It is a truth universally acknowledged that the violence by which a man’s heart may be consumed must be in want of catharsis. However little known the feelings or views of such a man, consumed by such darkness, may be on his first encounter with slaughter, the truth is so well fixed in the minds of the public that he is assumed to be a blackguard, a scoundrel, and a degenerate, though his true identity and even his motivation be, as yet, unknown.

“Master Fraser?” called Jackson in a raised whisper from the hall.

He crouched beneath the light of his outstretched candle and peered into the dressing room, through which he was accustomed to entering his master’s bedchamber when summoned. There was nothing out of place. As he rounded the corner and crossed the threshold of the outer room, he again observed nothing amiss—the liquor and glassware were in their proper places, the master’s outer coat and buckskin breeches were laid out as he himself had left them in preparation for the morning hunt.

“Master Fraser?” the old valet called again.

Jackson had been stirred from his slumber not ten minutes earlier by Dingham the footman, who had been roused by Watson the groom, who was jostled by the sound of the house dogs barking as he prepared Sully, the master’s finest horse, for chasing foxes. There had not been a prowler in the county in decades. Certainly not one so impudent as to attempt to loot from one of Britain’s most illustrious and well-known swordsmen, to say nothing of Mr. Fraser’s baronial collection of muskets and pistols. Naturally, the old valet suspected a stag had approached the house, or the dogs were otherwise alarmed by the howl of the wind.

Upon reaching the master’s door, Jackson found it slightly ajar in the longstanding habit of Mr. Fraser, whose many nights spent huddled in pup tents the world over had left him permanently stifled by stagnant air. In fact, it was his custom to sleep with an open window for the better part of nine months per annum, precipitation permitting. However, as this particular night in early October found the weather seasonably wet, yet unseasonably frigid—even for the north of England—the fires had been lit and the windows shuttered before the master retired to his chamber.

Jackson peered in through the crack but was unable to make anything out in the moonless night. He knocked quietly and pushed the door back gently. It creaked ever so slightly on its hinges. The valet was quite cognizant of his master’s fierce temper, particularly when awakened—even at first light after a full night’s repose. The room was dead silent, aside from his own footsteps, until a blast of glacial air, carrying on it a fine mist, blew his flame straight from the wick. The old man struggled to light it again in the dark, particularly since the fire in the hearth had completely expired.

Surely, the master would not have left a window agape on a night like this, he thought, fumbling across the room to close it as quietly as possible. Once he had shuttered it, he noticed the latch on top was broken in two, as if by force. Alarmed, he turned toward his master to who was on his side, facing the opposing wall, and motionless in the dark.

Just then, a brilliant flash of white caught the corner of his eye in the courtyard below—a black-hooded rider, bolting from the house on the back of the finest white stallion that had ever graced Derbyshire—

“Sully!” Jackson gasped.

He spun on his heels to rouse his master but slipped on something wet near the bedpost and landed rather heavily on his left shoulder.

“Master,” he started with a grimace. “Someone is riding off with Sully!” The master did not stir. “Master!” wailed the old servant again.

With some effort, Jackson sat up, cradling his injured arm across his chest. A slick liquid dripped from his hand to the floor, though he could not make out its essence in the black of the night. “Master Fraser,” he called again, standing carefully to his feet. He made his way carefully around the foot of the bed toward Fraser’s still face. Just as he pulled the covers back, Mr. Edwards, the butler, swung the door wide, illuminating a scene of carnage that caused them both to gasp in horror. “Murder!” Jackson cried aloud. “Murder!”