The heavy rain lashed against the grand manor’s towering windows with relentless, unforgiving fury. Inside, a fire crackled, casting dancing shadows upon the library walls. Lord Ashworth slumped in his leather chair, a single bullet wound visible on his temple. His expensive whiskey glass lay shattered on the Persian rug beside him. Detective Harding arrived, shaking water from his coat and surveying the grim, silent scene. A faint scent of gunpowder still lingered in the cold, opulent air. The butler stood pale and rigid near the doorway, his eyes wide with shock. Harding knelt, noting the peculiar angle of the victim’s fallen right hand. A half-burned letter peeked from the victim’s jacket pocket, its secrets waiting. The clock on the mantelpiece had stopped precisely at ten minutes past midnight. Outside, the storm raged on, trapping everyone inside with a killer.