The rain lashed against the library windows, blurring the gaslight glow filtering through. Moonlight painted the scene in a ghostly light, illuminating the sprawling chaos within. Books were strewn across the floor, their pages scattered like fallen leaves. A single shaft of light shone on a figure crumpled amidst the overturned chairs and fallen tomes, a face frozen in an expression of perpetual surprise under a dusty pile of leather-bound volumes. Her emerald green dress lay in a twisted heap on the floor, books littering it. The library was silent, save for the steady drumming of heavy, unforgiving rain. Inspector Davies pushed open the door, his trench coat dripping onto the worn rug. "Another one, Mr. Blackwood?" he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism and weariness. Blackwood, pale as death itself, merely nodded, staring listlessly at the scattered papers. The victim was Charlotte, his wife, who wear a pajama set specifically tailored for the occasion. Her usually vibrant blue eyes, rimmed by thick lashes, were now lifeless and dull, lusterless under the wavering light. Davies sighed, knowing another night of unraveling secrets and lies stretched before him.