The grandfather clock chimed twelve times, its resonant tones echoing through the cavernous hall. Rain lashed against the windows, a relentless torrent that mirrored the storm brewing inside Eleanor's heart. Her gaze, sharp as shattered glass, landed on the crumpled figure sprawled across the Persian rug, a single crimson stain blooming outward like a macabre rose. Colonel Harrington, the life of every party and master of their country manor, was undeniably, irrevocably, dead.