text: These stories occur within a set time limit where the reader has to solve the mystery by asking the right questions to the right people and looking in the right places for clues (and recognizing the importance of some clues over others). The Normal setting for this TIME challenge is 100, if a reader wants an Easier game they can select this feature to be allowed a TIME of 125, for a Harder game a TIME of 75 is given (this isn't recommended for readers reading the story for the first time).
  
  So Reader, Choose your Difficulty.
  
  > Normal Difficulty (100 Time Points)
  The Dorset Evening Gazette - 1 July 2000
  
  The residents of Poole were shocked to learn this morning of the apparent suicide of Blacksea Island resident Robert Powell, aged 15. Powell and his mother Olivia Powell, aged 40, were volunteers for the National Group and both lived and worked on the Island. Powell, who took the ferry to and from the mainland to attend and leave Poole Grammar School every morning and evening was described by one classmate as a "happy" and "intelligent" student.
  
  In a statement issued by the Dorset Police Force it was confirmed that "A teenager died during a fall from a clifftop on Blacksea Island sometime between the hours of 10pm and 6am last night. At this time no foul play is suspected as the part of the island on which the deceased and his mother were living, known locally as "The Wetlands", is enclosed by a high spike-topped wall and barred gates, making entry by a third party extremely unlikely.
  
  This paper was able to speak with Barry Guest, owner and operator of the Blacksea Ferry. "I can't believe it," he told us in a statement. "Robert was a happy boy and just about the last person I would have expected to top himself. I reckon it was an accident, a fall from the cliffs though Robert would have known better than to go up there at night. I feel sorry for his poor mum, she's been left all on her own now."
  
  Robert Powell's suicide is the third such to happen on the island within living memory: on 25 December 1920 island owner Colonel Augustus Foster shot himself in the Hall of Blacksea Castle and on 5 July 1960 Castle Housekeeper Gwen Green apparently drowned herself in a Lily Pond on the island following a devastating fire on 30 June that had claimed the lives of her husband, butler Jack Green, and the island's owner, Lord Marcus Van Raalte.
  
  Blacksea Island has a history of death and madness and indeed the eccentricity of a number of the island's owners, most notoriously "The Mad Doctor" William Benson and the much-reviled Lady Mary Bonham-Christie, who closed the island to the public during her ownership of the island from 1960 to 1980, has done much to bear these suspicions out. This latest suicide is just the most recent in a long line of tragic and unusual deaths to occur on this notorious island.
  
  These stories occur within a set time limit where the reader has to solve the mystery by asking the right questions to the right people and looking in the right places for clues (and recognizing the importance of some clues over others). The Normal setting for this TIME challenge is 100, if a reader wants an Easier game they can select this feature to be allowed a TIME of 125, for a Harder game a TIME of 75 is given (this isn't recommended for readers reading the story for the first time).
  
  So Reader, Choose your Difficulty.
  
  > Hard Difficulty (75 Time Points)
  The Dorset Evening Gazette - 1 July 2000
  
  The residents of Poole were shocked to learn this morning of the apparent suicide of Blacksea Island resident Robert Powell, aged 15. Powell and his mother Olivia Powell, aged 40, were volunteers for the National Group and both lived and worked on the Island. Powell, who took the ferry to and from the mainland to attend and leave Poole Grammar School every morning and evening was described by one classmate as a "happy" and "intelligent" student.
  
  In a statement issued by the Dorset Police Force it was confirmed that "A teenager died during a fall from a clifftop on Blacksea Island sometime between the hours of 10pm and 6am last night. At this time no foul play is suspected as the part of the island on which the deceased and his mother were living, known locally as "The Wetlands", is enclosed by a high spike-topped wall and barred gates, making entry by a third party extremely unlikely.
  
  This paper was able to speak with Barry Guest, owner and operator of the Blacksea Ferry. "I can't believe it," he told us in a statement. "Robert was a happy boy and just about the last person I would have expected to top himself. I reckon it was an accident, a fall from the cliffs though Robert would have known better than to go up there at night. I feel sorry for his poor mum, she's been left all on her own now."
  
