The morning fog clung to the village, shrouding secrets in its embrace. Inspector Grey arrived at the station, his mind sharp, eyes keen. The chief greeted him with a frown, news grim, urgent. "A murder," he said, "at the manor, last night, brutal." Grey nodded, his expression stoic, as he listened, absorbed. Details trickled in, slow, deliberate; a victim, wealthy, influential. The village buzzed, whispers flying, like crows, over fields. Grey stepped into the mist, his thoughts focused, methodical. The manor loomed ahead, dark, imposing, a fortress of shadows. He approached the door, cautious, alert, senses heightened, primed. Inside, the air was thick, stale, with an undercurrent, tense. Servants stood in corners, eyes wide, fearful, like deer. Grey surveyed the room, meticulous, thorough, noting every detail. A bloodstain on the floor, red, vivid, like a warning. He turned to the butler, questioning, direct, seeking answers, truth. "Last night," the butler stammered, hesitant, nervous, "was quiet, peaceful." Grey's gaze was piercing, intense, as he pressed, relentless. The butler shifted, uneasy, his story vague, filled with gaps. Grey knew the truth lay hidden, buried, waiting to be found. He would uncover it, piece by piece, step by step.