Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land

A Write Your Own Christie Novel

By members of the www.AgathaChristie.com community

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Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land Copyright © 2014 Agatha Christie Limited.
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A Murder Is Announced Copyright © 1950 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights

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Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land
A collaborative novel by the community of www.AgathaChristie.com

PR OLOG UE CHAP TER FI VE

By Margaret Lane A Body is Found
By Anna Killick

O P EN IN G CHAP TER SI X
By Agatha Christie Someone is Missing
By Patricia Furstenberg

C H APT E R ON E CHAP TER SEVEN

A Murder is Announced An Object is Found
By Helene Nowell By Anna Killick

C H APT E R TWO CHAP TER EI GHT

At 6.30pm The Suspects Assemble
By Nia Tunnicliffe By Bryony Rheam

C H APT E R THR E E CHAP TER NI NE

Enter the Detective Reconstruction of the Crime
By Margaret Lane By Patricia Furstenberg

C H APT E R F OUR CHAP TER TEN

A Mysterious Stranger The Truth
By Anne Miller By Roger Hoke
 P ROL OGU E

By Margaret Lane

The Minister of the War Office was silently fuming as he arrived at the prison. Jobs like this got on
his nerves. They were in the middle of a war, he’d who knew how many issues of importance piling
up on his desk and yet, here he was, expected to investigate the death of a man slated for death
anyway, a man moreover whose actions had caused the untimely deaths of two of his comrades.

Too soft, that’s what they were in England. He very much doubted the Nazis would hold
an investigation if a traitor’d decided to hang himself rather than face up to his actions like a man.

Not, of course, that he thought they should imitate the very regime they were fighting
against. Certainly not! But one could go too far with anything and when you were fighting people
without morals, ensuring you dotted every i and crossed every t put you at a disadvantage. It was
easy for those pen pushers up at Whitehall to talk about “maintaining public confidence” and “not
losing sight of what we’re fighting for”, but the men on the ground, the people who actually had to
do the work didn’t have time for such luxuries.

“I’m terribly sorry about this intrusion,” he told the prison governor. “I’ve no doubt whatsoever
that everything is completely in order here and just between you, me and the wall, I have plenty of
things I’d rather be doing today than plaguing you.”

“Not at all, Sir,” the governor replied. “I realise you have to do your job. Pity that little toe-rag
just created a lot more work for both of us.”

“Ah well.” The Minister sighed. “If he’d any decency, we wouldn’t be in this position, would
we? Can’t bear these traitors myself.” He coughed, realising what a bloody obvious statement that
was.

“I know what you mean, Sir. Bad enough having to deal with the enemy, but these fifth columnists...
If it weren’t for the extra work it was creating...well, I suppose I shouldn’t say anything.”

“I understand completely.” The two men shared a smile. “Come on,” the Minister continued.
“Let’s get this over with.”
 OPE N I N G

By Agatha Christie

Between 7.30 and 8.30 every morning except Sundays, Johnnie Butt made the round of the village
of Chipping Cleghorn on his bicycle, whistling vociferously through his teeth, and alighting at each
house or cottage to shove through the letterbox such morning papers as had been ordered by the
occupants of the house in question from Mr Totman, stationer, of the High Street. Thus, at Colonel
and Mrs Easterbrook’s he delivered The Times and the Daily Graphic; at Mrs Swettenham’s he left
The Times and the Daily Worker; at Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd’s he left the Daily
Telegraph and the New Chronicle; at Miss Blacklock’s he left the Telegraph, The Times and the
Daily Mail.

