Page 5

Amid the lingering hush inside Sir Richard Doyle’s private study, the mood felt markedly somber to Finn. The crime scene lights had been set up, casting harsh angles across the centuries-old wood paneling and the now-empty armchair by the fireplace. Forensics technicians moved about with practiced efficiency, photographing blood spatters on the curtains and carefully bagging fragments of broken glass from a toppled tumbler.

Finn and Amelia stood near the doorway, observing the meticulous process as Sir Richard’s body was prepared to be moved from the premises. A female pathologist, clad in a crisp white coat over dark slacks, supervised two forensic staff members who carried a black body bag. Her blond hair, woven into a neatly coiled bun, glimmered under the overhead lamps. Balanced on her nose were a pair of slim rectangular glasses, through which sharp blue eyes assessed every detail.

“Doctor Wednesday Knott,” she said, glancing momentarily at Finn before turning her attention to Amelia. “Pathologist attached to this investigation.” Her voice was calm and measured.

Finn offered a tentative smile, his gaze drifting to the ID badge clipped to her coat pocket. “Wednesday Knott—like that TV show, Wednesday Ad... ” he began, fishing for a bit of levity.

She barely acknowledged his remark, cutting him off. “I've heard that a thousand times.” Turning to Amelia instead, Dr. Knott’s lips formed a thin, polite line. “Inspector Winters, correct?”

Amelia offered a short nod. “That’s me. This is Finn Wright, my consulting partner. Ignore his silliness, he's actually quite good at what he does.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked briefly toward Finn, but she made no further comment about his attempt at humor. “We’ll be leaving with the body in just a moment,” she continued, “though I wanted to give you a preliminary overview of what I’ve observed so far.”

Amelia nodded, stepping closer while the two forensic techs zipped the body bag. Finn lingered a pace behind them, his arms loosely crossed as he watched. The entire process was grim but familiar: the gentle care with which they handled the deceased, the quiet hush of methodical notes and small talk among the technicians, the respectful hush that inevitably settled when a victim was about to depart.

“Anything stand out?” Amelia asked, keeping her voice low.

Wednesday clasped her hands together. “The injuries suggest three distinct, precise strikes—one penetrating the liver, one the heart, and one slashing or stabbing across the jugular vein. All likely inflicted in quick succession. Sir Richard bled heavily internally as well as externally. Given the level of precision, I’d say the attacker showed more than average skill. Possibly surgical or combat knowledge, or at least someone comfortable with a blade.”

Finn exhaled softly. “That’s not your average attacker lunging in a rage,” he remarked, his attention briefly shifting to the spot on the floor where a dark outline of congealed blood remained. “This is more methodical. Even if it was done quickly, those are lethal targets.”

Wednesday barely turned her head to acknowledge him. “Indeed.” Then, to Amelia, she added, “I won’t know for certain until the autopsy is complete, but from the external evidence, these wounds would each be potentially fatal. Together, they guaranteed Sir Richard wouldn’t survive more than a minute or two. He wouldn't have been likely to cry out if the strike to the liver put him into shock. Grim, but that’s the reality. I know you are aware of the poker chip in his mouth, I'll extract that and see what I can make of it.”

Finn studied the young pathologist’s poised manner. Dr. Wednesday Knott, all told, couldn’t have been older than her late twenties, yet she carried herself with the calm authority of someone used to dissecting life-or-death details.

“We’ll need that full report as soon as you can manage it,” Amelia said, her tone carefully polite. “We’re following multiple lines of inquiry, and your findings will help us pinpoint whether this was a spur-of-the-moment killing or something more—planned.”

“I understand,” Wednesday answered. “I’ll forward the official file to your department, Inspector Winters, once we finalize toxicology and a thorough internal exam.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to leave with the body. Time is of the essence if we want accurate postmortem results.”

“Of course,” Amelia said. “Thank you.”

The pathologist signaled to the techs, who carefully lifted the black bag. Before following them out, Wednesday spared a fleeting glance at Finn. “Good day, Inspector Winters,” she said, addressing Amelia by title once more. Then, with the mildest nod toward Finn, she turned and strode into the corridor. The door eased shut behind her, accompanied by the muted hum of conversation as she departed.

Finn arched a brow, half-amused and half-chagrined. “She was… direct.”

Amelia’s lips quirked. “I like her. You could use a few folks who don’t indulge your jokes.”

“Me?” he said, feigning offense. “I’m a gem.”

She smiled softly, stepping away from the spot where Sir Richard’s body had lain. The study felt oddly larger now that the victim was gone, yet the atmosphere remained tense, as if the room itself remembered the violence. Her eyes flicked to the heavy curtains near the tall windows, the same place Finn had theorized a killer might have hidden. “Any new thoughts about the missing sign-in sheet?” she asked.

Finn followed her gaze. “We haven’t turned up any alternative records yet. And so far, the staff we’ve questioned are more frightened than anything else.”

Amelia nodded, crossing her arms. “We need more pieces of the puzzle. Let’s review what we have: The front-desk log is missing. The murder weapon isn’t in plain sight—someone took it with them. Frederick says he last saw Sir Richard alone. But there’s also a strong possibility that the killer planned this, given Dr. Knott’s take on the precision of those wounds.”

“I'd say we were dealing with an assassin,” Finn said, “but a professional wouldn't have carried out a hit in here. He'd have found somewhere easier.”

