The old Pendleton clock in the library struck midnight as Eleanor surveyed the scene. Her uncle Reginald had been found slumped over his desk, a spilled glass of sherry near his lifeless hand. The doctor quickly ruled it as poisoning, but who would want him dead? The family was gathered for the reading of his will, and tensions had been high.
Eleanor, an avid reader of detective novels, glanced at the cluttered desk. An assortment of papers had been shoved aside, revealing a single sheet with faint impressions of words. Borrowing a pencil, she shaded over the indents. It was part of a letter: “…if you don’t amend the will, you’ll regret it.” The handwriting seemed familiar.
Her aunt Winifred paled under Eleanor’s steady gaze. Suddenly, Eleanor remembered Winifred’s complaints earlier that evening about Reginald’s decision to leave the estate to charity. Winifred insisted she hadn’t touched the sherry, but Eleanor pointed to the crumbs on the desk. Only Winifred had eaten the almond biscuits, which contained trace cyanide. A bluff, but enough to make Winifred confess. Justice arrived with the dawn.
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