Rain lashed down, a cold, unending December lament. Mr. Hemlock lay still, quite certainly very dead. His crimson silk robe stained further with his gore. A small, engraved letter opener protruded from his chest. Blood blossomed widely, staining the pristine white carpet. The grandfather clock chimed, marking endless, quiet passing. No sound escaped the room; all was chillingly silent. A single, elegant slipper lay discarded by the hearth. Its twin rested perfectly still on Mr. Hemlock’s foot. Detective Harding surveyed the scene, brow deeply furrowed.