Chapter 14: Race Against Time(Part-1)

A pall of sorrow and disbelief hung thick in the Valtor manor's opulent drawing room as Lucinda addressed the sombre assembly. Her voice carried a measured blend of grief and grim determination that sliced through the heavy silence.

"We must act decisively, without delay," she proclaimed, turning an accusatory gaze upon Wilfred, the family's stalwart butler and confidant. "Detain Elara in her chambers at once, Wilfred. We cannot risk her attempting to flee or, heaven forbid, bring further harm to anyone else in this household."

Lucinda paused, surveying the stunned faces surrounding her - Rosy's eyes glistening with unshed tears, Adrian's jaw tightly clenched, the other servants and retainers arrayed in various masks of shock and dismay. When she continued, her tone took on a harder edge.

"This...this heinous act transcends any notion of familial discretion or propriety. Victor was far more than our beloved patriarch; he was a towering figure, a titan of industry and finance whose legacy stretched across the Empire. His murder..." She swallowed hard, smoothing an impassive veneer over the anguish that threatened to crack her composure. "His murder is nothing short of an attack on the very pillars of our society, an abomination that cannot be allowed to fester behind closed doors. The Metropolitan Police Service must be informed immediately."

A heavy silence hung in the wake of her pronouncement, as all eyes turned towards Wilfred. For over four decades, the greying butler had been the steadfast bedrock upon which the powerful Valtor clan was anchored - consummate advisor, respected confidant, and when family tensions demanded it, a silent but omniscient judge. 

His perpetually impassive facade now betrayed a rare tempest of warring emotions. Wilfred's keen gaze, honed to a razor's edge by decades navigating the Valtors' labyrinthine web of shifting alliances and Machiavellian intrigues, flicked from face to face. From Rosy, her left eye twitching almost imperceptibly as she dabbed at her tears with a monogrammed handkerchief. To Adrian, his broad shoulders stiffened fractionally at the mention of Elara's name. And finally, to Lucinda herself, noting the studied timbre of her voice, the mask of calculated gravitas sharpened by years of projecting an untouchable demeanour in the highest social circles.

A lifetime of loyal service had stripped away any naivete Wilfred may have once harboured about the darker currents that flowed beneath the Valtor family's glittering public visage. His finely honed instincts now screamed that something was terribly, dreadfully amiss in this unfolding tableau - that the jagged pieces of this grim tragedy did not snap together as smoothly as Lucinda's narrative would suggest.

Yet to voice such doubts, to openly question the motivations of the Valtor matriarch, would be an act of self-immolation - professional suicide at best, and at worst, perhaps something too horrible to contemplate. The Valtors' intimidating facade of wealth, grace and influence concealed unfathomable depths of darkness that few outside their rarified circle could fathom.

After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Wilfred replied, his tone as measured and emotionless as ever. "It will be done precisely as you say, Lady Lucinda. I shall attend to Miss Elara's containment personally. And I will dispatch a messenger to summon the authorities from Scotland Yard without delay."

He executed a deferential bow, the carefully choreographed gesture serving the dual purpose of outward deference and providing a necessary moment to mask the turmoil of thoughts churning in his eyes. As he straightened once more, his gaze locked momentarily with Adrian's. For the briefest of instants, he detected a fleeting glimmer of something unreadable flickering across the young heir's resolute features - apprehension? calculation? - before his expression solidified once more into a mask of suitably genteel grief. 

Without another word, Wilfred pivoted on his heel and strode from the chamber, his purposeful gait quickening with each step until the pretence of decorum dissolved entirely. He broke into an undignified sprint, bolting like a startled hare through the labyrinthine network of corridors that honeycombed the ancient manor's corridors.

The customary burdens of his advancing age seemed to slough away with every ragged inhalation, subsumed by an urgency he had not felt since his days in active service with Her Majesty's forces. In those times, the stakes had been perpetually raised to their loftiest heights - the fates of nations, armies and empires, relentlessly hanging in the balance with every decision.

Now, it was the fate of a single young woman - a defiant child in his eyes, still clinging to the tattered remnants of innocence in this viper's nest of feuding dynasties - that spurred him forward with a desperation that blotted out all other concerns.

