Rain slicked the grimy cobblestones, reflecting a single flickering gas lamp. Lord Ashworth lay dead, a crimson stain on his pristine cravat. The library’s grand silence felt heavy, a shroud over the macabre scene. His monocle dangled precariously, a shattered lens glinting malevolently. A faint scent of burnt almond lingered, sharp and subtly disquieting. Footsteps echoed on the stairs, disrupting the room’s morbid stillness. Detective Harding entered, his weary gaze sweeping the opulent chamber. His trench coat dripped steadily, adding to the room’s damp chill. He knelt beside the peer, observing the body with grim precision. No forced entry suggested the killer was intimately known to him. The perfect crime scene almost taunted him with its quiet order. This was no simple robbery; a deeper motive surely propelled this act. Harding straightened slowly, his mind already piecing together dark possibilities. The game, it seemed, had already begun in this very room. He sensed betrayal hiding within these hwealthy, shadowed walls. Another aristocrat fallen, another mystery beckoning his careful attention. Harding knew this case would plumb the depths of human darkness. The truth, like the rain, would eventually fall, cold and revealing. He exchanged a look with his sergeant, a silent, grim understanding. Ashworth's last chapter was just the beginning of their long night.