Thunder rattled the ancient windows as Eleanor Hastings entered the library, her heels clicking sharply across the marble-tiled floor. A solitary grandfather clock chimed midnight, its resonant echo swallowing the whispers of the assembled guests clutching crystal cocktail glasses. Rain drummed a frenetic rhythm on the roof above, mirroring Eleanor's racing heart as she scanned the lavishly furnished room. Cigar smoke lingered in curling tendrils, mingling with the musky scent of leather-bound tomes lining the dark mahogany shelves. Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the uneasy silence, and every face turned in horror toward the velvet-draped billiards alcove. There, beneath a shattered decanter and scattered playing cards, Lord Wexley slumped motionless, a dark stain blooming beneath him. Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat as she realized someone in this very room was now a ruthless murderer.