Elara. He had observed her blossom from a mischievous, whip-smart toddler into the formidable and steadfast heiress she had become. An iron will and fiercely protean intellect, tempered by the same stubborn core of uncompromising integrity that had once burned so brightly in Victor's spirit before the seductive allure of power and paranoia twisted him into a cruel parody of his former nobility.

Wilfred knew Elara better than any other soul in this godforsaken house of Machiavellis and opportunists. He knew her as he knew the beat of his own heart. And with a bone-deep certainty that transcended mere logic or deduction, he knew that she was utterly incapable of this monstrous, unspeakable act now being ascribed to her name.

At last, he reached the heavy oaken door of Elara's chamber and flung it open without ceremony. The startled tableau that greeted him barely registered - Elara's pale, ashen features framed by tousled mahogany tresses, her eyes wide with bewilderment at his explosive entrance; the petite, rose-cheeked figure of Rosalie, her personal maid, recoiling in alarm at his sudden intrusion.

Ignoring both of their startled reactions, Wilfred pivoted towards Rosalie and barked an urgent order in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

"Rosalie, it is of the utmost importance that you accomplish two tasks without delay and as quickly as humanly possible. First, you must go at once to the motor pool and start the engine of the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. Have it idling and await further instructions." 

Before the flustered maid could acknowledge the first command, he pressed on with the second, even more imperative directive. "Secondly - and this is crucial - you must command the exterior gates to be opened immediately. Not a moment can be spared!"

The look of stunned incomprehension on Rosalie's face melted away as the strident authority in Wilfred's tone triggered years of carefully-drilled obedience. With a mute bob of acknowledgement and a fleeting, worried glance towards her mistress, the maid turned and scurried from the chamber, her footfalls fading rapidly in the direction of the motor pool.

As soon as she had gone, Wilfred closed and locked the bedroom door, sealing them in privacy. He turned to face Elara, taking in the sight of the young woman - little more than a girl, truly - who had now risen from her bed. Her expression was a maelstrom of confusion, trepidation and burgeoning dread as she clutched her dressing gown protectively around her slender frame.

"Wilfred?" Her voice quavered with poorly-masked apprehension. "Why are you so...devastated? What's happening? And why are you sending Rosalie away with such urgency?" 

The butler inhaled a steadying breath, the weight of the grim news he must impart settling like a leaden anchor in the pit of his stomach. In his long years of service to the Valtor household - with all the Grimm tasks and solemn formalities it entailed - he had been forced to confront many stark challenges. Drafting casualty notifications during the Great War. Informing members of the aristocracy of ruinous financial losses, shattered legacies, and irredeemable societal disgrace. 

Yet none of it could have prepared him for the sense of smothering dread that now tightened around his heart as he was compelled to convey this unfathomable tragedy to the young woman before him. The words were Heavy on his tongue.

"Miss Elara," Wilfred began, his voice heavy with foreboding. "I'm afraid...a terrible tragedy has befallen the manor this night. Your father...he has been found dead in his chambers."

The words seemed to suck the very air from the room. Colour drained from Elara's face in an instantaneous rush, her legs buckling beneath her as she collapsed back onto the edge of the bed. 

"No..." she whispered, the syllable rattling from numb lips. "No, it can't be. Father is...he's indestructible. Indomitable. He's..."

Wilfred moved to her side, steadying the distraught young woman with a supportive hand on her shoulder. "I wish with every fibre of my being that was true, Miss Elara. But I'm afraid the situation is exponentially more dire than his...his current state."

He paused, steeling himself against the maelstrom of emotions churning in his chest. "They...they are accusing you of committing this act, Miss Elara. Of being your father's killer."

Elara's head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. "What? No, that's impossible! Who would dare..."

"Lady Lucinda," Wilfred intoned heavily. "She claims to have witnessed you storming towards your father's chambers late last night, in what she characterized as an 'agitated' state. She has...convinced the others that in your purported resentment over Mister Adrian's positioning as heir apparent, you conspired to eliminate your father and seized an opportunity to do so under cover of night."

The horrific implications hung in the air like a miasma, their very existence too abhorrent to comprehend. Elara's mouth worked soundlessly, her features contorting in revulsion and denial.