The rain lashed against the grimy windowpanes, a relentless October downpour. Inside, dust motes danced in the single lamp’s glow, illuminating the antique parlor. Lord Ashworth lay sprawled across the Persian rug, unmoving and pale. A crimson stain bloomed on his immaculate tweed jacket, stark against the fabric. His silver spectacles had fallen near his aristocratic hand, glinting dully there. Miss Eleanor Vance stood rigid by the cold fireplace, clutching a velvet shawl. Her wide eyes darted from the body to the intricate, silent grandfather clock. Fear tightened its cold grip around her slender throat, a silent scream. The faint scent of burnt almonds hung heavy in the opulent, airless room. This wasn't a tragic accident; it was a deliberate, brutal killing.