The rain tapped softly against the library's leaded glass windows. A single oil lamp flickered, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Detective Mallory stood frozen, hand hovering over the dead man's wrist. The victim lay sprawled beside a toppled chair, eyes wide. An antique pocket watch rested in his palm, stopped at ten. Blood pooled slowly beneath his chest, soaking into Persian rug fibers. The air smelled sharply of ink, damp paper, and burnt coal. No footprints marred the polished oak except those already known. A half-written letter lay splayed on the desk, addressed to no one. Outside, a clock chimed midnight, though the house had none.