There was a fresh blanket of snow and the sky had a glorious blue shade after the two days long blizzard, although the sun shined brilliantly the wind felt still stiff enough. The broken sash windows seemed like the hollow eyes of the Victorian built brick manor, the white curtains were floating like women tears.
We shortly interrogated the last member of the once large staff in the tiny cottage of the elderly and apparently semi-blind Head Gardener who offered us some bloody strong moonshine in chipped tea cups. The ragged mumbling man was fairly in his late sixties, served his master since his childhood and could not tell us anything we did not know already.

His master lived alone, no living family members whatsoever, only a woman came from a nigh hamlet a few times a week to cleanse and cook. Everything else did the gardener, which was not much considering his age and condition.

He was a lean, avaricious old bastard, his master, we as children were frightened seeing him in town, Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?