It was a quiet day in the small village of Shipton. Then again, it was often quiet. The shops were just beginning to open their doors, and the tantalizing scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakery. A little way outside of town, Crawford Manor sat in the middle of a large estate. The old house had been passed down through generations of lords and ladies, and the place had an air of sophistication and wealth.

Inside the house, the servants were just beginning their morning duties when a scream sounded from somewhere on the first floor. “He’s dead! Oh lord help us all, he's dead!”

Any chores were immediately dropped in favor of rushing towards the scream. When they arrived, they found a trembling maid standing over the body of Lord Thomas Crawford, earl and owner of the house. “I was coming in to dust, and I just found him like this! All bloody, and cold, and,” she broke off with a sob, burying her face in her hands.

The stunned silence stretched on a good ten minutes, before it was broken by a solemn voice from the back of the crowd. “I’ll go and fetch the policeman.” The man who had spoken walked out the door, his cane tapping against the hardwood floors.

By that afternoon, a detective had been sent by the police chief to investigate the murder. His name was Charles Rowe, and he had only moved into the village a few weeks ago from London. It had been decided that he was the least biased investigator for this case, given he had no connection with the Crawford family, unlike most in town.

His hair was greying, and his face was sharp and angular. He often wore a smart brown suit, and nicely polished oxfords. His gaze left you no doubt that every move you made was carefully analyzed and catalogued in his mind.

He walked up the path that led to the house, and knocked on the door, three quick raps. An older man answered it, wearing a carefully cared for suit. From his mannerisms, it was quickly made clear that he was the butler.

“Ah, Detective Rowe, I presume? Come in.” He opened the door wide enough so that the other man could step inside, then shut it again. “I am so glad you’re here. It was quite a nasty shock this morning, and everyone is quite rattled.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Charles. “Now, if you could please show me to the body?”

“Right, right. Follow me.” Charles followed closely behind as he was led to the scene of the crime.

It was a horrible sight. The once vibrant earl lay there, still and stiff. The pool of blood had now sunk into the carpet, leaving a stain that no amount of washing could remove. As Charles moved closer, the method of murder became clear. “A gunshot,” he thought aloud. “Most likely from a hunting rifle.” Around the body, a trail of muddy footprints could be seen, though something about them seemed off…

By the time he was finished examining, a list of suspects had formed in his mind, based on the case file, and his own observations. Lord Crawford’s fiance was one option. She would have gotten much of his fortune upon his death. His brother was another strong suspect. He would have inherited the title and the estate. They each had a motive. But did they have an alibi?

As he was leaving the room, he suddenly collided with someone. He helped the other man to his feet, and asked politely, “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly, sir. Though, if you’d just hand me my cane, I’d appreciate it.” The man seemed to be a servant, and Charles vaguely recalled he had been the one to enter the police station. As he left, Charles saw he had a noticeable limp, only slightly offset by the cane.

The next stop of the day was the house of Emma Phillips, the late earl’s fiance. It was a beautiful house, with lush gardens, and a small stream nearby. After they had been introduced, and settled down with some tea, the questioning began.

“Ms. Phillips, I just have a few things I need to know. Let’s start with this. Where were you last night?”

“I was out shopping,” she said, voice shaky.

“You don’t have your servants do your shopping?”

“Usually I do, but I thought it might be nice to have an outing.”

“Are you sure you weren’t going so you could buy something… secretly?” Charles probed, trying to see if there was more to the story.

She seemed to be getting more and more nervous as the conversation continued. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said defensively. “I’d appreciate it if you stop implying that I did.”

“I’m only trying to get to the truth, Ms. Phillips,” he said calmly. “Thank you for your time.”

Ms. Phillips had just moved up the suspect list, as far as Charles was concerned. There was something she wasn’t telling him. So he decided to see if the shopkeeper would.

After much convincing and insisting, he had gained access to the shopkeeper’s records. As he sifted through, something caught his eye. Lord Crawford’s brother had bought a new hunting rifle the week before. Tucking that information away, he found what he was looking for. Her receipts from the previous day.

Emma Phillips:

Flour(1)

Tea(1)

Wine(1)

Rat poison(1)

Ah. So she had bought rat poison, and she didn’t want him to know about it. That definitely secured her spot at the top of his list. But now, it was time to talk to James Crawford about that new hunting rifle.

James Crawford was a pleasant man, as far as Charles could tell, and an avid hunter, as he had learned during their conversation. That gave him an alibi for buying the gun, but he wasn’t in the clear yet.

“Mr. Crawford, were you out hunting last night?” he asked cautiously.

“Indeed I was. Though you mustn’t think-”

Charles cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m just asking questions, I’m not accusing you. Muddy out there?”

“Dreadfully so,” he replied. “Though I gave my boots to Hutchins to clean as soon as I got back. Can’t stand dirt.”

“Hutchins?” asked Charles.

“My valet. You may have seen him around the house. He has a bit of a limp?”

“Oh yes, I believe we ran into each other, quite literally.” He laughed a bit at his own joke.

“Well, he’s a good man. I would have made him the butler, but my brother was too fond of our current one. Poor Hutchins is still a bit bitter,” James said.

“I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Crawford.”

After a quick trip back to the lounge, his suspicions were confirmed. He had solved the mystery, and it was time to bring justice. But who did it? The nervous fiance who bought poison the previous evening? The brother with a brand new hunting rifle? Or the bitter servant who had been cheated out of a better job?

After gathering a small group of policemen, he went to confront the murderer. “John Hutchins, you are under arrest for the murder of Lord Thomas Crawford.”

The servant sputtered. “But- but- how?!”

“Simple,” Charles replied. “You are James Crawford’s valet, who got passed over for a promotion because of his brother. There’s your motive. You had access to his new hunting rifle, the murder weapon. And you covered your tracks with his muddy boots. But in your hurry, you failed to remember that your limp would change the footprints. There you have it.”

The man hung his head in defeat, and allowed himself to be taken away by the group of policemen.

With that, the town of Shipton was once again a quiet village. James Crawford inherited the estate, and Emma Phillips helped him to run it. Detective Charles Rowe got a well earned promotion. But Crawford Manor would be forever tainted by the dark story of a young earl and a vengeful servant.