The dimly lit study was lifeless, save for the soft ticking of an antique clock. Colonel Mustard sat rigidly in his armchair, a look of shock etched on his weathered face. There, in front of the blazing fireplace, slumped the form of Mr. Boddy, a look of terror forever etched on his lifeless visage. A single, amateurishly-hidden pistol rested on the Persian rug beneath the victim's dangling right hand. Inspector Clouseau, the pudgy but astute detective, had just arrived on the scene. Chomping on his favorite lemon-flavored treat, he surveyed the room, lighted only by the flickering flames and the waning candlelight. In one corner, Miss Scarlett fidgeted with her pearls, while in another, Professor Plum poured himself a drink. "I say, what's happened here?" bellowed the rotund detective.