Rain lashed furiously against the leaded glass as Detective Harding finally stepped into the grand, oppressively silent Blackwood manor. A stoic, white-gloved butler guided him through the shadowed hallway towards the heavy, oak doors of the large library. There, slumped within a crimson wingback chair by the crackling fire, was the still and lifeless body of Alistair Blackwood. A single, dark stain spread across the starched white front of his shirt, just above his silent, unbeating heart. An overturned whiskey tumbler lay on the mahogany table, its amber liquid staining the pages of an old, leather-bound book. The detective scanned the meticulously tidy room, where only death itself seemed to be so terribly out of its place.