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“Who in the world would kill Sir Richard?” Geoffrey Wardlow murmured aloud, leaning back into the armchair’s embrace.

Geoffrey sat in his spacious townhouse on the outskirts of London, a half-finished glass of brandy in his hand. It was late—later than he usually stayed up on a weeknight—and yet sleep felt impossible. He was forty-five years old, with a black beard neatly trimmed around a strong jawline. His olive skin betrayed a Mediterranean heritage from his mother’s side; his father had been English through and through. Usually, Geoffrey carried himself with an air of calm confidence, the sort that came from moderate success in business and membership in exclusive circles like The Monarch Club. But tonight, that composure was in short supply.

His television displayed a rolling news report about Sir Richard Doyle’s shocking death. The reporter’s voice, low and measured, relayed the grim details: Sir Richard had been found stabbed in his private study, left to bleed out on the very floor where Geoffrey had stood with him only days before. The memory gave him a shiver, as though an icy draft had threaded its way through his comfortable living room.

From his vantage point on the wide leather armchair near the TV, Geoffrey reached for the remote and turned the volume down. The reporter’s words still drifted across the screen in captions: Stabbed at least three times… discovered too late for medical intervention… investigation ongoing. He tipped his brandy glass, swirling the amber liquid, trying to process the impossible news.

He’d known Sir Richard for years, albeit not as a close friend. They played chess on occasion—always in that very study, with its antique board set and a half-open window that let in the faint city air. Geoffrey closed his eyes, recalling the faint squeak of the club’s leather chairs, the soft scrape of chess pieces on polished wood, the murmured quips about the day’s affairs. Now, the same study had turned into a murder scene.

He traced his thumb along the rim of the glass, a habit whenever he was thinking. Most members of The Monarch Club had spoken favorably of Sir Richard—affable, charming, though perhaps strict in his duties as a board member. Then again, Geoffrey knew that the club’s board sometimes enforced strict standards. “Sometimes to the point of revoking membership,” he recalled, brow creasing.

Sir Richard had mentioned it a handful of times: if members brought the club into disrepute or caused some scandal, the board could revoke their membership. It was rarely done, but it could create enemies. Geoffrey sighed, imagining someone’s anger flaring to the point of murder. A disgruntled ex-member? he thought. It seemed plausible. Revenge was a powerful motive.

On the muted TV, footage of The Monarch’s grand entrance looped again, reporters jostling near the gates. Geoffrey found no comfort in the sight—only an unsettling sense that the club’s hush-hush world had been cracked open. He set his glass on a side table, the brandy left half-drunk.

Suddenly, a faint sound rustled at the edge of his hearing. Something like a shuffle against the floorboards. He froze, leaning forward, ears straining for the slightest noise. His living room opened directly into a dining area and then a small hallway leading to the front door. Light from the lamp on his side table created a halo around his chair but left the far corners in dim shadow.

Geoffrey peered over the back of the armchair, scanning the darkness across his open-plan sitting-and-dining area. Nothing. Just the silent silhouettes of furniture: a wooden dining table, four chairs, a tall bookshelf in the far corner. Perhaps his nerves were playing tricks on him. Still, the hair on his arms stood upright.

He breathed out slowly and tried to dismiss the thought. Grasping his brandy once more, he took a final sip for courage. This murder had clearly gotten under his skin. “I’m overreacting,” he whispered, setting the empty glass aside.

Yet that uneasy idea he’d had moments ago took on renewed weight: Last year, for a brief stint, I sat on the Monarch Club’s board, covering for a member who was unwell. He’d signed off on a few decisions, though none were major. Still, if someone was targeting the board, he could be in danger, too. A chill prickled over his skin again, more intense this time. He shook his head. Don’t be paranoid, old chap.

He stood up, deciding to turn in for the night and hope for better clarity in the morning. The wide room’s ambient lighting cast subtle reflections on the polished floor, trailing him as he headed toward the door to the main hallway. Just as his hand closed around the antique brass knob, he thought he heard another faint creak. His pulse jerked.

