The Murder
March 18, 1857 — "Governor Adrian Locke donates money to St. John's Foundling Hospital," the newspaper headline declared in bold uppercase. Detective Clara Voss folded the paper in her lap, her sharp eyes flicking over the words as if weighing their truth. Clara was clever and quick, her lean figure as fashionable as the day demanded, her large bosom and larger ego a mark of her pampered upbringing. Nothing escaped her gaze — or so she liked to believe.
Across from her, Detective Marcus Hale stared through the carriage window at the bleak countryside. His beard was finely kept, black as soot, but his tired eyes betrayed more years than his face revealed. Hale had the look of a man who'd seen too much, and wished he hadn't.
"Another robbery," he muttered, voice roughened with disinterest. "What's wrong with these people?"
They were bound for the home of Miss Evelyn Ward, a young woman whose quiet life had ended violently the night before. An anonymous tip had summoned Hale from his much-needed leave, dragging him back into Southernham's shadows. Chief Harmon wanted answers — or at least the appearance of them.
The Ward residence bore the marks of chaos: shattered china, overturned vases, a mess made hurriedly, almost theatrically. Clara clucked her tongue.
"Seems like a robbery to me," she said, glancing at Hale for approval.
He gave none. Hale moved through the house with the stillness of a hunter, his silence heavier than any rebuke. It led him to the study, where the trail ended in cold truth.
On the floor lay Evelyn Ward, her body still, her life stolen in the night.
Clara stood at the door,shaken by the sight that lay before her. She knew what her work entailed, but she didn't expect to see a lifeless body infront of her,not yet,not on her first day.
Unfazed,Hale slipped on his gloves and pulled out his notebook and pen in quick succession, characteristic of a man with experience.
He made his way meticulously towards the body and knelt down to examine the body,stopping only to glance at Clara with a look that brought her back to reality. She followed protocol as she'd been taught and did as he did.
The room smelled faintly of ink and dust, as if Evelyn Ward had been working late into the night. Papers lay scattered across her desk, though none bore the look of having been rifled through by a thief. The lamp on the table was unbroken, the oil still fresh, the flame long extinguished by careful fingers.
Hale crouched beside the body, his eyes narrowing. Evelyn's face was pale, lips parted as though she'd been caught mid-breath. There were no signs of forced entry, no shattered locks, no muddy bootprints tracked across the carpet. The bruising on her neck told a different story altogether.
"This isn't robbery," Hale said quietly.
Clara stood a few steps behind him, her arms folded. "The china smashed, valuables missing, the whole house torn apart—if it isn't robbery, then what is it?"
"Too clean," Hale muttered. He gestured at the desk. "Thieves don't spare lamps or papers. They don't smash porcelain and leave silver untouched. No—this was staged."
He glanced around the study again, noting the arrangement of the broken vases, the overturned chair near the door, the neatly stacked books left undisturbed on the shelves. Whoever had killed Evelyn Ward wanted them to believe it was chaos. Wanted them to stop asking questions.
Clara frowned. "And yet here we are, asking questions."
"Against someone's wishes," Hale answered, rising slowly. His gaze lingered on the window. The curtains swayed slightly, though the night had been calm. "She wasn't meant to die unseen. She was meant to be forgotten."
For a long moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the creak of the house as if it resented their presence. Outside, the wind carried the faint toll of a church bell, muffled and far away.
Hale turned back to the body, his jaw tight. "Get the coroner. And Clara…" He sighed before continuing, " file a report for murder".
"Are you certain....",she hesitated, before eventually settling for an obedient "yes sir",with a trembling voice betraying her shock.