In a dimly lit study, a figure slumped lifelessly in an armchair. Antique books lined the shelves, their titles in faded gold letters. A floor lamp cast a warm glow on the Persian rug, revealing a stain the color of dried ink. A globe stood atop a rolltop desk, its brass meridian riveted to the hourglass moment before midnight. A skeleton key dangled from a chain around the victim's neck, its complex serpentine curves a puzzle even to Sherlock Holmes. A watch lay at the hollow man's wrist, whose hands stopped at 22:45. A Remington random encore dagger, its blade serrated and gleaming, was thrust hilt-first into the cushion. A hammer, cast to resemble a roaring lion, bartered with shadows on the windowpane. A pen and inkwell sat beside crumpled papers, awaiting further evidence to unravel the tableau's riddle. And there, standing alone amidst the malodorous fog of the crime scene, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, clad in a nondescript trench coat, stared contemplatively at the crimson threads connecting each macabre piece of the coroner's collection.