Rain lashed against the windows, a relentless drumbeat of grief. Detective Harding sighed, staring at the body sprawled on the opulent carpet. Candles flickered, casting long shadows across the manor's grand hall. A single overturned champagne flute lay broken near the victim's outstretched hand. The ornate clock above the fireplace chimed midnight, adding a mournful toll to the scene. The air hung heavy with the scent of lilies and something else, something metallic and unsettling. The elderly butler stood stiffly nearby, his face pale and etched with worry. 'I found him like this, sir,' he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. 'Just after the grand gala, everything seemed...perfectly normal.' A chill crept down Harding's spine, a primal instinct telling him otherwise. Later, he knew, the butler would be his first suspect.