  Robert Powell's suicide is the third such to happen on the island within living memory: on 25 December 1920 island owner Colonel Augustus Foster shot himself in the Hall of Blacksea Castle and on 5 July 1960 Castle Housekeeper Gwen Green apparently drowned herself in a Lily Pond on the island following a devastating fire on 30 June that had claimed the lives of her husband, butler Jack Green, and the island's owner, Lord Marcus Van Raalte.
  
  Blacksea Island has a history of death and madness and indeed the eccentricity of a number of the island's owners, most notoriously "The Mad Doctor" William Benson and the much-reviled Lady Mary Bonham-Christie, who closed the island to the public during her ownership of the island from 1960 to 1980, has done much to bear these suspicions out. This latest suicide is just the most recent in a long line of tragic and unusual deaths to occur on this notorious island.[Themes: mystery / thriller, historical, mystery]
  
  "Father Leofwine is dead."
  
  "Dead?" They stood together, the tall, strong man and his short, thin companion. The short one wore a nervous look, his hands moving rapidly as he glanced around the hall, but there was no one else around.
  
  "Dead, Cynehelm," the larger man said bluntly. "Dead in his bed, his throat cut. Some say black magic."
  
  "Good heavens, why bring magic into it? Wouldn't a plain knife be enough to do the deed?"
  
  "Well of course it would, but Queen Ealhswith is convinced that witchcraft was involved. She has taken ill from the news; you know much she favored the old priest. She believes it was the Danes, that one of their sorcerers used some pagan spell to kill Leofwine and send the court into disorder." The larger man snorted.
  
  Cynehelm could not see what was so amusing. "The queen is right, I'm sure, that it was the Danes, though I don't know about magic. She's right too that it will send the court into disorder, and just when we should all be focused on defeating our enemies. Why on earth didn't Leofwine have guards?"
  
  "He did, Cynehelm," answered the larger man. "Two guards outside his door. They swore upon Saint Cuthbert's comb that they saw no one enter or leave his chambers all night."
  
  "They lie, Ecgbald!" Cynehelm shouted. "Send them to a cell for a week and we'll soon find out who killed Father Leofwine."
  
  Ecgbald only laughed. "The queen is satisfied with their testimony, Cynehelm, pious woman that she is, and King Alfred will not go against the queen, though I am sure he doubts them too. He took the news very hard. He relied on the old priest a great deal, which is no doubt why the Danes killed him. Now Alfred's right hand is gone and every man in Winchester suspects that every other man might be the killer." He laughed again, but this time he sounded very bitter.
  
  Cynehelm was in no mood to laugh. "And the Danes will sit and wait while we accuse each other of being traitors, and who will see the defense of Wessex? For that matter, who will see that justice, real justice, is done to whoever did kill Leofwine? There is a traitor in the court, Ecgbald!"
  
  "Of course there is a traitor, but God alone knows if we will ever find him. Now come, the king will want our counsel. Perhaps we will be lucky, and the murderer is already caught." They departed down the corridor for the council chamber, still discussing what Leofwine's death meant for Wessex and for England itself in the fight against the pagan Danes.
  
  King Alfred's council had already assembled by the time Cynehelm and Ecgbald arrived. Grimbold and Bishop Osfrid stood to one side, whispering, and Aldric, little more than twenty but with bright, intelligent eyes, sat reading at the long table. The king himself looked very tired, and when they entered, he only nodded at their bows. They took their places on either side of the table, and after a few minutes Alfred spoke, everyone very conscious of the empty place at the king's side.
  
  "I trust you are all aware of what has happened to Father Leofwine, a good man and a faithful servant of Wessex. No man mourns his murder more than I. But as much as it pains me, we cannot let this evil distract us from the fight that lies ahead. The Danes want us divided, pointing fingers at each other instead of swords at them, and I will not allow that to happen." His eyes flickered to each of his councilors. "Our enemies most likely have a spy working inside my court. Still, my trust in each of you is complete, and it is my command that your trust in one another be likewise complete. We will worry about the war first and about the traitor after."
  
