Detective Inspector Miles Corbin surveyed the opulent room, his sharp, observant eyes missing absolutely nothing in the flickering firelight. The master of the house, Lord Alistair Harrington, was slumped lifelessly in his favorite high-backed, green leather reading chair. A single, perfect, crimson stain blossomed like a dark, ghastly rose upon the starched white front of his shirt. An overturned crystal glass lay shattered on the expensive Persian rug, its amber liquid seeping slowly into the intricate fibers. Corbin noted the strange absence of a struggle, despite the undeniable, final evidence of extremely sudden and very personal violence. In the shadowed doorway, the pale, frightened faces of the assembled family members watched his every single calculated, deliberate move.