Rain lashed against the leaded panes of Blackwood Manor, a fitting curtain. Colonel Alistair Finch’s body slumped in the mahogany armchair, quite lifeless now. A single, crimson stain blossomed on his pristine white dinner jacket, truly stark. Inspector Thomas Mallory surveyed the grim scene, his experienced gaze unwavering and sharp. He noted the overturned brandy snifter on the Persian rug, a shattered, clear vessel. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight, its sonorous tone echoing ominously. Mallory carefully adjusted his spectacles, a gesture of deep thought and slow deliberation. This was no ordinary heart attack; a much darker hand had been at work. He felt the familiar chill of a new puzzle, a complex and intricate challenge. The perfect quiet of the room enveloped him, a shroud over hidden malice.