The old manor house stood silently at the edge of town, its windows dark against the cold November rain outside. Detective Sarah Chen arrived at precisely eleven o'clock, her boots crunching on the gravel driveway leading to the front door. A uniformed officer met her on the porch, his face pale and drawn, clearly shaken by whatever horrors waited inside. The body of Lord Edmund Ashworth lay crumpled beside his mahogany desk, a letter opener buried deep in his chest. Blood had pooled across the Persian rug, seeping into its intricate patterns like dark rivers flowing through an ancient map. His wife stood trembling in the hallway, clutching a glass of brandy, her silk evening gown stained with something red. Three dinner guests remained seated in the parlor, each one refusing to meet the eyes of any other nervous person. The grandfather clock in the corner had stopped at exactly nine fifteen, as though time itself had witnessed the crime. Sarah knelt beside the body and studied the wound carefully, noting the unusual angle of entry with her practiced eye. This was no ordinary killing, she realized with growing unease, and the murderer was almost certainly still inside this house.