Moonlight spilled through the cracked window, casting eerie shadows that danced upon the walls of the abandoned mansion's parlor. Detective Harris paused at the threshold, the air heavy with the faint, unmistakable scent of iron and wilted roses. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked ominously, a metronome counting down time until secrets would be unearthed. On the moth-eaten rug lay Lady Clara, her eyes wide open, lips frozen in an eternal scream for justice. He surveyed the scene meticulously, noting every detail like a puzzle slowly coming together as the pieces clicked in place. A single crimson glove lay hidden beneath the chaise lounge, its mate waiting patiently to reveal a damning truth.