Rain lashed against the tall Victorian windows, a steady drumming. The cobbled street outside, slick and deserted, reflected the dim gaslight. A chill permeated the air, cold even for November in London. Inspector Davies stood, his face grim, in the center of the opulent drawing-room. Golden retrievers sniffed the carpet, fur ruffled by the open window. A woman lay sprawled on the plush crimson rug, her eyes unseeing and wide. Blood pooled around her, staining the vibrant red a darker shade. The scent of lavender and blood mingled unpleasantly. An emerald necklace lay beside her, glittering like a cruel jest. "Another case," Davies muttered, his voice heavy with weariness. There was murder, once again, in the heart of high society.