collins, Amelia’s boss. Tall and in his thirties, deep dark black hair that lent him a certain gravitas, Rob navigated the scene like a general in the midst of a small war.

“Chief,” Amelia greeted, her tone polite and measured.

“Rob,” Finn added with an easy grin. Finn refused to call his old college buddy “chief”, even if he was under his supervision while working as a consulting detective.

Rob gave a brief smile, but the flicker of urgency in his eyes was unmistakable. “Glad you two could make it.” He gave a curt nod at the corvette behind them. “I see your restoration of that hunk of junk is going to plan. At least it’s stylish.”

“Style is one word for it,” Amelia said, half under her breath.

Finn just shrugged. “You wouldn’t begrudge me a classic, would you, Rob?”

Rob dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let me give you the short version before the press descends like vultures. Sir Richard Doyle—knighted, fairly well-connected—was found murdered in his private study inside here, The Monarch Club. This place is… exclusive. The membership list is a who’s who of Britain’s power players. MPs, dukes, magnates—you name it. They do not want this murder turning into a media spectacle.”

“Understandably,” Amelia said. “Though with a name like Sir Richard, that’s nearly impossible.”

“Right. Follow me. The club’s sealed off, but we’ve already got paparazzi lurking. Keep your heads down.” Rob jerked his chin at a small throng of photographers milling across the street.

They passed the two constables on duty, each offering a respectful nod as Rob, Finn, and Amelia strode toward the entrance. Just then, a camera flash popped from somewhere behind them, bright enough that Finn halted and turned with a playful flourish.

He struck an exaggerated pose, one hand on his hip, the other adjusting an imaginary tie. The paparazzi snapped another picture.

Amelia groaned, grabbing Finn’s elbow. “Stop hamming it up,” she hissed. “We’re not on a red carpet.”

He only grinned. “Might as well give them something to photograph.”

Eyes rolling, she urged him forward. The wooden doors, large and intricately carved, led into a grand foyer that seemed lifted from a different century. A polished marble floor reflected the overhead chandeliers, their crystals shimmering with each subtle movement of air. Gilded mirrors punctuated the walls, while tapestries depicting heraldic crests lent an archaic splendor.

Finn's eyebrows rose. "Majestic is an understatement," he murmured. Golden trim traced the edges of the moldings, the faint scent of lemon polish mixed with stale cigar smoke.

A man in his forties hurried up to them from across the lobby, wiping beads of sweat from his balding head with a monogrammed handkerchief. His tailored suit looked slightly rumpled, perhaps from pacing. The pallor of his cheeks and the worry lines on his brow marked him as a man under severe stress.

Rob inclined his head in greeting. “Finn, Amelia—this is Theodore Crawford, the manager of The Monarch Club. He’s the one who called it in once the body was discovered.”

Theodore nodded jerkily. “Yes, yes. I’m Theodore… can’t believe this happened.” He cast a nervous glance toward the doors, where more photographers pressed in search of a better angle. “Blasted paparazzi. Jackals, the lot of them. They’re only here because Sir Richard was so well-known.” His voice quivered. “I’m just relieved you two are here. I’ve heard… very good things about your work. I read about it in the newspapers.”

“Appreciate the confidence,” Amelia said. “But let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“Please, this way.” Theodore pivoted, leading them down a corridor off the lobby. The decor continued its grand theme: plush carpeting, walls lined with ornate sconces that gave off a soft, warm glow. The corridor opened into a sweeping staircase that curved to the upper floors, its banisters carved with lion and griffin motifs.

As they climbed, Finn took in the hush that seemed to envelop each landing. The entire place exuded an aura of wealth, from the gold-leaf accents to the thick draperies that framed tall windows overlooking the square. On walls between the windows hung oil portraits of solemn-faced men—likely past club presidents or luminaries. Finn felt a mild awe. He’d spent time in upscale FBI offices and even the upper echelons of Washington’s power circles, but The Monarch had a level of quiet opulence that whispered, We have influence to spare.

Midway up, he paused, noticing the absence of any visible security cameras. “No cameras?” he asked. “Surprising for a club that caters to the most powerful in Britain.”

Theodore’s expression tensed. “A private gentleman's club should be precisely that—private. Our members value discretion above all else. Sir Richard’s request as well, among others.”

Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia, neither of them voicing what was obvious: lacking cameras meant a steeper challenge.

They reached a wide landing where a single constable stood guard before a door. The door itself was heavy mahogany, complemented by a brass plaque that simply read “Private Study—Sir Richard Doyle.” The policeman stepped aside for Rob, Finn, Amelia, and Theodore.

