The grandfather clock struck midnight while a heavy fog crawled over the manicured lawn of the ancient and silent country estate. Inside the library, Arthur Penhaligon slumped over his mahogany desk with a silver letter opener protruding from his rigid, cold spine. Rain lashed against the leaded windowpanes as the scent of expensive brandy mingled with the metallic tang of fresh blood. A single silk glove lay abandoned near the hearth, its white fabric stained by a splash of deep, crimson wine. Somewhere in the shadows of the long hallway, a floorboard creaked beneath the weight of a pair of stealthy boots. The killer paused to listen for any signs of movement before slipping through the heavy oak doors into the night. No one heard the muffled scream that echoed briefly through the empty corridors of the house during the violent storm. Now the only sound remaining was the rhythmic ticking of the clock marking the passage of a very long night.