Tea at 5, Chaos at 6 | Part 2

Jack lined them up against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which were packed with rare first editions that nobody in this family had ever read but had definitely featured in the background of an Architectural Digest open-door tour.

These were people who spent their mornings doing hot yoga in Notting Hill, their afternoons closing seed-rounds for AI-driven matcha brands, and their nights making terrible life choices in the VIP booths of exclusive Soho clubs.

Jack adjusted his vintage watch, pulled out a physical, spiral-bound notebook, which caused the room to collectively shudder at the lack of digital efficiency, and looked at his first suspect.

Lady Penelope sat on the edge of a minimalist boucle sofa, looking less like a grieving widow and more like she was waiting for her agent to text her back.

She was wearing a crisp, oversized white heavyweight T-shirt that draped over her frame with dropped shoulders, making her look effortlessly respectable while hiding any potential nervous twitches.

"You haven't shed a single tear, Penelope," Jack observed, leaning against a marble bust.

 "Your husband is dead, and you look like you’re posing for an independent streetwear lookbook."

Penelope sighed, a delicate, practiced sound. "Detective, crying ruins the facial symmetry, and frankly, my skin barrier cannot handle the cortisol right now. Harrington and I had an arrangement. He funded my sustainable wellness app, and I didn't ask why he kept spending weekends 'consulting' in Zurich. It was a perfect ecosystem."

"An ecosystem that ended at six o'clock," Jack pointed out.

"Chaos at six is practically a lifestyle choice in this zip code, darling," she replied smoothly, smoothing down her heavy cotton sleeve. "Besides, I was on a FaceTime call with my creative director from 4:55 to 5:30 discussing the typography for our London Misfits collection. Check my screen time."

Next to her was Cousin Felix, wearing a vintage leather jacket and loafers with no socks, frantically pacing the length of the Persian rug.

He was the family's resident black sheep, a man who lived in a warehouse loft in Hackney and claimed he was "disrupting the hospitality industry" by opening a private member's club that only accepted payment in custom-minted tokens.

"Felix," Jack said, blocking his path. "You were standing right by the tea tray at ten to five."

"I was checking the Wi-Fi speeds, man!" Felix yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "The bandwidth in this manor is literally prehistoric. I have a pitch deck due to an angel investor in Dubai by midnight. If I don't secure this bridge funding, my entire startup is cooked. You think I have time to poison an Earl Grey? I’m operating on three hours of sleep and pure micro-dosed focus."

"I heard you and Harrington had a massive row in the hallway earlier," Jack said, narrowing his eyes.

Felix laughed nervously, running a hand through his carefully dishevelled hair. "We had a strategic alignment meeting that escalated. He called my business model 'a glorified pyramid scheme for people who wear tinted sunglasses indoors.' He threatened to cut off my seed funding. But I didn't kill him. Murder isn't scalable, Detective. The ROI is terrible."

Finally, Jack turned to the Duchess, who was currently sitting cross-legged on a priceless mahogany table, casually sipping an iced oat latte that she had somehow ordered via Deliveroo in the middle of a active crime scene lock-in.

"Duchess," Jack said. "You’ve been remarkably quiet."

"Because this entire conversation is giving mid-market energy," she said, not looking up from her phone. "Look, Harrington knew the rules of the estate, and he occasionally broke them when he thought nobody was looking. He tried to sell off the family’s archival fashion pieces to a tech billionaire to cover his bad tech investments. I caught him. I told him he was never quite made for our polite little boxes, and if he didn't back down, I’d expose his private offshore accounts on a viral Substack article."

Jack stared at her. "And did he back down?"

"He told me to talk to his lawyers," she sneered, setting her cup down with a sharp click against the wood. "So if you're looking for motive, everyone in this room has a pitch, a product launch, or a reputation to protect. We have Mayfair manners, Steele. But we all commit Soho sins."

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