Once again, Henry Lascelles is dead. His body, now cold, has been left unceremoniously in a hall in one of the Mansion's upper floors, as full of holes as Swiss cheese. A pistol lies at his side, where it fell from his limp white hand. His blood will probably leave a stain on the carpet, too ( Read more... )

Mr Henry Lascelles is dead. Much like the one or two he won't deny having killed earlier, he now lies in a pool of his own blood on the marble floor in the center of the Mansion entrance hall, having had his throat torn out, not, as might be expected, by a family full of vengeful medieval knights, but by an equally vengeful, equally medieval, god ( Read more... )