The wind sharpened as Blake stepped back toward the body. Reeves stood a few paces behind him, notebook in hand but unsure where to begin.
"Walk with me," Blake said quietly.
Reeves followed close behind, boots slipping now and then on wet stone. He watched the way Blake moved—steady, balanced, as if the terrain weren't working against them.
When they reached the body, Blake crouched. Reeves stood beside him, unsure whether to speak or wait.
Blake broke the silence first, still studying the scene.
"You want to be a detective, Reeves?"
Reeves blinked. "Yes, sir. Very much."
"Then don't look at the body first," Blake said softly. "Look at everything that isn't the body."
Reeves frowned but knelt, trying to see what Blake saw.
"Start with the ground," Blake said.
Reeves examined the sand—dark, coarse, wet. At first, it was unremarkable. Then slowly, he caught it.
"It's… disturbed," he said. "Dragged. The sand's pushed inward, not scattered."
"Good," Blake murmured. "She didn't fall here."
Reeves felt a quiet surge of confidence.
Blake pointed and walked toward a patch of damp sand a few steps away. "Footprints."
Three sets. John's large, frantic tracks. The officers'. And a third—
"That one," Reeves said, pointing carefully. "Narrower. Deeper. Someone heavier—or carrying something heavy."
"Someone with purpose," Blake added. "Someone who had to come close to the body."
Reeves wrote this down slowly, the fog beading across the page.
Blake moved back to the body and crouched low. Reeves followed more cautiously this time.
"Tell me what you smell," Blake said.
Reeves leaned closer. Salt filled his nose first… then something faint, sweet, wrong.
"…Almonds?"
Blake nodded. "Cyanide leaves that trace. Not always strong. But it's there."
Reeves swallowed. "So she was poisoned?"
"Likely before the throat cut." Blake pointed at the thin line across Dr. Vale's neck—too clean, too precise. "A fall wouldn't do that."
Reeves stared at it, feeling the chill settle deeper.
Blake rose, scanning the rocks around them. His gaze caught on a flash of colour—a scrap of blue wool snagged on a barnacle.
"There," Blake said.
Reeves followed. "From her coat?"
"Or from someone who handled her." Blake didn't remove it; he only noted the direction of the tear. "Before she reached the rocks."
Reeves scribbled again, slower now, more carefully.
Blake stepped back and looked up at the lighthouse. Halfway up the tower, the maintenance hatch stood crooked, its metal panel forced backward.
Reeves frowned. "Sir… that hatch wasn't like that yesterday. I saw it after dropping you at the station."
"It wasn't," Blake said quietly. "Someone opened it during the night. Forced it."
Reeves felt something tightening in his chest. Blake was not guessing. He was building a picture.
"You think she died up there?" Reeves asked, barely audible.
Blake didn't answer at first. He stepped back, taking in the whole scene again— the body, the sand, the prints, the wool, the crooked hatch. The tide crept closer, as if eager to erase every trace.
Behind them, Yates approached with heavy steps.
"Well?" Yates said. "Give me something."
Blake turned slowly, hands in his pockets, coat whipping in the wind.
"She didn't die here."
Yates frowned. "And how do you know that, exactly?"
Blake pointed, each detail deliberate, measured:
"The drag marks in the sand, she was placed —not fallen."
"A footprint that doesn't match John or any of us."
"The faint almond smell, cyanide."
"The cut on the throat —clean, controlled."
"The fabric torn before she reached the rocks."
"And that hatch, forced open sometime after midnight."
He let the pieces settle in Yates' expression.
"She was killed elsewhere," Blake said. "And the killer brought her down here to stage the scene."
Yates stared at him, stunned. "Elsewhere meaning…?"
Blake looked up at the lighthouse—tall, cold, watching them.
"There," he said quietly. "Inside the lighthouse."
The three men stood in the wind as the truth sank in, the fog swirling at their boots like a warning.
Moments later, the forensic team arrived, a pair of technicians in thick jackets, their breath fogging the air.
They listened to Blake's summary, then conducted their own sweep. It didn't take long.
"Drag marks confirmed," one said. "Cyanide scent present," said the other. "No signs of high-impact trauma—she didn't fall". "Laceration is post-mortem or near-post-mortem."
Their conclusions matched Blake's exactly.
Reeves said nothing, but Blake saw the look, a mix of awe, respect, and the realisation of what real detective work actually took.
The technicians lifted Dr. Vale's body carefully, draping her beneath a white sheet before carrying her up toward the cliff path. John watched from a distance, trembling, hat clutched in his hands.
Yates oversaw the process, murmuring instructions. Reeves lingered beside Blake.
"What do we do now, sir?" he asked quietly.
Blake didn't take his eyes off the lighthouse. Fog curled around the tower like smoke from an unseen fire.
"Now," Blake said, stepping forward, "we go to the real scene."
Reeves swallowed. "The top of the lighthouse?"
"Where she died," Blake said. "Yes."
The tide crashed against the rocks below as the two men started toward the narrow stairway that led upward; toward the darkness, toward the mysteries waiting above.