In the grand parlor of Edgar Allan Poe’s home, his wife Virginia Poe was found deceased after collapsing while playing the piano. The room is dimly lit, with heavy curtains framing the windows, casting a somber glow over the space. A chalk outline on the floor marks where Virginia fell, her delicate right hand clutching a bloody handkerchief with the initials "VP" embroidered in red, now stained a deep crimson. Little flecks of crimson blood spatter her red painted lips.
An empty glass with a lipstick stain, the same color Virginia wears, sits atop the piano. As you approach it, a woody, musty odor lingers in the air—subtle but unmistakable. Nearby, a small bottle has rolled away from Virginia’s body, the scent of turpentine wafting from it.
As you survey the scene, the famous poet Edgar Allan Poe approaches, his eyes brimming with tears. His voice trembles as he speaks.
"Thank you, detectives, for answering my summons. My poor, lovely wife, Virginia, seems to have finally succumbed to tuberculosis. I am no stranger to this, as my mother fell to the same debilitating illness that destroys you bit by bit from the inside. Though this is the pinnacle of heartbreak, at last, her suffering has finally ended. Please, do your due diligence and confirm that this is indeed what occurred, and if it is not, please dispatch justice to the fiend who would take my sweet Virginia. I will keep the guests out in the main ballroom, and I’ll be drinking to forget this sad but, to be quite honest, expected tragedy."
He pauses for a moment, composing himself before continuing.
"The first person you'll want to speak to will be my Stableman Peter Nesterovic. You’ll be able to find him by the lantern he always carries with him."
%20(17).png/:/cr=t:0%25,l:0%25,w:100%25,h:100%25/rs=w:400,cg:true)