The old library was silent, a tomb for forgotten words. Dust motes danced in the single, slanting moonbeam. Upon the rich Persian rug, Lord Ashworth lay very still. A silver letter opener protruded from his expensive tweed vest. His vacant eyes stared sightlessly at the ornate, high ceiling. A half-empty glass of brandy sat beside one cold hand. One priceless, ancient book was lying open on the floor. The grandfather clock had stopped at the stroke of midnight.