The old mansion stood silent under a bruised and unforgiving twilight sky. Rain lashed down angrily against the stained glass windows lining the imposing hall. A faint, metallic scent of something dark and disturbing hung heavy within the air. Lord Ashworth lay sprawled unnaturally across the Persian rug, his eyes wide and unseeing. Detective Harding surveyed the opulent, yet strangely unsettling, scene before his weary gaze. A single, ornate letter opener protruded from his chest, a crimson stain blooming outward. No signs of forced entry hinted at the intruder's method of gaining access. Footprints, faint but undeniable, marred the otherwise pristine polished wooden floorboards here. Silence reigned supreme, broken only by the storm’s distant, mournful sighing.