**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor that evening**, as the old grandfather clock struck midnight with a hollow, echoing chime. **A single candle flickered in the library, casting long shadows across the leather-bound books**, while the scent of aged parchment and damp wood filled the heavy silence. **Detective Elias Vane adjusted his gloves, his breath visible in the frigid air**, as he studied the crimson stain spreading across the Persian rug beneath him. **The victim—a wealthy industrialist named Reginald Holloway—lay sprawled near the fireplace**, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling as if frozen in silent accusation. **A silver letter opener, its blade glinting under the dim light, rested near his outstretched hand**, its handle wrapped in what looked like fine, embroidered silk. **The butler, a gaunt man with trembling fingers, stood in the doorway, his face ashen**, whispering, *"I heard nothing, sir, until the scream—then only silence followed."* **Vane knelt, his sharp eyes tracing the room for clues, noting the overturned decanter**, its contents spilled like dark blood across the mahogany desk’s polished surface. **A single playing card—the ace of spades—lay face-up beside the body**, its edges slightly singed, as if plucked from a fire moments too late. **The detective’s gaze lingered on the grand portrait above the mantel, where Holloway’s cold smile**, seemed to mock the chaos below, its frame slightly askew as though disturbed. **Footsteps echoed in the hallway, slow and deliberate, before Inspector Clara Graves appeared**, her expression unreadable beneath the brim of her dampened hat. **She crouched beside Vane, her voice low and steady, *"This wasn’t just murder—it was a message,"*** as the wind howled outside, rattling the manor’s ancient, leaded windows.