Pacing in front of the people involved always helps.

First, I walk by the cook. A rotund lady, well into her fifties. Her brown eyes, though frightened now, have a depth of joy. Wrinkles crease her forehead. Her rosy cheeks and curved lips, though frowning, give her a sense of the stereotypical well-to-do sort of person.

Second comes the butler. The usual sort: prim, proper, and pissy. His nose is permanently turned upright in an attempt to defy his lowly stature. A freshly-picked carnation sits in his pocket, showing he always takes great care in everything. His face, a carefully trained mask of indifference, hides his feelings, but his eyes reveal surprise.

Lastly, the gardener. The dirty sort. Clothes in disarray, with stains on the elbows and knees. His lips curve into a smile involuntary, and the wrinkles are deep from too much sun. The green eyes sneer at the world, but stop if feelings are hurt. He looks startled to be summoned from his work.

It’s obvious to me who killed Mr. Body. Can you tell?