The rain lashed against the windows, a relentless rhythm. Sir Reginald lay sprawled on the Persian rug. The silver candlestick lay nearby, its tip dripping wax. A single crimson stain marred the pristine white collar. Lady Amelia stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock. Inspector Davies, a man of few words, took in the scene. “A murder,” he declared, his voice gruff and low. “The question is, who did it?”