Rain lashed against the leaded panes of Blackwood Manor. Lord Ashworth lay still, a silver letter opener protruding from his chest. Dust motes danced in the flickering gaslight, a silent, macabre ballet. His monocle had shattered, scattered shards upon the rich Persian rug. The library air hung heavy with the scent of old paper and death. A single, ornate teacup lay overturned beside his lifeless hand. No obvious footprints marred the polished oak floorboards nearby. A grandfather clock chimed midnight, its sonorous gong echoing throughout. Sergeant Miller pushed through the heavy oak doors, his gaze assessing. He surveying the scene, a grim set to his jawline.