The golden clock on the marble mantle struck midnight as a single silver bullet shattered the heavy crystal decanter nearby. Arthur Penhaligon collapsed onto the Persian rug while the scent of expensive bourbon mingled with the metallic tang of blood. No scream escaped his lips because the projectile had severed his windpipe before he could even process the sudden impact. Outside the library window, a shadow retreated into the thick fog that clung to the jagged cliffs of the estate. Silence returned to the manor house except for the steady rhythmic dripping of dark liquid onto the polished hardwood floor. A gloved hand reached from behind the velvet velvet curtains to retrieve a spent shell casing from the expensive carpet. The mysterious figure vanished through the side door just as the distant baying of a hound echoed across the moors. Now the master of the house lay dead and the killer was already miles away in the cold autumn night.