Morning settled over the manor so quietly that the pendulum's tick...tock... could be heard again. The gaslights had been dimmed for the "demonstration." Duskborn and Hayes entered the drawing room carrying the box of evidence. The floor had been partitioned by a canvas screen; behind it stood pale paper stretched on a wooden frame to catch smoke. Nearby sat a glass jar of wadding from last night, a stack of white cloth, gloves, and a carpenter's toolbox.
Gear perched on the chair beside the ancestral portraits. "Permission to taste the morning wind—without almond, please," he murmured, releasing a polite hiss of steam.
Everyone was present. Henry and Thomas stood together. Madam Ida held her fan. Evelyn wore a dark shawl, her gloves spotless. Hobbs and Nell waited for orders; Larkin and Bryce stood near the center table. Doctor Selby held his notebook. Hayes surveyed the faces, then gave a single nod.
"Ten o'clock, the trust convenes," he said shortly. "Let's finish before then. Every step happens before every witness."
Duskborn spoke evenly. "Last night there were two shots. Smoke on the frame rose in a sharp column. Burned wadding was found by the curtain and the hearth. Blood on the wall showed the bullet entered from the right, chest level—not the front. This morning, the room will speak for itself." He pointed at the test sheet. "This will record the smoke. We'll fire a blank—powder and wadding, no lead."
Hobbs brought down the pistol from the left mount. Hayes opened the chamber for all to see, then loaded powder and wadding in the same measure as last night. Duskborn nodded. The constable raised the weapon toward the cloth behind the barrier.
"Ready," Hayes ordered.
The shot cracked—Bang! A clear sound, smoke rising in a straight wedge. Bits of wadding fluttered upward, then drifted down. Duskborn pointed to the cloth. No hole, only soot. "Smoke ascends to the ceiling just like the stain on the frame," he said, lifting the jar. "The wadding from the curtain and hearth looks identical—burned around the edges."
Gear glided near the frame, inhaled gently, then tilted his head. "Smoke flavor the same—no trace of blood. Just like last night."
Henry swallowed. "Then the soot on my sleeve…?"
"Blanks leave soot and smoke," Duskborn replied. "But if you fired live close to the body, your hair would singe, the inside of your cuff blacken. Yours are clean." Henry exhaled in relief; Thomas looked down, replaying last night in his mind.
Duskborn gestured to the wall marked with a cross. "Now let's hear what the wall has to say." A carpenter officer stepped forward, gloved hands steady, using a hand drill at the suspected point of impact. Wood dust fell like fine snow. Nell slid a cloth beneath it. Doctor Selby noted time and position.
"Find anything?" Hayes asked.
The man withdrew a dull gray lump with pliers. Duskborn examined it through his lens and explained to the room, "Flattened lead, oval shape, with tool marks—pinched by pliers, not factory-made." He set it on a white glass plate so the grooves showed clear. "This is one of the pieces that will lock the hand behind it."
Evelyn stood still, eyes fixed on the bullet as if it were a fallen button. Her breath remained steady, her shawl barely moved. Madam Ida flicked her fan for the first time that morning.
"Let's see the sewing room," Hayes said. "Counsel will accompany." Larkin nodded.
The sewing room was tidy, its wooden table lined with the usual dust of polish. Duskborn opened drawers with permission. Inside were two pairs of sewing pliers, needles, thread, and several velvet boxes. He lifted the medium-sized pliers. The jaws bore a slanted bite, roughened from sharpening on coarse stone. He placed them beside the bullet and compared under the lens. "The same angle of cut, and the same chip on the upper left jaw."
Nell handed over a small velvet case. Duskborn opened it; the scent of old fabric and polish rose faintly. Inside was a hollow velvet lining with a round impression, as if something spherical had once rested there. He touched it; a few fibers clung to his finger.
Hayes asked, "The fibers from the gun mount last night—same color?"
"Exactly the same, sir. Same tight weave," Nell answered.
Duskborn glanced at the edge of Evelyn's shawl. "May I see the hem?" She offered it calmly. He dabbed it with white cloth, then compared the residue with the dust from the frame and mount. "Same wood polish powder, faint varnish scent, and tiny soot specks—consistent with lifting and replacing the right-hand gun after firing."
Evelyn's voice was soft. "You're reading dust into stories."
"Dust tells stories," he said. "Especially in houses where everything else stays silent."
Back in the drawing room, Duskborn arranged items on the table in three corners: the oval bullet on its plate, the velvet fiber from the mount, and the sewing pliers from the workroom. The burned wadding lay separate. On a card he wrote, A = blank / B = live.
"Let's clear each person by what the room shows," he said, meeting every eye. "Henry—your soot came from the blank. No singed fabric, no burn. Blood direction contradicts your position. You were framed but not the shooter." Henry's chest lifted as if he breathed properly for the first time.
"Thomas—you stood by the sofa to the victim's right. According to Hobbs and all others, you couldn't reach the right mount in that split second. Your coat shows no polish dust." Thomas flushed. "I only complained about money," he muttered.
"Madam Ida—you sat with your fan. No unique residue. And your concern has stayed with image, not with guns.""At least someone understands a lady," she said coolly.
"Bryce—stood beside the center table, hands near the envelope, not the wall." Bryce nodded once.
Duskborn paused, then turned to Evelyn. "As for you—last night we recovered wadding from…the right of the hearth."
