**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its iron gates groaning like a dying man’s last breath.** The butler stood motionless in the foyer, his gloved hands trembling as if the house itself whispered secrets he dared not repeat. A single candle flickered on the grand staircase, casting long shadows that stretched like accusing fingers across the bloodstained marble floor. The clock in the hall struck midnight, its chime echoing through the empty corridors where something—or someone—waited just beyond sight. Lady Eleanor’s body lay sprawled across the Persian rug, her emerald necklace shattered, the stones scattered like tears across the cold, unfeeling ground. The scent of bitter almonds lingered in the air, a silent witness to the poison that had stolen her final, gasping words. Outside, a figure in a black cloak vanished into the storm, their footsteps swallowed by the howling wind and the relentless drumming of the rain. The detective arrived at dawn, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos, knowing full well that every shadow in Blackthorn Manor held a lie.