“Hello?” he called, voice echoing softly. A second or two of silence. No response. He half-laughed at himself. The house was large; old timbers tended to groan at night. Perhaps that was all it was. But the tension wouldn’t fade.

Then it came again: a gentle creak from behind the door. This time, it raised goosebumps on his arms. Something or someone was there. A swallow caught in his throat, heart pounding so loudly he could barely think. He let go of the handle and backed away.

Memories of reading about burglary or violent crime scenarios flashed through his mind. He cursed under his breath and moved toward the adjoining kitchen area—thankful for the open floor plan that let him see every piece of furniture, every corner, so he couldn’t be ambushed. On the kitchen worktop, he spotted a large chef’s knife left out from the previous night’s cooking. He gripped the wooden handle, the blade glinting faintly.

Pressing the knife close to his side, he inched back across the living space. The door remained closed, the handle still. Gathering courage, he lifted his voice, false bravado surging. “I’m armed!” he warned. “Whoever’s there… I’ll call the police!” He paused, listening. Another creak or shuffle. “Enough,” he growled under his breath.

Throwing caution aside, Geoffrey lunged forward and flung the door open wide. Tension erupted into—relief. Sprawled across the threshold was Sandy, his large Labrador, tail thumping on the floor in greeting. The dog peered up at him with a curious tilt of the head, tongue lolling.

“God, Sandy,” Geoffrey breathed, letting the adrenaline drain from his limbs. “You gave me a scare, boy.” He set the knife aside on a hallway table, leaning down to ruffle the dog’s floppy ears. Sandy responded with eager licks and a wagging tail.

“Come on,” Geoffrey said in a softer tone, patting Sandy’s flank. “Let’s stick together tonight, hmm? Can’t have me jumping at shadows every time the floor squeaks.” His nerves were still strung tight, but the dog’s calm presence helped soothe the worst of it.

Sandy, however, remained seated on the threshold, head cocked as though listening to something else. The dog let out a single, resonant bark. Geoffrey blinked in mild confusion. “What is it, boy?” he asked.

Then, in a heartbeat, he heard an unmistakable creak from behind him. This time it was different—sharp, purposeful. He pivoted just in time to see a tall figure bursting from the darkness of the living room, arms raised. A knife glinted under the overhead lamp, brandished high above the intruder’s head.

Geoffrey didn’t even manage a shout. The figure closed the distance in a heartbeat, footsteps pounding on the hardwood. Before he could jerk away, the blade descended. A stunning impact crushed into the stop of his head, pain exploding in a shock wave He reeled, the world tilting crazily. His legs gave out as the agony radiated through his skull.

The intruder’s knife was embedded deeply—Geoffrey couldn’t muster the coordination to fight back or even scream. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and numbness swallowed his senses. He was vaguely aware of Sandy cowering, barking in alarm, but everything blurred into a haze of agony.

Somewhere beyond the pain, he felt the figure bend over him. A frantic tugging motion? The edges of Geoffrey’s vision turned black, his thoughts unraveling in a wave of final terror. Then came oblivion.

Sandy let out a helpless whine, tail tucked, gaze locked on his master’s motionless form. The tall intruder hunched close, face hidden in dim shadows. For a moment, there was silence apart from the dog’s soft whimpers and the faint ring of the murderer’s ragged breathing.

With uncanny calm, the figure seemed to examine Geoffrey’s lifeless body, performing some unseen act—a rummaging for something, or perhaps placing something. The dog barked again, a desperate, lonely sound.

Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the figure rose and darted back into the darkness, footsteps receding into the far corners of the house. In mere seconds, everything was still except for Sandy’s panicked panting.

The television in the living room continued to play muted news footage of Sir Richard Doyle’s murder, oblivious to this fresh horror that had just befallen Geoffrey Wardlow. The brandy glass on the side table remained undisturbed, a silent witness to the savage finality that had claimed its owner.

And in that silent townhouse, on a quiet stretch of London’s outskirts, another life ended in the wake of Sir Richard’s death—leaving only shadows, the loyal dog’s whine, and a knife-wielding killer disappearing into the night.