“Anyone in or out, Officer?” Rob asked briskly.

The constable shook his head. “No, Chief. No one’s been permitted inside since we got here.”

“Good,” Rob said. He motioned for Finn and Amelia to don latex gloves. All three snapped on the gloves, a ritual that carried the weight of grim familiarity. The simple act meant they were about to step into someone’s final moments.

Theodore clutched his handkerchief again, sweat dappling his forehead. “He was a member for forty years—FORTY—and… now he’s… well.” His eyes darted to the threshold, as though repulsed by the horrors beyond.

Rob placed a hand on Theodore’s shoulder. “We appreciate your help. Might be best if you wait outside until we finish our initial look.”

The manager swallowed hard, then nodded. “Right. Of course. I’ll… fetch some water.” With a shaky bow, he turned and hurried away, footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

Taking a fortifying breath, Rob pushed open the door. Finn and Amelia followed him into a study reminiscent of an art gallery fused with a private library. The walls were lined with shelves holding first editions and lavish leather-bound volumes. A heavy antique desk dominated one corner, crowned with gilded picture frames. At the far end, an oil portrait of Sir Richard himself—silver-haired and confident—looked down on the proceedings with silent reproach.

Sir Richard Doyle’s body lay face-down in a space between the desk and a high-backed armchair. The hush in the room was profound, as though the ancient furniture itself mourned its master. Rob edged closer, flipping on the overhead light so they could see more clearly.

Amelia crouched near the body. The victim wore an elegant suit, the fabric darkened where blood had seeped through. She noted that Sir Richard’s arms were splayed out in a particular angle. “Look at his arms,” she murmured. “It’s not a natural falling position. It’s almost as though someone positioned him after death.”

Finn knelt opposite her, shining a small pocket flashlight. The stillness felt heavy, a jarring contrast to the normal hustle of a crime scene. He glanced at Sir Richard’s features—a man who, in life, had likely projected dignity and command. Now, his face was slack, every muscle undone by violence.

That was when Finn noticed something lodged in the man’s mouth. He leaned in, mindful of preserving evidence. “There’s… something here,” he said, voice hushed. Delicately, he used the flashlight’s beam to illuminate the interior of Sir Richard’s parted lips. “It’s a poker chip.”

Rob’s head snapped up. “A poker chip in his mouth? That’s twisted.”

Amelia drew a short breath, eyebrows lifting. “A statement of some sort?”

Finn straightened. “Hard to say. It could be a reference to gambling debt or a metaphorical message. If he owed someone, this killer might be suggesting he couldn’t ‘pay up.’ Or if someone owed him , it might signify revenge.”

Rob set a hand lightly on Amelia's shoulder, as if to gather the team's collective thoughts. "So we're dealing with a symbolic murder, possibly linked to poker or gambling. Is this the motive? Money and cards?"

“It’s possible,” Amelia said, adjusting her gloves. “But we can’t confirm anything yet. For all we know, the killer wanted to stage it this way for some reason that has nothing to do with real debts. Or maybe Sir Richard was blackmailing someone. We have to keep every angle open.”

Finn flicked off his flashlight. “We’ll need to speak with staff, find out when Sir Richard was last seen, see if he was known to gamble regularly. And I’d like to know who else is a member here. If this is a club for the elite, the suspect pool could be shallow in number but deep in potential secrets.”

Amelia nodded. “Yes, and we should check if the club keeps any form of logs—maybe not cameras, but sign-in sheets, membership logs, or visitors recorded. They can’t rely on total secrecy with a full staff around.”

Rob sighed. “Right. Let’s start with Theodore and the rest of the staff. We’ll get forensics in to examine the body more thoroughly. Then we’ll see who was around last night.”

Finn took one last look at Sir Richard’s lifeless form. The old man’s pose, the forcibly placed poker chip—it all suggested an elaborate staging. “A hand of cards,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Amelia shot him a questioning glance. “Pardon?”

He shook off the thought for now. “Nothing yet, just… an intuition. Let’s find the staff, shall we?” With that, he rose to his feet, trying to ignore the weight of Sir Richard’s death that hung over the study like a final sentence.

The three of them filed out of the room, each resolved to unravel the truth behind this unsettling murder. Outside, they could hear Theodore pacing in the corridor, and beyond the tall windows, the murmurs of gathered paparazzi indicated that this wasn’t just another violent crime. It was a spectacle—one with the power to shake the pillars of a rarefied London world. Finn cast a final backward glance, certain that whatever sinister secrets lurked in The Monarch Club, they were just getting started.