  "But my lord," said Bishop Osfrid, his voice gravelly, "suppose that one of us is the traitor? He could rely your orders to the Danes, and then we would be finished!"
  
  King Alfred sighed. He looked much older than he had just a day ago, the lines very visible on his face though he was still a young man. "I have no choice but to take that chance, Osfrid. I cannot do without my councilors, and God has not seen fit to reveal if one of you has betrayed me and murdered Father Leofwine. Now, Grimbold, how many men can we muster from Cirencester?"
  
  Grimbold, old and bald and bulky, answered the king, and the next two hours were spent discussing strategy, supplies, and everything else needed to conduct a war against a foe as fearsome and godless as the pagan Danes. Then Alfred dismissed his councilors so he could pray, but he kept Cynehelm back. Ecgbald gave him a long look as he departed, and Cynehelm was left with no doubt about its meaning. Persuade him to investigate.
  
  As it turned out, Alfred needed no persuasion. "My friend, I am afraid I have lied. My mind cannot rest while Leofwine's killer roams loose, and we cannot defeat the Danes if they have an informer in our midst. You must be my eyes and my ears, and you must find the traitor, as quick as you can. But I do not want anyone else to know you are searching, do you understand? You must attend to your duties so that they suspect nothing."
  
  Cynehelm fidgeted, his hands once again in nervous motion as he answered the king. "My lord, I will do as you ask, but why me? I have no experience solving murders or catching traitors, only in keeping your records and making sure your ealdormen pay what they owe in taxes."
  
  Alfred grinned despite everything. "Yes, my friend, you collect my taxes, and unlike every other man who has done so, you do it honestly. You do not skim a little silver off the top, you do not intimidate my subjects into paying you a little extra. I trust you, Cynehelm. And you must find someone else you can trust, someone who can carry out this investigation and report to you. Now, it is time for prayer. Good day, and good luck."
  
  [Author's Note: Someone cut the wise old priest's throat, and everyone at court is a suspect. Who murdered him, and how will King Alfred fight the Danes without his right hand man? Written for Mizal's 2019 Lone Hero contest.]
  
  > Continue
  Cynehelm was in a bind. He could not refuse the king, but there was no one who he could call upon to do what Alfred had ordered. He knew many clever men who might be able to catch the traitor, and he knew many loyal men who could be trusted with such a sensitive task, but he knew no clever, loyal man, at least not one who was loyal to him. Ecgbald was clever and loyal to Alfred, but Alfred had not chosen Ecgbald to find the killer, he had chosen Cynehelm.
  
  He wondered anxiously about what he would do for the rest of the day, and each time one of his retainers or assistants came to speak with him, he considered whether the man might be right for this job. But then it was nearly dark, and he was still no closer to finding someone who could find a killer.
  
  "There's one last man to see you, my lord," said his clerk apologetically. "He won't say what it's about. I can send him away."
  
  The ealdorman rubbed his forehead. "No, let him in. It's probably a thane who's embarrassed that he owes Alfred some tax money. I'll sort it out." The clerk left his office, and when he returned, he was accompanied by a tall man in a black cloak.
  
  The stranger looked at Cynehelm, and Cynehelm looked back at him. He wore a dull set of chainmail beneath his cloak, but what caught the eye was his face. It was etched with lines and scars, and looking at him, Cynehelm was suddenly reminded of the king. Here was another man who had grown old before his time.
  
  His expression was unreadable, and after a few moments Cynehelm spoke. "I won't accept a bribe to lower your taxes, so don't bother asking."
  
  The stranger's voice was quiet and surprisingly gentle for a man with such scars across his face. "I am not here to offer you a bribe, my lord."
  
  Cynehelm waited, but the man did not seem eager to explain himself. Finally, the ealdorman spoke again, his mind on Alfred's orders. "Tell me your business or let me go, I am a busy man." And a harried one, he thought.
  
  "Father Leofwine is dead," the stranger said abruptly. Cynehelm nodded, unsurprised that the news had spread. "He was...a good man, and he did not deserve to die as he did. I knew him long ago, though we had not spoken for many years."
  