Finn stepped toward the window, gingerly poking aside the curtain so he could peer at the street below. The paparazzi presence was visible even from here—a jostling crowd behind police tape. “At first, we consider the idea that a member found Sir Richard, lost their temper, and killed him on impulse. But if it was truly a crime of passion, I doubt they would have known exactly where to cut to deliver three near-instant fatal blows. That suggests advanced knowledge or at least a practiced hand with a knife.”

“And they then had the foresight to remove the sign-in sheet to conceal their identity,” Amelia said. “Which supports a calmer, more methodical approach, or at least one carried out by someone who realized the need to cover their tracks quickly.”

Finn nodded. “We can’t discount the possibility of outside infiltration, but your theory that it’s an existing member makes sense. Only a member or staff might’ve walked in here at that hour without raising suspicion. We’re dealing with someone confident enough to lurk behind curtains, wait for the perfect moment, and strike with clinical efficiency.”

The distant sound of footsteps in the corridor approached, then stopped just short of the door. A faint crackle sounded in Amelia’s radio. She took it from her belt. “Winters here,” she said.

“Chief Collins speaking,” Rob’s voice crackled through. “I’m heading back to the Hertfordshire Constabulary for a briefing. Let me know the moment you get anything solid. This paparazzi circus is a real pain, but I’ll keep them corralled.”

“We’ll keep you posted, Chief,” Amelia replied. “Good luck with the press.”

A short click indicated Rob had signed off. Finn set aside the curtain and turned back to the spot on the floor where a dark stain marked the final resting place of Sir Richard’s body. “So,” he said quietly, “we’ve lost the official guest list that could reveal who was actually inside the building. That means if someone outside the membership was here, it’s not going to show up in records. No cameras... And if the killer is a member… well, that’s even trickier. Because half these guys likely have the resources to hire lawyers and spin media narratives before we can even press them for an interview.”

Amelia stood beside him, brow furrowed. "At least we know one thing: the presence of that poker chip in Sir Richard's mouth. We need to find out who might have had a grudge against him. Possibly over gambling debts, or an unpaid sum. If there's any secret betting ring going on, as Frederick alluded to, we'll need to follow that trail."

“Frederick hinted there might be after-midnight card games in one of the private rooms,” Finn recalled. “Even if the club’s official stance is ‘no betting allowed,’ we know how easily rules can be sidestepped behind closed doors. Especially if you're rich enough.”

Amelia paced a small circle around the stained rug, visually tracing the line of blood droplets as if it might reveal more answers. "Right. So, let’s figure out who else might have known about Sir Richard’s gambling habits. Did he owe someone? Was he collecting debts from others? Could it be blackmail gone wrong?”

Finn watched her, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. In many ways, her structured thought process reminded him of an FBI colleague he’d once worked with—a man who’d taught him the importance of methodically checking each lead. But Amelia also brought her own brand of calm poise, gleaned from a decade in English policing. “We can start by speaking to Sir Richard’s next of kin,” he said, the idea solidifying as he spoke. “Get a sense of his personal life and any feuds or large debts. Also, old grudges. We don’t know yet if this was purely about money. It could mean something else.”

“I’m on board,” Amelia affirmed. “Let’s see: Widow? Children? Extended family? If we can find them, we might learn about his recent dealings. Possibly, they’ll confirm or deny whether he had gambling issues or money problems.”

Finn nodded. “We can also get in touch with his solicitor if he had one. Figures of Sir Richard’s status tend to have estate plans, and lawyers sometimes know more about a client’s behind-the-scenes concerns than the family does.”

“True,” Amelia agreed, checking her phone briefly. “We’ll also follow up with Theodore for more membership rosters. Or staff rosters, for that matter. The sign-in sheet might be gone, but we can still piece together tidbits from everyone’s shift schedules. Someone will remember who stayed late.”

They exchanged a final glance around the study. The once-posh setting seemed strangely hollow now: the plush chairs felt deserted, and the row of classic novels lining the shelves exuded a silent witness to the violence that had unfolded. The faint odor of cleaning solution hovered where forensic technicians had sanitized the area, struggling to mask the coppery scent of dried blood.

"Poor Sir Richard," Amelia murmured. "As much as we can guess about his murder being cold-blooded, I have to wonder if he saw it coming. Or if he thought he was safe in this place up until the very last moment."

Finn exhaled, a heaviness settling over him. “You always hope the victim didn't have time to know much about what was happening to them, but it's rarely that easy.”

With a single nod, Amelia moved to the door. She paused and glanced back, making sure the lights were still on and the windows locked. Then, together, they left the private study, stepping into the corridor’s hushed grandeur. The club’s silence felt thick as velvet, loaded with tensions from the staff’s anxiety and the building’s inherent secrecy. Sir Richard Doyle had been an esteemed member, and his death reverberated through these halls like a shock wave no one dared acknowledge too loudly.

As they headed for the nearest staircase, Finn kept his voice low. “We should do some digging to get his next of kin.” His mind was already spinning on the next steps: notifications, inquiries, official forms.

“Right. Let’s ask Theodore for that. He might know.” Amelia confirmed, stepping carefully down the plush-carpeted stairs. The hum of hushed conversation drifted from somewhere below. Maybe club employees were conferring, or the paparazzi were still trying to pry open cracks in the door. Either way, the next leg of their investigation would lead them out of this opulent but claustrophobic building.