It was a cold and windy night. Trees were threatening to blow over, garden sheds were flying and Sir Albert Basslethwaite had just finished his evening meal. How he loved beef bourguignon. If only his wife were still there to cook it for him; he did enjoy her cooking. Or even the servants, but they all left after her death. He just didn't have the money to employ them anymore. All she had left him of her extensive fortune was enough to live a moderate life and to keep the manor up for another year. Keep the manor, but nobody in it - a lonely life. Therefore tonight, instead of beef bourguignon, he had to suffice with roast beef, because he didn't know how to cook such a complicated dish. Anyway, it had not been too bad. At least it was something hot and edible. He looked around him at the manor and contemplated the reasoning behind why his wife wanted to live so far from any sort of civilisation. He just could not understand it and she refused to explain. He snapped out of his reverie and ambled into the kitchen to place the used plates for future washing then moved into his library where he spent most nights reading before going to sleep in his bedroom next door. He poured himself a glass of port and decided to sit in the armchair by the fireplace on account of the cold. Once he sat down, he remembered that the fireplace needed to be lit. Why couldn't she have left him more money? Grumbling to himself, he proceeded to light the fire before sitting back down and picking up the Agatha Christie novel, which was beside the port. He could still hear the wind howling so he crossed the room and put on some Bach. Ah, now he could read his book in some sort of peace. He returned to his armchair, settling into his book, but a few minutes later he heard one of the kitchen windows rattling downstairs. He was sure he had closed it but went downstairs to check anyway. It was open so Albert concluded that in his absent-mindedness, he must have left it open. The Bach was still thundering through the manor. He dragged himself back to the library, adamant on finishing a couple of chapters of the novel before going to bed. Upon entering, he noticed that his port was finished so he moved over to the drinks cabinet and started pouring himself another glass. Suddenly, he stopped. He had not drunk anything since he entered the library. Spinning around, he was confronted by a woman, pointing a gun at him. 'This is for my daughter.'