Tom Blake woke before dawn, long before any sane man in a quiet town should. For a moment he lay still, staring at the faint grey light pushing through the curtains of his small room at the Anchor Inn.
St. Ives was silent.
Not peaceful. Silent.
Like the town itself was holding its breath.
Blake sat up slowly, rubbing a hand across his face. Something in the air felt different—charged, expectant. He wasn't a man who believed in premonitions, but after years as a Detective, he trusted the feeling that crawled at the back of his mind.
Something was going to happen today that he was sure. Whether it will be good or bad, he had no clue.
He got dressed, tightened his tie, splashed cold water on his face, and stepped into the hallway. The innkeeper was just unlocking the front door as Blake passed.
"Early start, Detective," the man murmured.
"Feels like one," Blake replied.
He stepped outside into the cold.
Fog clung to the harbour like a living thing. Lamps glowed faintly in the mist, their halos blurred, uncertain. Blake breathed in the sharp air—and then he heard it.
A vehicle engine cutting through the quiet.
A Land Rover rolled to a stop in front of the inn. The door swung open and Inspector Reeves leaned out, hair uncombed, face pale, eyes wide.
"Sir— get in. Now."
Blake didn't hesitate."Explain."
"Urgent call," Reeves said as Blake climbed in. The car lurched forward immediately. "Yates sent me to fetch you before reporting details. Something's happened at the lighthouse."
Blake's eyes narrowed. "What exactly?"
Fog swallowed the road as the Land Rover sped toward the coast. Reeves kept one hand tight on the wheel, the other drumming nervously.
Blake watched him. "Tell me everything."
Earlier That Morning — St. Ives Police Station
Inspector Harold Yates was halfway through his first cup of tea when Reeves entered the office, yawning.
"No news?" Reeves asked.
"Nothing," Yates said. "Quiet night. Count your blessings; in towns like these, real work is a luxury."
They barely had time to enjoy the silence.
The station door flew open with a crash.
John burst inside, breathless, soaked from sea spray, face white with terror.
"Yates!" he shouted. "Inspector Yates— the lighthouse— I… I saw someone down there— a woman— God, I swear I did.."
Yates was on his feet instantly. "Slow down, John. Who did you see?"
John swallowed hard. "I… I think it's her. The doctor. Dr. Vale..."
Reeves froze mid-step. Yates' moustache twitched, a sign of worry he rarely showed.
"Reeves," Yates said sharply, "Fetch Blake. Now. Bring him straight to the cliffs. And hurry."
Reeves grabbed the keys without another word.
Blake and Reeves
"A fall?" Blake asked.
Reeves shook his head. "John not certain. Just said the way she was lying… it didn't look accidental."
"And he thinks it's the doctor?"
"Dr. Miriam Vale, yes. Everyone knows her in town. John said the clothes looked like hers."
Blake's jaw tightened slightly. Blake looked out the window. Fog pressed against the glass like breath.
"And the lighthouse light?" he asked.
"It went out sometime after midnight," Reeves said. "No one noticed until John mentioned it. That never happens."
Blake frowned. Lighthouses didn't go dark by accident. People turned them dark.
"Speed up," Blake said quietly.
Reeves did.
The Lighthouse of St. Ives
The Land Rover skidded to a stop on the cliff road. Reeves jumped out first; Blake followed, coat whipping in the wind.
They approached the edge where Yates stood with two constables. Below them, waves pounded against jagged rocks. Fog curled around the base of the lighthouse like restless smoke.
John stood off to the side, trembling.
"There," Yates said, pointing.
A figure lay partially on the rocks, partially in a pool of rising tide—still, pale, wrong.
Blake descended carefully, boots scraping against wet stone. Reeves followed close behind.
The closer they got, the more details sharpened:
A woman's body. Clothes torn. Face turned away. Hair darkened by seawater.
Blake crouched beside her, eyes calm but focused. He didn't touch her—not yet. He spots a medical card half-pulled out from a pocket, with "M. Vale" visible.
"Is it her, sir?" Reeves whispered.
Blake studied the jawline, the hair, the coat."Yes," he said quietly. "It's Dr. Vale."
Reeves swallowed.
Blake leaned in closer, scanning—not for the obvious, but the overlooked.
Bruising on the neck. A thin line across the throat, almost invisible beneath wet skin. Sand disturbed in a pattern that did not match a fall. A scrap of fabric snagged on a barnacle. And beneath it all—a faint, familiar scent.
Not of the sea. Something sharper.
Blake stood slowly.
"This wasn't an accident," he said. "And she didn't come down here alone."
Yates exhaled, the sound of a man realizing his quiet town had just changed forever.
Blake looked up at the lighthouse. Its lantern was dark, a hollow eye staring back.
"Inspector Reeves," Blake said softly, "call it in."
Reeves hesitated. "As what, sir?"
Blake stared at the body, then at the silent lighthouse above them.
"A murder."
The wind shifted. Somewhere, the tide swallowed another wave of stone.
The murder investigation at St. Ives had officially begun.