Rain lashed the mansion's darkened, gothic-style windowpanes. A single candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room. Lord Ashworth lay sprawled, strangely still upon the Persian rug. His normally stern face wore a look of abject surprise. A single crimson stain bloomed on his crisp white shirt. Detective Harding surveyed the scene with a keen, observant eye. The heavy oak door stood ajar, inviting the cold night. No obvious signs of forced entry were immediately apparent. A faint, cloying scent of almonds hung in the air. Someone had surely silenced this man this very night.