Rain lashed against the library windows, mimicking the frantic beat of Inspector Davies's heart. Inside, nestled amongst towering bookshelves, he clutched the telegram in his hand, the message as bleak as the weather. His weathered face mirrored the grim news contained within its crisp, white lines: "Sir Reginald Ashworth Deceased. Urgent return requested." The ornate fireplace, once crackling with warmth, now seemed cold and lifeless, reflecting the loss etched onto his own weary features. He unfolded the fragile paper, his fingers tracing the condensation clinging to the edges, tracing the frigid scent of ash to his senses. Electric anticipation thrummed through his veins as he envisioned the book-lined mansion he calls home. He glanced at the sturdy wall of books, the scent was strong, heavy with the weight of secrets, dusty and quiet. The silence felt oppressive, filled only with the ticking of a grand clock and the hushed wail of the wind beyond.