Evelyn lifted her chin. "Left side. I saw it—" She stopped. The room fell silent except for the pendulum.
Hayes raised an eyebrow. Duskborn set down his pencil. "I gave the wrong direction to see who would correct me. Only two kinds of people know details like that—the one who retrieved it, or the one who made it happen. Which are you?"
Evelyn drew a breath. "I stood near the hearth last night. I saw the wadding fly to the curtain on the left—that's why I remember."
"Then you stood there indeed—close to the right mount." Duskborn pointed to the evidence. "The handmade bullet bears marks matching your pliers. Velvet fibers from the mount match the case in your drawer. The polish dust and soot on your shawl's edge match the stains on the frame and stand. Position, direction, time—all circle you."
Hayes unfolded a document. "And motive fits." He read from the trust's clause: "If the primary heir is tainted by criminal suspicion before appointment, control reverts to the temporary custodian—Evelyn Hawthorne—until a new structure is approved."
Bryce looked up but said nothing. Henry's eyes met Evelyn's, a mixture of disbelief and pity. Evelyn gripped her shawl but kept her voice calm. "I did it to protect this house. If Henry ruled it, the estate would collapse. I was necessary."
"You chose the loudest way to prove control," Duskborn said. "You swapped bullets—set Henry's gun to blank, took the other, fired the real shot from the right, and replaced it. You built the scene of a careless heir. Soot, sleeves, your warning words—'Don't play with things'—all pointed one way. But the wadding, the smoke, the plier marks, and the velvet fibers all point back to you."
Gear fluffed his wings. "Wind report: smoke straight to ceiling means blank; bullet in right wall means live; polish dust on shawl means hand touched mount after shot. Three flavors, one cook."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "Even the metal bird speaks."
"The metal bird doesn't lie," Duskborn replied. "It only listens."
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Hayes closed his folder and spoke with authority. "Evelyn Hawthorne, by law you're under arrest for premeditated murder." Two officers stepped forward. "You may see your solicitor afterward. We'll escort you to the station."
Evelyn let them take her gloves and shawl as evidence. She turned once toward Henry. "A house stands on order, not luck."
Henry said nothing, shoulders heavy with both relief and weight. Thomas exhaled loudly. Madam Ida whispered a prayer. Hobbs and Nell stood firm, witnesses to the truth.
Duskborn told Larkin, "Proceed with the trust meeting at ten. Decide from facts, not rumors." Larkin bowed slightly. "Thank you. The house can breathe properly again."
Hayes concluded, "Last night there were two answers from two guns—but truth leaves only one." He nodded at Duskborn. "Thank you for letting the room speak."
"The room's duty is to tell; ours is to listen correctly," Duskborn replied. He wrote on a small card: UNLOADED – DISPLAY ONLY, and handed it to Hobbs. "Hang this under the mounts. A showpiece should stay a showpiece, not a loaded threat."
"I'll see to it," Hobbs said firmly.
Gear hovered over the glass dish holding the bullet. "In the end, the 'egg' is cooked just right for serving truth," he chirped. "No need to season it with extra justice."
Hayes smirked. "We've had enough for today."
Evelyn was led out in silence. Henry stepped toward Duskborn. "Thank you," he said, hesitating before offering his hand. Duskborn shook it briefly—two men learning stillness.
"Next time," Duskborn told him, "let the house stand on order without needing gunfire. Start by respecting the sign beneath the guns."Henry nodded. "I swear I won't touch them again—not when everyone in the room breathes off beat." He seemed to understand the meaning beyond firearms.
Doctor Selby closed his notebook. "Everything's settled. Pity about the tea—it'll have to wait until after the meeting."
Duskborn checked that every piece of evidence was labeled and sealed in glass. He polished his lens silently, glanced once more at the smoke stain on the frame—still pointing upward, paler now but telling the same story in a quieter tone.
Larkin excused himself to bring in the trustees. Hayes approved. As the others dispersed, Gear perched on Duskborn's shoulder. "Final wind report: one answer from smoke, one from wadding, one from bullet. Added together equals one truth." He puffed steam as if stamping a seal. "Requesting one sip of victory air.""Only a sip," Duskborn answered automatically.
Hayes joined them. "From now on, every manor with display weapons should list which are unloaded. We can't have more 'two-answer guns.'""Agreed," Duskborn said. "We don't need more ghosts—only more labels."Hobbs looked at the small tag under the mount. "This house will comply," he said, voice steady as a keeper of keys and time.
Before leaving, Duskborn looked once more at the frame. The house was breathing again. He touched his pocket watch; its rhythm matched the pendulum's, as if the city and truth had found the same pace.
At the door, Hayes said quietly, "Today we had two answers from a gun—but only one truth."Duskborn smiled. "And the most faithful witness was, as always, the room itself."
Gear inhaled. "Final flavor of the morning—relief. May I taste apple-pie wind this afternoon?""You may," Duskborn said, "as long as it has no scent of polish."
The three stepped into the hall. The pendulum kept swinging tick...tock...tick...tock, same as yesterday, but the meaning had changed. The house felt lighter, the wood shone brighter without more polish. The only new thing was the small sign beneath the guns, a reminder that doing things right speaks louder than gunfire. And if one listens closely, the room will keep retelling the same story—smoke rising to the ceiling, wadding on the curtain, the bullet from the right, and truth standing calmly at the center.