The old manor was shrouded in a thick, cold fog. Detective Harding arrived as the pale dawn was finally breaking. A butler led him towards the west wing's library door. Silence hung heavy inside the grand, dust-filled reading room. Lord Ashworth was slumped over his antique mahogany writing desk. His cold, lifeless eyes stared at an open, ancient book. A single crimson drop stained the green leather desktop blotter. The fireplace was cold; its embers had died hours ago. The room smelled faintly of bitter almonds and old paper. Something here felt meticulously, deliberately, and horribly wrong.