The Cold Cleaver

Sausages underfoot, sawdust on my good coat, and a body in the cellar - but do sit down, all is under control. I've handled far worse; I simply can't recall when. Nico took one look and lay down, his way of announcing the case solved. I need only catch him up.

Reginald Crabbe lay slumped in the shop's cellar, a cleaver buried in the block beside him. The village had long tired of the old butcher's feuds and short weight; nobody, you'll notice, has asked when the funeral might be held.

Pearl Sutherland had quarrelled loudly with Crabbe over an unpaid debt days before. A bloodied apron turned up in their bin, yet they insisted they'd been at the docks awaiting a delivery no one else recalls arriving.

Martha Pyke, the greengrocer next door, had been publicly shamed by Crabbe's accusations. Her red scarf hung snagged on a meat hook, though she claimed she'd popped in for a chat and left long before closing.

Douglas Frett, a rival butcher, coveted Crabbe's corner pitch and had threatened him openly at the fair. His muddy bootprints circled the cellar door, yet he swore he'd spent the night nursing a toothache - a tale only his cat could confirm.