The morning fog clung to Willowbrook Manor's ancient stone walls like ghostly fingers reaching from the forgotten past below. Detective Sarah Chen stepped from her car, gravel crunching beneath polished boots as she surveyed the imposing Victorian mansion ahead. The butler's frantic phone call had interrupted her coffee at dawn, his voice trembling with news of unspeakable horror. Lord Pemberton lay sprawled across his mahogany desk, a silver letter opener protruding from between his shoulder blades menacingly. Blood had pooled around scattered documents, crimson stains marking what appeared to be his final, desperate attempt at writing. The study's French doors stood wide open, allowing October's bitter wind to scatter loose papers across the Persian rug. Chen noticed fresh mud tracked across the marble floor, forming a deliberate path from the garden entrance to the desk. Three potential suspects waited nervously in the drawing room: the widow, the business partner, and the estranged son recently returned. Each claimed to have been elsewhere during the estimated time of death, but their alibis seemed suspiciously rehearsed somehow. The detective pulled on latex gloves, knowing that within these walls lay secrets worth killing for—and dying over.