The golden clock on the rosewood mantle struck twelve times while a heavy mist rolled across the dark, silent estate. Sir Percival lay perfectly still upon the patterned Persian rug with a silver letter opener protruding from his frail chest. No one heard the muffled scream or the frantic scuffle that preceded the sudden silence within the cold, library walls. A single puddle of crimson ink pooled beneath his hand, staining the final line of his newly finished, secret will. Outside, the gardener noticed a flickering light in the west wing but decided it was merely the wind playing tricks. He stepped away from the window, leaving the dead man alone in the shadows of shadows of his grand home. Every heavy door remained locked from the inside, yet a bitter draft chilled the air like a cold, ghostly hand. The killer stood in the hallway, listening to the pounding of a guilty heart before slipping quietly into the night.