Investigation I: the hanging oak

The morning sun, anemic and feeble, struggled to pierce through the thick blanket of fog that clung to the island of Avra. The market square, usually abuzz with vibrant life and animated chatter, now lies shrouded in a heavy silence. The cobbled streets, worn and weathered by countless footsteps, whispered mournfully under the weight of hushed conversations.   Whispers, timid and tremulous, slithered through the stillness, carrying tales of unease and dread. "Did you hear? They found him hangin' from that old tree," one voice murmured, laden with disbelief and a touch of morbid fascination. "What could drive a man to such an end?" another voice pondered.   The townsfolk, their faces etched with weariness and trepidation, huddled together in tight-knit clusters. Their eyes darted nervously, as if afraid of catching a glimpse of something unspeakable lurking in the shadows. Avra, once a bustling hub of vibrant trade and jovial banter, now lies shrouded in a heavy pall, its spirit crushed under the weight of an unspeakable tragedy.   "They say Cromwell had been questioning the Authority's stranglehold," a voice whispered, its tone tinged with unease. "But would they go as far as to silence him permanently?"   As they edged closer to the center, the atmosphere grew thick with an uneasy stillness, broken only by hushed murmurs and the shuffling of feet on the cobblestones. The air hung heavy with a damp chill, permeating their bones and settling like a weight upon their very souls. Faces etched with worry and fear turned towards them, their eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and caution.   And there, suspended in a macabre display, hung Cromwell's lifeless body. Like a marionette frozen in time, his form swayed gently from the sturdy noose, trapped in an eternal dance with death. His face, a mask of torment, bore the marks of a gag tightly bound around his mouth, preventing any desperate cries for help from escaping his lips. The cloth, now stained with his essence, seemed to mock his futile attempts to scream, to call out for salvation in his darkest hour.   Amelia's gaze shifted to man's wrists, marked by raw, scorched skin. The evidence of tightly tied restraints told a tale of cruel confinement, leaving no room for mercy or reprieve. It was clear that he had fought against his restraints with every ounce of his dwindling strength. The burn marks served as a stark reminder of the relentless struggle that had transpired, the searing pain inflicted upon him as he frantically sought freedom.   In the twisted dance of death, Amelia could almost envision his desperate grasp for survival. His fingers, bloodied and torn, must have clawed at the rope constricting his throat, his lungs gasping for precious air. With every fiber of his being, he would have fought against the oppressive weight of the noose, his mind consumed by the primal instinct to live.     Amelia's breath hitched. A figure once distant and elusive was now etched forever in their memories. Samuel's hand instinctively reached out, his grip tightening around Amelia's trembling fingers. In a hushed tone, he whispered, "So this is Edmund..."