  Cynehelm waited for more, but once again the man fell silent. "Leofwine was a loyal servant to King Alfred and to God, and all of Wessex mourns his death. But what business is it of yours?"
  
  The stranger stared at Cynehelm. "The king has tasked you with finding the killer, yes? I want to see the murderer punished too, and I am...not without skill in these matters. Let me help."
  
  Cynehelm rubbed his forehead again and found he was sweating, though it was a cold spring evening. "How did you know Alfred charged me with finding the traitor?"
  
  The stranger smiled, though his eyes stayed fixed on Cynehelm. "As I said, I am not without skill in these matters. I will find the killer, mark my words, but I will find him faster with your permission and aid. Then Leofwine's death can be avenged."
  
  "And Wessex can focus on defeating the Danes," Cynehelm murmured.
  
  "The war does not matter to me," said the stranger. "The king seems a good man, but his orders do not matter to me either. I will find Leofwine's killer because Leofwine was my friend, and because we parted on bad terms, and because justice demands that a murderer be punished. Now, will you let me help you?"
  
  It was absurd, Cynehelm thought. Here was a man he had never seen before, a man who cares nothing for King Alfred or for the defense of the realm, a man who had somehow eavesdropped on a private conversation between the king and his councilor. He could not possibly be trusted, he could even be the one who killed Leofwine, and yet Cynehelm found himself half-trusting his quiet words. He looked like a hard man, true, but his words about Leofwine seemed genuine.
  
  Cynehelm thought about the king, beset by enemies both outside and within his court, and he thought about how he could never catch the killer alone. He looked at the stranger again, who stood still, his eyes roaming over his office. His cloak was tattered, Cynehelm noticed. If the Danes paid him to kill Leofwine, they didn't pay him very much.
  
  > trust the stranger
  "Very well," Cynehelm said, surprising even himself a little. "Find the killer and do it quickly. The Danes could attack anytime in the coming weeks. You might not care about our war, but King Alfred and the rest of Wessex certainly do. When they attack, we cannot have a traitor working against us." The stranger nodded, a new gleam in his eyes, and Cynehelm realized he did not even know the man's name. He asked, and the stranger paused a moment before answering.
  
  "You may call me Wulf," he said.
  
  "Wulf," Cynehelm repeated. "Well, how will we catch this killer?"
  
  "We will work together. No one in Winchester knows me," Wulf said, "and that gives me certain advantages. I will search the city and castle, speak to the common folk, and so on. I will do what I can. But every nobleman in Wessex knows you, and that gives you other advantages. The other ealdormen and the thanes will at least to speak to you, and they might reveal something useful. No nobleman would ever trust me."
  
  "I trusted you," Cynehelm pointed out.
  
  Wulf studied Cynehelm and eventually smiled. "Yes, you did," he said. Cynehelm wondered whether he had a mistake, but Wulf gave him little time to consider it. "Do not look for me. It may be some time before we speak again. Go about your business, just as the king said. Speak to his councilors about the war and about trifles, see if you can catch them in a lie. I will go about my side of the business."
  
  Then he turned and departed, leaving Cynehelm with a dozen questions and only a little less anxiety than when he first entered. Wulf might be a Dane himself, he thought, or simply a madman. God alone knew if he would have any luck finding Leofwine's killer, and in the meantime how in the world was he supposed to go about picking up clues from the nobility? It was a bad business, all of it, and Cynehelm felt a little sick as he left his office.
  
  He was so lost in thought that he almost collided with Ecgbald as the large man came around a corner. "There you are!" he said. "Now tell me, what did Alfred want with you earlier?"
  
  Cynehelm swallowed. "The king plans to gift some land to another monastery and wants me to do a general survey of the financial state of the monasteries he's already endowed." The lies came surprisingly easily, and Ecgbald nodded.
  
  "But nothing about Leofwine?" Cynehelm shook his head. "Then we need to take matters into our own hands, despite what Alfred said. The king is a good man and a strong one, too, but he is too trusting. I do not trust Grimbold or Bishop Osfrid, and Aldric has risen far too fast. Any one of them might be in league with the Danes."
  
