The relentless autumn rain hammered tirelessly against the leaded glass windows of the grand and imposing Ashworth Manor. Detective Inspector Miles Corbin stood silently within the doorway, his keen, observant eyes surveying the chaotic scene before him. The vast library, with its towering shelves of leather-bound books, smelled of old paper, cold ashes, and sharp, bitter regret. Beside the cold, stone fireplace, Lord Ashworth sat slumped lifelessly in his favorite high-backed, crimson leather armchair. An ornate silver letter opener, its beautiful hilt shaped like a snarling griffin, was plunged deep into his chest. On the expensive Persian rug nearby, a delicate porcelain teacup lay shattered into a hundred tiny, glittering shards. Corbin knew with a cold, sinking certainty the killer was still somewhere within the manor’s vast, shadow-filled walls.