The scent of turpentine and burnt umber hung heavy in the air, a familiar perfume to Arthur, the painter. He was perched on a rickety stool, his face inches from the canvas, eyes narrowed in concentration. A low, melancholic melody drifted from the piano across the room, a melody that Arthur swore he could practically taste on his tongue. It was a melody that, like the scent of oil paint, could only mean one thing: Humphrey, the composer, was in a melancholy mood. Arthur sighed and set his brush down. He knew better than to interrupt Humphrey when he was in this state. The man was a whirlwind of emotions, his moods as volatile and fleeting as the pigments Arthur used to capture them on canvas. The floorboards creaked beneath the weight of a man approaching. It wasn't Humphrey. It was Bartholomew, the playwright, his face flushed and a manic glint in his eye. "Gentlemen," Bartholomew announced, his voice a strained whisper, "I believe we have a problem." He pointed a trembling finger towards the doorway, where a figure lay slumped on the floor. Arthur's heart dropped to his stomach. He recognized the crumpled hat, the worn leather boots. It was Mr. Eldridge, the patron who'd commissioned their next work. He was dead. And the strangest thing was, the only weapon near him was a perfectly sculpted clay bust of a lion lying next to his bloodied head. Humphrey looks up. "Oh dear god....whatever did you do?"