The rain hammered against the stained glass windows of the old manor house on the night of the charity gala. Inspector Marlowe knelt beside the victim while rain continued drumming against the tall windows of the crowded main drawing room. Blood pooled beneath the crystal chandelier, reflecting fractured light onto the walls like some macabre kaleidoscope of sudden violent death. "Nobody leaves this room," he announced to the terrified guests huddled together near the roaring fireplace in the east corner. Lady Westingford clutched her pearls, her face pale as the marble statue standing guard in the adjacent marble foyer beyond. The victim's champagne glass remained half full on the sideboard, untouched by the chaos that erupted mere moments ago tonight. Someone had poisoned the Duke during dinner, yet every person present claimed complete innocence with perfect and quite solid alibis. Marlowe leaned toward the corpse, noticing the faint blue tint around the dead lips and the strangely missing signet ring.