The torrential downpour hammered against the conservatory's glass roof, imitating the frantic beat of Inspector Davies' heart. He stood transfixed by the body sprawled on the intricately patterned Persian rug, a pool of crimson blossoming around it. A crystal decanter lay shattered beside the limp hand, its once-sparkling contents now a slick stain on the mahogany floor. A delicate scent of roses mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating an unsettling aroma in the dimly lit space. Lord Ashworth, renowned for his impeccable social standing and love of the exquisite, was no longer resplendent, but lifeless, his eyes staring vacantly at the stormy sky. He clutched a single, wilted white rose in his stiffened hand, its beauty grotesquely juxtaposed against the macabre scene.