  "A bishop in the service of heathens?" Cynehelm said, aghast.
  
  Ecgbald cracked his enormous knuckles. "Osfrid is wily. Wilier than he is godly, to tell the truth, and interested above all in silver. Silver for his crucifixes and altars, silver for his chalices, and silver for his own pocket. I'd put nothing past him. As for the others, Aldric seems ambitious. He's risen high fast, and perhaps he wanted to rise even higher. And Grimbold never cared for Leofwine. He was always jealous of how the king and Queen Ealhswith relied on the old priest. I'm going to investigate, starting with those guards, and I suggest you do likewise."
  
  They had come to Cynehelm's chambers, and he made his excuses to Ecgbald and promised he would think on everything he had said. The room was small and spartan for such an important man, but then again, Cynehelm was not rich. He drank a little wine and got into bed. Saying a quick prayer for the king, he blew out his candle and hoped that Wulf was as clever and as loyal as he hoped.
  
  > In a Winchester tavern
  Wulf sipped his ale as the man sitting across from him threw back cup after cup. He was fat, and his face grew redder and redder with each swig. His words flowed with the beer, and Wulf was glad he had followed his instincts and trailed the man after he left Bishop Osfrid's chambers. It turned out that the fat man was his cook. Like most men, the cook liked to drink, and he particularly liked to drink when someone else paid for the beer.
  
  "What does your master prefer to eat?" Wulf said, raising his voice just enough to be audible above the tavern noise.
  
  The cook blinked a few times. "Why, everything," he said, a little puzzled. "He likes eels best of all. Eats them every fast day and plenty of other days besides." He hiccoughed.
  
  "I don't like them, but then, I've never had one of yours."
  
  "They can be tricky little things," the cook said, and then he leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. "I like to cover them with flour and a little salt and then fry them. Just fry them. They have a pleasing taste, at least if they're fresh, and you don't want to mask that."
  
  Wulf nodded and took another sip. The cook was swaying in his seat now, and he judged the time was right. "I've heard that the king's priest is dead."
  
  The cook scratched his nose. "Yes, his throat cut open like a pig's. He was more than Alfred's confessor, though; he was his right-hand man. The Danes will come and murder us all, likely as not, without old Leofwine here to counsel the king." He looked at his cup philosophically for a moment and then drained it down.
  
  Wulf was about to prod a little more when the cook suddenly spoke again. "He was a kind man, Leofwine was. I made, I made him a meal once, something with beef. I'm nearly sure it was some kind of beef. And he had them call me out of the kitchen and thanked me. Thanked me personally, you understand. King Alfred's right-hand man. I would have liked to cook for him again, but now I'm stuck cooking for Osfrid. He pays me well, of course, but where's the gratitude? I can get silver, and a lot more than Osfrid pays, easily enough."
  
  Wulf nodded, and the cook continued, his voice rising. "In fact, it makes me almost want to tell him off. No more, I'd say, no more frying your eels or roasting your chickens. No more travelling from Sherborne to Winchester every fortnight. No more keeping Osfrid's secrets either. Why, the things I could tell! The other servants whisper things to me, you see, and I remember them. Keep them up here with all the recipes..." He tapped his head, his voice trailing off, then he swayed again and shut his eyes. Wulf could tell he was about to fall asleep.
  
  He had not expected such luck, not on the first night of his search, but now that he was so close it was frustrating that the cook would not keep talking. Secrets were always useful, and if the cook's did not help him catch Leofwine's killer than they would help somehow in the future. He glanced around. The tavern was full, but no one was paying them much attention.
  
  > question him
  Wulf grabbed the cook by his collar and jerked him up. "Whug?" he said stupidly, eyes still shut.
  
  He led the man out of the tavern and into the dark streets of Winchester. The castle loomed behind them on the hill, but Wulf went down a little alley. They could still hear the muffled singing and conversation from the inn, and the cook started singing too as he stumbled along, one arm clutching Wulf's shoulder. When they reached a pile of barrels, Wulf dropped him on one of them, and there he sat, his back slumped against the wall.
  
