London, 1895.

The evening fog, like a silk veil, enveloped the streets of the city, muffling the sounds of carriages' hooves and the distant shouts of street vendors. At this hour, the aristocratic quarter of Mayfair was especially beautiful: The tall windows of the mansions glowed with golden warmth, and from behind the heavy curtains came the sounds of a piano and the restrained laughter of the guests. One of these houses, owned by the Winterhall family, was bustling with activity — Lady Margaret Winterhall, the hostess of the house, was giving a party in honor of the return of her daughter, Lady Evelyn, from Paris.

The air in the ballroom was saturated with the scents of expensive perfumes, candle wax and a subtle hint of wine. Ladies in silk dresses with crinolines whispered behind fans, gentlemen in immaculate tailcoats discussed the latest political news..

Suddenly, there was a muffled groan, followed by a heavy thud. Everyone turned around: the Earl of Ashford, a handsome man in his fifties who had just raised a glass of champagne, was now lying on the parquet floor, gasping for air. His face contorted into a grimace of pain, his fingers clenched in convulsions.

The Count died in front of everyone.

You are the escort of Lady Evelyn Winterhalter, or maybe the henchman of another noble, a casual servant or another guest at a dinner party, you have heard about the famous detective London Detective. You know who to turn to when Scotland Yard is unable to close the case. You're calling 221b Baker Street.