The mist swirled over the dead body in the middle of the dark, grassy forest clearing.

“Who dunnit?” the detective muttered, becoming a caricature of himself. “Who killed this man?”

He was, of course, addressing the townfolk who stood circled round the corpse with flames burning atop torches like the mob from Frankenstein.

No one said it, but the collective thought boomed: Tyler. Tyler knew the cadaver – well, Tony, his name was – and had held a serious grudge against him since he ran off with his woman. The fact that Tony was insanely wealthy also contributed to his motive.

The body provided no answer, bar the fact it was clearly a blunt instrument to the head that finished the job.

The blacksmith looked meek as the detective strode towards him, puffing away thoughtfully. Where on earth did he get that tobacco pipe from anyway?

“Do you know anything about this?” the detective demanded, clearly referring to the anvil-like impression on Tony’s dead head.

“It was Tyler, sir!” the blacksmith gasped, relieving us all of the duty. “It had to be Tyler. We all know their history, and the last place Tony was seen alive was in the pub havin’ a right blue with Tyler.”

The detective gummed his pipe as he undoubtedly felt a respected, thinking detective should do, and asked, “Is that so?” raising an eyebrow as he did.

The town hummed an affirmative reply, most meaningfully from the publican, which appeared to sedate the detective as the wind picked up, blowing the fog away in the next clearing to reveal Tyler’s bloody corpse.