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Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Locked Door
The snow had been falling for three hours when Margot Lisle received the call. She was sitting in her cramped office above the hardware store on Pemberton Street, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago, watching the Christmas Eve shoppers hurry past with their parcels and their breath making clouds in the frozen air.
"Detective Lisle?" The voice on the phone was clipped, professional. "This is Sergeant Davies at the station. We've got a situation at Whitmore House. Desmond Whitmore is dead."
Margot set down her cup. Desmond Whitmore. The name carried weight in this county—had for three generations. Whitmore Textiles employed half the town, and Desmond himself had been a fixture at every charity gala, every town council meeting, every Christmas parade for forty years.
"Natural causes?" she asked, though something in Davies's tone told her it wasn't.
"The family doctor says heart failure. But the circumstances are... unusual. The family's requesting a detective."
"On Christmas Eve?"
"They're insisting."
Margot pulled on her coat—heavy wool, practical—and grabbed her bag. Twenty minutes later, she was driving up the winding road to Whitmore House, her headlights cutting through the falling snow. The house emerged from the darkness like something from a Victorian novel: three stories of gray stone, mullioned windows glowing with warm light, chimneys releasing curls of smoke into the night sky.
A uniformed officer met her at the door, stamping snow from his boots. "Detective Lisle? They're waiting in the drawing room. The body's still in the study."
"Who found him?"
"The eldest son. Gerald Whitmore. Says he went to call his father for dinner and found the door locked from the inside. Had to break it down."
Margot nodded and stepped inside. The foyer was grand—marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a Christmas tree that must have been fifteen feet tall, dripping with ornaments and tinsel. But there was no holiday cheer in the faces of the people gathered in the drawing room beyond.
Four adults sat in various positions around the room, none of them looking at each other. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, but it did nothing to warm the atmosphere.
"Detective Lisle." A man in his fifties rose to greet her. He had the look of money gone soft—expensive suit, expanding waistline, thinning hair combed carefully over a growing bald spot. "I'm Gerald Whitmore. Thank you for coming so quickly."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Margot said. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Gerald gestured vaguely toward the hallway. "We were all gathering for Christmas dinner. Father had been in his study all afternoon—said he had business to attend to. At six o'clock, I went to fetch him. The door was locked. I knocked, called out. No answer." He paused, swallowing hard. "I had the butler help me break down the door. Father was at his desk. He was already... gone."
"The door was locked from the inside?"
"Yes. The key was still in the lock on the interior side. The windows were latched from within as well. Dr. Pemberton—our family physician—was here for dinner. He examined Father and said it was heart failure."
"Then why call for a detective?"
A woman spoke from the corner of the room. She was perhaps forty-five, with sharp features and sharper eyes, her dark hair pulled back severely. "Because our father was murdered, Detective. And one of us did it."
"Vivian." Gerald's voice carried a warning.
"Don't 'Vivian' me." She rose, her silk dress rustling. "Father was in perfect health. He had a physical last month—Dr. Pemberton can confirm it. And he changed his will this afternoon. We all know it."
Margot looked around the room, taking in the other two siblings. A younger man—mid-thirties, perhaps—sat by the window, staring out at the snow. He had the disheveled look of someone who'd stopped caring about appearances long ago. And in the chair closest to the fire, a woman of about forty sat with her hands folded in her lap, her expression carefully blank.
"I'd like to see the study," Margot said. "And then I'll need to speak with each of you individually."
