The rain hammered against the windowpanes, a relentless rhythm against the silence within the study. The air hung heavy with the scent of old books and something else, something metallic and sharp. A small, dark stain blossomed on the pristine white rug, a stark contrast against the mahogany desk and the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls. A single, silver candlestick lay toppled on the floor, its candle extinguished, the wax congealed into a gruesome, distorted sculpture. On the desk, sprawled face down, was the body of Mr. Reginald Blackwood, the renowned antiquarian, his once distinguished face contorted in a silent scream.