Detective Harding arrived at the grand manor as the clock struck midnight, while relentless, cold rain lashed against the windows. The butler, a grim statue of a man, showed him silently down the long, shadowed hallway of the old house. He entered the oak-paneled study where a dying fire cast long, dancing shadows across the expensive, ornate leather furniture. Lord Harrington was slumped facedown onto his immense mahogany desk, a single, dark crimson stain spreading across the blotter. An overturned crystal glass lay shattered on the floor beside the desk, its amber contents pooling into the Persian rug. The only sound in the suffocatingly silent room was the grandfather clock’s relentless, metronomic ticking from a far corner. Harding noted the serene, almost peaceful expression on the dead man's face, a detail that felt chillingly out of place.