She always did one final security check of the quiet rooms before leaving for the cold, dark night. A single soft light was burning in the private west wing, which seemed most unusual indeed. She cautiously walked towards that distant light, her own heart starting to beat a little faster now. The heavy ornate door to Alistair Finch’s private study stood slightly ajar, spilling golden light outward. Hesitantly, she pushed the heavy door open much wider, and then she finally saw him lying there. Her employer, Mr. Finch, lay on the Persian rug, surrounded by all his beautiful, priceless paintings. There was a cruel-looking antique letter opener sticking deep into his unnaturally still, silent chest. Eleanor opened her mouth wide to scream, but absolutely no sound would come out from her.