The confrontation with Blackwood had yielded little concrete evidence, only a deepening sense of unease and a confirmation of his insidious involvement. Back in the cramped confines of their office, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of stale coffee, Graves stared at the photograph of the Weeping Sunflower, its petals drooping like tears. Eddie, ever the pragmatist, was poring over Blackwood's meticulously crafted alibi, while Langley paced restlessly, his hands clasped behind his back.

  "The inconsistencies are there, alright” Eddie conceded, pushing a stack of witness statements across the desk. "But they're subtle, almost invisible to the untrained eye. Blackwood's a master manipulator, Graves. He's built his life on deception."

  Graves nodded, his gaze fixed on the painting's image. He was running through the sequence of events again, focusing on the theft itself. The only tangible clue, aside from Blackwood's increasingly shaky alibi, was the painting itself – a seemingly insignificant detail that had suddenly gained profound significance.

  "The symbol” Graves murmured, pointing to a barely visible mark etched into the painting's frame. It was a small, almost imperceptible emblem – three intertwined circles, forming a sort of knot. He’d initially dismissed it as a manufacturing defect, but now, it felt significant.

  "What about it?" Langley asked, his voice laced with a hint of impatience. He was a man of action, growing increasingly frustrated by the lack of tangible progress.

  "Remember what Eddie found in Ashworth's flat? The sketches of various pubs around London?" Eddie nodded, pulling out a worn, leather-bound sketchbook. He flipped through the pages, a mixture of sketches and notes scattered haphazardly across the pages. "Ashworth frequented them, supposedly for research. He claimed it was for his next painting."

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  Graves leaned closer, his eyes scanning the sketches. He spotted it then, a small detail almost hidden amongst the drawings of overflowing beer mugs and jovial patrons. It was the same symbol – the three intertwined circles – sketched almost casually in the corner of a drawing depicting a pub called "The Crooked Tankard."

  "The Crooked Tankard” Graves repeated, a glint of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Eddie, check the location. We might have stumbled on something significant."

  The Crooked Tankard turned out to be a dimly lit, smoky pub tucked away in a forgotten corner of London. Its clientele were a mix of hardened regulars and occasional tourists, their faces etched with the stories of years spent nursing pints and sharing secrets. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent of pipe tobacco.

  Graves, Eddie, and Langley entered, instantly becoming the center of attention. Their sharp suits and the air of quiet authority set them apart from the clientele. The barman, a burly man with a suspicious-looking scar above his eye, eyed them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  Graves, drawing upon his years of experience, engaged the barman in conversation, dropping hints about their supposed interest in local history and architecture. He casually inquired about the pub’s history, its regular patrons, and any unusual events. The barman, initially reluctant, gradually warmed up, his initial suspicion dissolving into a jovial camaraderie fuelled by the promise of a few free drinks.

  The barman’s rambling recollections yielded a trove of information. He spoke of Ashworth, a quiet man who preferred a corner table and strong whiskey. He confirmed Ashworth’s regular presence, but revealed nothing unusual – or so it seemed. However, when the conversation drifted to the pub's decor, the barman mentioned the intricate carvings on the bar itself, and a specific detail that immediately caught Graves' attention.

  "There's a carving… almost hidden behind the beer taps” the barman mumbled, wiping down a glass. "Three circles… intertwined like a knot. Old, very old. Nobody seems to know what it means. Some say it's an ancient symbol, something to do with… the Order of the Golden Sun."

  The symbol, the Order of the Golden Sun, Blackwood... the pieces were slowly falling into place. The new trail led not only to a new location, but to a deeper understanding of Blackwood’s carefully constructed web of deception. The Weeping Sunflower wasn’t merely a painting; it was a key, a symbol that unlocked a hidden layer of Blackwood's intricate game. The hunt was far from over, but Graves felt a surge of renewed determination. He knew, deep down, that they were getting closer. Much closer. The truth, it seemed, was starting to bloom.

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