Heavy rain lashed against the tall gothic windows of Blackwood Manor, a somber drumbeat against the night. A flickering gas lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the richly appointed study’s mahogany desk. Lord Ashworth lay sprawled awkwardly behind it, his tailored waistcoat soaked with a dark, viscous crimson stain. Detective Reginald Ainsworth surveyed the scene, his steely grey eyes missing no incriminating detail in the room. The room itself felt like a silent witness, holding secrets that the storm outside could not possibly drown. A faint scent of expensive cigars mingled with the metallic tang of fresh, spilled blood everywhere. The ornate grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed midnight, marking the ghastly hour of this transgression.