Under a crescent moon, Detective James Connor stepped into the Victorian mansion's picturesque courtyard, cigar smoke trailing. Through a broken window, he discovered a body, wrapped in fine textiles, and propped against the hearth. The fireplace still smoldered, its embers a testament to recent use. A filigreed dagger, gem encrusted, lay nearby, handle sticky with blood. Maid, panicked, met Connor at the back door, muttering something about the master and luncheon. A lady's glove rested at the foot of a spiral staircase, its owner nowhere to be seen. Footprints, leading to the master's study, bore a single-legged rawness, not of this house. Connor's brow furrowed, senses on high alert.