The photographs lay heavy in Graves’s hand, a damning indictment of Lord Blackwood. Eddie, his face pale, stared at them, a mixture of disbelief and horror etched onto his features. Langley, ever the pragmatist, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the crumbling walls of St Jude's Orphanage, his usually jovial expression replaced with grim determination.

"This changes everything” Graves muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The neatly organized chaos of Ashworth's staged disappearance, the frantic scene at Blackwood Manor, the chilling Weeping Sunflower legend – it all pointed towards a meticulously planned deception, a game of cat and mouse orchestrated by Blackwood himself for decades.

"We need to confront him” Eddie declared, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "We have enough to at least make him sweat."

Langley grunted his agreement. "But we need more than suspicions, Graves. We need solid proof. A confession would be nice, but it’ll be like pulling teeth from a dragon."

Graves knew Langley was right. Suspicion alone wouldn’t be enough to bring down a man of Blackwood’s stature and influence. He needed concrete evidence, something irrefutable, to solidify their case. The photographs were a significant breakthrough, but they weren’t enough.

The journey back to Blackwood Manor was tense, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thump of the police car’s tires against the cobblestones. Graves ran through the sequence of events in his mind, searching for any overlooked details, any inconsistencies that might lead them to the missing piece of the puzzle. He thought about Blackwood's alibi – a dinner engagement at the exclusive Carlton Club, apparently corroborated by several witnesses. It sounded solid, but Graves had a nagging feeling something wasn't right.

They arrived at Blackwood Manor under a bruised, twilight sky. The imposing structure loomed against the darkening landscape, its silhouette stark and menacing. The confrontation was inevitable, and Graves felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He wasn’t afraid of Blackwood himself; he was afraid of the truth the confrontation might reveal.

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Blackwood was waiting for them in the grand hall, impeccably dressed as always, his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier's light. He offered them a stiff, almost theatrical bow, his demeanor betraying nothing of the turmoil that Graves knew must be raging beneath the surface.

"Inspector Langley, Mr. Graves, Mr. Finch” Blackwood said, his voice smooth and controlled. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this… unexpected visit?"

Langley, ever the professional, cut to the chase. "Lord Blackwood, we need to discuss the disappearance of Mr. Ashworth, and certain inconsistencies we've uncovered regarding your activities on the night of his… vanishing."

Blackwood raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Mr. Ashworth's disappearance is a most regrettable affair, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with it. I was at the Carlton Club, as several witnesses can attest."

"We've looked into your alibi, Lord Blackwood” Graves interjected, his voice sharp and precise. "And we've found some… inconsistencies."

He produced a meticulously researched timeline, detailing Blackwood's supposed movements that night. The witnesses' statements, while seemingly corroborating Blackwood's account, revealed subtle discrepancies. Slight variations in timings, minor details that, taken individually, could be dismissed as insignificant, yet collectively painted a picture of a carefully constructed fabrication.

"The Carlton Club is a twenty-minute drive from your estate” Graves continued, his voice calm but unwavering. "Your supposed arrival time, according to your account, was 8:15 PM. However, one witness placed you outside your estate at 7:55 PM, while another noted your arrival at the Carlton Club at 8:32 PM."

Blackwood’s composure wavered for the first time. He attempted to explain away the inconsistencies, but his explanations were unconvincing, riddled with nervous stammering and contradictory statements.

"The traffic… a detour… a slight misremembering of the time” he stammered, his carefully cultivated façade beginning to crumble.

"Lord Blackwood” Graves pressed, producing the photographs found in St Jude's. "These photographs depict you, decades ago, in the company of members of the Order of the Golden Sun. Your involvement in the Order is far more significant than you’ve let on."

Blackwood’s face paled. He remained silent for a long moment, his eyes darting nervously around the room. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The silence, however, was not one of defeat, but of calculation. Blackwood, Graves realized, was merely buying time, weighing his options, plotting his next move. The game, it seemed, was far from over. The confrontation had ended, but the true battle had just begun. They had him on the ropes, but Blackwood, even cornered, was still a dangerous opponent. The hunt continued.