Detective Jameson stepped out of his worn sedan, inspecting the scene on a chilly autumn morning in silence everywhere. The crunching leaves echoed his lone footsteps through the desolate village, shrouded in layers of misty grey heavy air. Gilbert Manor loomed in the distance, a grand Victorian structure, tarnished and made mysterious by a hundred years legends. Policemen guardedly sipped their tea, unfurled tape blocking public pathways as witness statements dripped in fragments, pieces falling slowly. Lying mid-garden path, shrouded with dark crimson hoarfrost covering prized rosebush beds, was Lucy Pembly's cold slightly curled. Inspector Fitzgerald attentively cradled the corner of his worn wool coat over his scratching hand for an escape hastily. Curio subscribers peered beyond outer cordons frequently for narrative snippets the vicinity treasured anxiously now stifled loudly converging.