The officer fell silent, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over the flickering glow of the dying embers. The sergeant, who had been dispatched to survey the estate’s periphery, returned with a measured gait, his steps echoing the melancholy of the night. As he approached his commanding officer, the air grew heavier with the stench of burnt wood and charred remains.

“Report, Sergeant,” the officer commanded, his voice a cold whisper amidst the oppressive silence.

“Sir,” the sergeant began, his tone respectful yet burdened, “I conducted a thorough sweep of the premises and the surrounding grounds. There were no signs of life, nor did I observe anyone in the vicinity.”

“No strangers?” the officer inquired, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.

“None, sir,” Scott affirmed, his face a mask of somber resignation.

“Did you uncover any clues that might reveal the identity of those responsible for this conflagration?” the officer pressed, his brows knitted in concentration.

“Nothing substantial, sir,” Scott replied, shaking his head with a sigh. “I did hear murmurs among the crowd that Sir Ferdinand Lazarus may have perished in the blaze.”

A chill ran through the officer’s spine, though he masked it with practiced composure. “Good heavens! That cannot be true. Yet, why should it be so impossible? Return, Scott. Find someone who can shed light on this matter.”

The sergeant, his task seemingly insurmountable, ventured into the throng of onlookers. Their faces, ghostly pale in the dim light, regarded him with a mixture of apprehension and disdain. The crowd had gathered like vultures around the scene of devastation, their eyes reflecting a morbid fascination with the tragedy.

Approaching a solitary figure, Scott inquired, “Can you tell me anything about the fire?”

“Aye,” came the curt reply, “it is a fire, as you can plainly see.”

“Yes, and so it is,” Scott retorted, his patience waning.

“A soldier expects more than a cryptic remark,” Scott said, his voice edged with weary irritation.

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“Perhaps, but a soldier may ask questions that lead to unkind revelations,” the man responded with an air of defiance.

“Then I shall not trouble you further,” Scott concluded, turning on his heel.

Moving to another section of the crowd, Scott raised his voice above the murmurs. “Is there anyone among you who can speak of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus’s fate?”

“Burnt!” came the loud and abrupt response from the crowd.

“Did you witness his burning?” Scott asked urgently.

“No,” the reply came, laced with uncertainty. “But I saw him before the flames consumed the house. Since then, no one has seen him emerge.”

“Will you come forward and share this with my commanding officer?” Scott requested, his eyes searching for sincerity in the man's expression.

“Will I be detained?” the man asked cautiously.

“No,” Scott assured.

“Then I shall go,” the man said, shuffling through the crowd with a resigned gait. “I’ll speak to the officer, though my knowledge is scant and will harm no one.”

The crowd’s apprehension dissipated slightly, their initial fear of incrimination easing with the man’s promise of harmlessness. They began to murmur with renewed interest, their voices rising in a collective murmur.

Scott led the man back to where the officer waited, his silhouette stark against the backdrop of the smoldering ruins. The officer’s gaze remained fixed on the remnants of the mansion, his expression one of grim resolve.

“Well, Scott,” the officer said, “what do we have here?”

“A volunteer with a statement, sir,” Scott replied, his tone laden with resignation.

“Proceed, then,” the officer commanded, turning his attention to the newcomer.

The man, now standing before the officer, began, “I saw Sir Ferdinand Lazarus within the house.”

“Within the house?” the officer echoed, his eyes narrowing. “And have you seen him since?”

“No, nor has anyone else, to my knowledge,” the man answered.

“Where precisely did you see him?” the officer pressed.

“In the house,” the man reiterated, his voice trembling slightly under the scrutiny of the officer’s gaze.

“Exactly,” the officer said thoughtfully. “And you have not observed him leaving?”

“No,” the man confirmed, his voice barely a whisper.

The officer sighed deeply, his gaze shifting to the darkened skies above, where the smoke from the fire twisted like spectral tendrils. The night was thick with uncertainty, and the spectral glow of the flames painted a nightmarish tableau against the smudged horizon.

“We must investigate further,” the officer declared, his tone resolute. “The fate of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus and the identity of those responsible for this atrocity remain shrouded in darkness. We shall not rest until these mysteries are unraveled.”

As the officer turned back to his men, the air seemed to grow colder, the echoes of the fire’s wrath lingering like a malevolent specter. The scene was set, the night’s dark drama unfolding in the shadows of the smoldering ruins, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred into a chilling enigma.