  "What are Bishop Osfrid's secrets?" he said quietly. The cook did not seem to hear him and let out a loud yawn. "What do you know?" he asked again, a little louder, his breath visible in the cold air.
  
  The cook fell to one side, his head resting on another barrel, and Wulf decided he had to take more drastic steps. He slapped the man, not very hard, but enough to wake him up. "Good Lord!" he shouted, trying and failing to spring to his feet. He tipped right over, upending the barrel and sending it to the ground with a dull thud. The fat cook himself was much louder when he hit the cobbles, and he let a string of angry curses go flying into the night.
  
  He sat on the ground, rubbing his eyes, and then Wulf spoke again. "What are Bishop Osfrid's secrets?" The cook looked up at him, sputtering something unintelligible, and Wulf raised his arm. "I will hit you again," he said softly, "unless you tell me."
  
  The man wilted at the sight of Wulf's fist and kept talking, his words tripping over each other. "He has a woman...corrupt dealings, very corrupt...and the silver for the monastery, the silver he took was for a monastery, but he took it...just let me think a minute..."
  
  "The Danes," Wulf interjected. "Has Osfrid ever had dealings with the Danes?"
  
  The cook stopped babbling and looked up at him. Just as he was about to speak, someone else shouted from the other end of the alley. "What's going on here?" There was the sound of heavy feet on the cobblestones, and Wulf cursed his bad timing. Glancing over, he saw the guard trotting towards them, his head moving to the sword at his side.
  
  The cook must have seen him too, because he shouted, "Help me!" Wulf kicked him, just enough to shut him up, and drew his own sword. It was a short blade and nicked from use, and he was not afraid to kill this guard if he had to. It was better, though, to flee, and so he turned and ran back the way he had come, out of the alley and past the tavern door. He could feel the guard behind him, but the man was thick and slow, and he was quick.
  
  He darted around a corner, glancing again at the castle that sat on the hill above everything else. Wulf had not been in Winchester since he was a boy, but though the city was larger than most others in England, it was empty at this time of night. He sped past houses, shops, and churches, all deserted. Only the occasional inn had a light at the window, and he considered trying to blend in inside one. But he could still hear the guard's footsteps a way behind, and there was no telling if the man would see him enter.
  
  Finally, he stopped and hid beside an old, half-rotten cart. He listened for the guard but heard nothing. Speed had saved him once again. Wulf leaned against the cart's wheel, panting a little, and thought about what the cook had said. Nothing that clearly tied Bishop Osfrid to Leofwine's murder or to the Danes, but plenty to investigate further. That would be his work tomorrow, he decided, after he found the old priest's guards and learned all they knew about what had happened last night.
  
  He had just decided to leave the cart when he heard the footsteps. They were heavy and slow, like the guard had grown tired. Wulf knew he could escape a second time and find somewhere to lie low till morning, but then he heard a second set of footsteps, then a third. He ran, but they were on him almost immediately, diving out of alleys he had not even noticed, their faces grim and determined as they brandished swords and spears. There were four of them, including his original pursuer, and they eyed him warily.
  
  "Lay down that sword and hand over whatever you stole from the fatty by the tavern," the one said. They were all old men, or at least older than Wulf, and in that moment, he decided to flee again. He held out his hand as if to obey the command, and then suddenly he leapt forward, slashing wildly and catching the first guard across his chest. He fell with a gasp, and Wulf ran, but the others were not so easily surprised. He only made it ten yards before the bravest dove for his legs, pulling him down without fear, though he kept swinging his short sword.
  
  Soon the others were upon him too, and, full of anger for their fallen comrade, set about butchering the man in the black cloak. He managed to kill the one who had tackled him, stabbing him through the neck and then twisting to face the others, but he could not take them all. One kicked him in the head, which sent him to the ground again, and then the other grunted loudly and swung, his sword cleaving Wulf's head straight off his shoulders. It was over in seconds, and his body stopped twitching a second later.