The old manor house stood shrouded in an oppressive, moonless night, its darkened windows like vacant eyes watching all below. A single, flickering gas lamp illuminated the dew-kissed gravel path leading directly towards the looming structure's grand entrance. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of aged wood, polished brass, and something disturbingly metallic and wrong. Lady Abigail Pembroke lay sprawled upon the Persian rug, her jade necklace scattered like fallen emeralds across the floor. Detective Harding surveyed the opulent scene, the silence amplifying the unspoken horror contained within the drawing room.