The night was draped in an unsettling silence, like a well-worn cloak of velvet. Moonlight whispered secrets on cobblestone streets, and a peculiar bicycle leaned against the gate of the old manor. It was a strikingly thin bike, almost skeletal, with wheels that seemed to have been stripped of substance, like ghosts haunting the shadows.
Detective Eleanor Blight stood in front of the crime scene, her sharp eyes reflecting the moon’s argent glow. Known for her razor-sharp mind and a wit that could cut through the densest fog, she surveyed the empty pathway leading to the grand entrance. Her trench coat fluttered in the midnight breeze as she turned to her assistant, a nervous young man named Peter.
“Peter, there’s something awfully amiss,” Eleanor mused, tapping her pen against her chin.
Peter, trying hard not to shiver despite the warm night, nodded vigorously. “The bike, ma’am? It’s… uncommonly thin.”
Eleanor smiled wryly. “Indeed, and bikes rarely appear at crime scenes without a story to tell.”
Inside the old manor, the air was thick with tension. The guests, a peculiar assortment of mismatched personalities, gathered around the grand library, their faces a mix of shock and intrigue. In the center, the somber visage of Lord Pennington, the estate’s owner, stared sightlessly at the ceiling, a half-drunk glass of wine by his side.
Lady Margaret, an elderly duchess with eyes like polished coal, clucked disapprovingly at the scene. “It’s a disgrace!” she declared. “All this fuss over a little poison.”
“Poison, my dear Margaret, is quite a significant fuss,” retorted Sir Hugo, a rotund gentleman whose laughter used to echo in the corridors. “Especially when it finds its way into Pennington’s favorite claret.”
Standing in the corner, a man dressed in garish colors played with a deck of cards. “It was inevitable, really,” he chimed in, dealing the cards onto a nearby table. “Life’s a gamble and death, dear friends, is the house always winning.”
Eleanor stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. I understand that emotions are running high, but this is a matter requiring delicate attention.”
Lady Margaret scoffed. “A detective? Really, Eleanor, couldn’t Pennington have invited someone else less… common?”
“I assure you, common I am not,” Eleanor replied with a slight grin. “Now, if we may proceed, what can anyone tell me about that rather unique thin bike parked outside?”
Silence wrapped around the room until the deck of cards snapped back into the gambler’s hands. “Belonged to that odd little chap. Reedy fellow, rode it like he was afraid it’d snap under him.”
“Mr. Baxter? The clockmaker?” Peter chimed, his voice a shade braver.
Sir Hugo chuckled, his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. “He was always tinkering with something. Wouldn’t surprise me if he made it himself.”
Eleanor nodded slowly, piecing together sinister possibilities. “Curious, isn’t it, how a clockmaker might fashion a vehicle so… spare.” Her eyes landed on the wine. “Or perhaps, engineer a way for the perfect crime.”
The guests leaned in, captivated. The duchess broke into a reluctant smile. “Ingenious,” she murmured. “A twist worthy of Agatha herself.”
“As the clock strikes midnight,” Eleanor added with a flourish, “we shall discover how a thin bike led us to unravel a not-so-good old-fashioned murder with a taste of irony.”
Sir Hugo erupted into laughter, joined by an amused murmur from the rest. As Eleanor led the inquiry deeper into the night, the thin bike remained by the gate—a symbol of the tale’s climax, promising a deliciously macabre ending that none in the manor would soon forget.