This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

The funeral bells of St. Bartholomew's Church echoed across the moors like the wailing of lost souls, their bronze voices carrying news of death to every corner of Ravenshollow. Eleanor Whitmore stood at her bedroom window, watching the procession wind its way through the village below, a serpentine line of black-clad mourners following the ornate hearse that carried her beloved husband to his final rest.

The October wind rattled the windowpanes of Whitmore Manor, as if the very house itself was shivering with grief. Eleanor pressed her pale hand against the cold glass, her reflection ghostlike in the autumn light. Three days had passed since Thomas had drawn his last breath in their marriage bed, three days since her world had crumbled into ash and shadow.

"My lady," came a gentle voice from behind her. Mrs. Hartwell, the housekeeper, stood in the doorway with a tea service, her weathered face etched with concern. "You must eat something. You've taken nothing since..."

"Since my husband was murdered," Eleanor finished, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned from the window, and Mrs. Hartwell gasped at the sight of her mistress. Eleanor's once-vibrant auburn hair hung limp about her shoulders, and her green eyes, once bright as spring leaves, now held the hollow darkness of winter nights.

"My lady, please. The physician said it was his heart. A sudden seizure—"

"The physician lies." Eleanor's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Thomas was in perfect health. He was only thirty-five years old, strong as an ox. Men like my husband do not simply die in their sleep."