The morning fog clung to the cobblestones, shrouding the village in a ghostly veil. Inspector Grey stepped out of his car, his trench coat flapping in the breeze. The local constable, a stout man named Thompson, approached with a nervous smile. "Morning, Inspector," Thompson greeted, his eyes darting to the quaint, ivy-covered cottage. Grey nodded, his gaze fixed on the door, slightly ajar, a bad omen. Together, they entered, the air inside thick with the scent of lavender and fear. A woman lay sprawled on the floor, her dress a stark contrast to the blood. "Mrs. Elmsworth," Thompson whispered, his voice trembling, as if speaking her name might wake her. Grey knelt beside the body, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Cause of death?" he asked, his tone clinical, as if discussing the weather. Thompson swallowed hard, his eyes avoiding the gruesome sight, "Blunt force trauma, sir." Grey stood, his eyes scanning the room, noting the overturned chair and broken vase. "Any witnesses?" he inquired, his voice steady, a stark contrast to Thompson's obvious distress. "None that we've found," Thompson replied, his hands fidgeting with his belt. Grey nodded, his mind already piecing together the puzzle, each clue a potential key. "Secure the scene," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. Thompson nodded, his relief palpable, as he turned to carry out the command. Grey stepped outside, the fog beginning to lift, revealing the curious faces of the villagers. "Let's start with the neighbors," Grey muttered to himself, the hunt for the truth just beginning.