Rain splattered against the dimly lit windows, casting streaks across the ancient library walls lined with forgotten, dust-laden books. A crimson stain spread silently across the grand Persian rug, pooling beneath the lifeless hand of Lord Reginald Bartholomew IV. Chandeliers glimmered overhead, their reflected light flickering upon terrified faces gathered, each guest unwillingly trapped within the estate’s stone embrace. The grandfather clock chimed midnight, its reverberations mingling with gasps as Lady Sparrow discovered the dagger wedged deep in Reginald’s chest. Thunder roared above the moors, momentarily illuminating Detective Marlowe’s silhouette as he surveyed the macabre tableau, eyes narrowed with suspicion.