Rain lashed against the darkened windowpanes, obscuring the grim tableau within the opulent study. A single ornate lamp cast a pool of sterile light upon the fallen victim. Crimson stained the Persian rug, blooming outwards from the still, vacant form on the polished grandfather clock. Detective Harding’s weary gaze swept the room, searching for any clue overlooked in previous assessments. The air hung heavy with the scent of expensive pipe tobacco and something acrid, distinctly out of place. A half-finished glass of amber liquid sat untouched beside a scattered pile of confidential legal documents. His seasoned instincts screamed that this was no accidental death, but a carefully orchestrated, brutal act.