You move with quiet urgency toward the ivy-covered garden shed, its wooden door slightly ajar. Inside, the scent of damp earth and gardening tools fills the air. Sunlight filters through the small window, illuminating dust motes dancing around forgotten trowels and bags of fertilizer.

Your gloved hands move methodically through the clutter, pushing aside watering cans and flower pots until you find what you seek - the estate's defensive implements. A silver-plated grooming brush with sharpened edges glints in a corner, its bristles stiff enough to deter any unwanted visitor. Beneath a burlap sack lies an antique feline deterrent device, its coiled spring mechanism still functional after all these years.

As you gather these items, your ears catch the faintest scratching sound from outside. The shed's single window frames a fleeting shadow passing through the rose bushes - something large moving with unnatural silence. Your grip tightens around the deterrent device as you notice fresh claw marks on the windowsill that weren't there moments before.

The garden has fallen eerily still, not even a bird singing. Through the cracked door, you see the hydrangea bushes trembling against no discernible breeze. Whatever lurks outside seems to be circling, testing the perimeter of Lady Whiskerton's domain with deliberate patience.