At all these houses, and indeed at practically every house in Chipping Cleghorn, he delivered
every Friday a copy of the North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette, known locally
simply as ‘the Gazette’. Thus, on Friday mornings, after a hurried glance at the headlines in the daily
paper

(International situation critical! U.N.O. meets today! Bloodhounds seek blonde typist’s killer!
Three collieries idle. Twenty-three die of food poisoning in Seaside Hotel, etc.)

most of the inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn eagerly opened the Gazette and plunged into the
local news. After a cursory glance at Correspondence (in which the passionate hates and feuds of
rural life found full play) nine out of ten subscribers then turned to the PERSONAL column. Here
were grouped together higgledy-piggledy articles for Sale or Wanted, frenzied appeals for Domestic Help,
innumerable insertions regarding dogs, announcements concerning poultry and garden equipment;
and various other items of an interesting nature to those living in the small community of Chipping
Cleghorn. This particular Friday, October 29th – was no exception to the rule –

II

Mrs Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her forehead, opened The Times,
looked with a lacklustre eye at the left-hand centre page, decided that, as usual, if there was any
exciting news The Times had succeeded in camouflaging it in an impeccable manner; took a look
at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularly the latter; then, her duty done, she put aside The
Times and eagerly seized the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette.

When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she was already deep in the
Personal Column.

‘Good morning, dear,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘The Smedleys are selling their Daimler. 1935
– that’s rather a long time ago, isn’t it?’

Her son grunted, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers,
sat down at the table and opened the Daily Worker which he propped up against the toast rack.

‘Bull mastiff puppies,’ read out Mrs Swettenham. ‘I really don’t know how people manage
to feed big dogs nowadays – I really don’t... H’m, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again.
I could tell her it’s just a waste of time advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only a
box number – that’s quite fatal – I could have told her so – servants simply insist on knowing where
they are going. They like a good address... False teeth – I can’t think why false teeth are so popular.
Best prices paid... Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap... Here’s a girl
wants an “Interesting post – Would travel.” I dare say! Who wouldn’t?... Dachshunds... I’ve never
really cared for dachshunds myself – I don’t mean because they’re German, because we’ve got over
all that – I just don’t care for them, that’s all. – Yes, Mrs Finch?’

The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged velvet
beret.

‘Good morning, Mum,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Can I clear?’

‘Not yet. We haven’t finished,’ said Mrs Swettenham.

‘Not quite finished,’ she added ingratiatingly.

Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs Finch sniffed, and withdrew.

‘I’ve only just begun,’ said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:

‘I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs Finch doesn’t like it at all.’

‘I don’t see what my political views have to do with Mrs Finch.’

‘And it isn’t,’ pursued Mrs Swettenham, ‘as though you were a worker. You don’t do any
work at all.’

‘That’s not in the least true,’ said Edmund indignantly. ‘I’m writing a book.’

‘I meant real work,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘And Mrs Finch does matter. If she takes a dislike
to us and won’t come, who else could we get?’

‘Advertise in the Gazette,’ said Edmund, grinning.

‘I’ve just told you that’s no use. Oh dear me, nowadays unless one has an old Nannie in the
family, who will go into the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.’

‘Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to have provided me with one.
What were you thinking about?’

‘You had an ayah, dear.’

 ‘No foresight,’ murmured Edmund.

Mrs Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.

‘Second hand Motor Mower for sale. Now I wonder... Goodness, what a price!... More
dachshunds... “Do write or communicate desperate Woggles.” What silly nicknames people have...
Cocker Spaniels... Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood
every word you said to her... Sheraton sideboard for sale. Genuine family antique. Mrs Lucas,
Dayas Hall... What a liar that woman is! Sheraton indeed...!’

Mrs Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading:

‘All a mistake, darling. Undying love. Friday as usual. – J... I suppose they’ve had a lovers’
quarrel – or do you think it’s a code for burglars?... More dachshunds! Really, I do think people
have gone a little crazy about breeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon
used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do like dogs with legs... Lady going
abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting... no measurements or price given...

A marriage is announced – no, a murder. What? Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to
this...’
 C HAPTER ON E

A Mu rde r is Announ ce d

By Helene Nowell

“A murder is announced to all in Chipping Cleghorn. A public example will be made of an offender
against the new Jerusalem on Friday October 29th at 6.30 p.m. Wait for the chiming of the church
clock.”

“Whatever can it mean?’’ repeated Mrs Swettenham.

“Probably some religious nut,” Edmund said, not looking up from his copy of the Daily Worker.

“Edmund, do stop reading that horrid rag and pay attention!”

“Mother, you don’t understand. The only way I can make a go of this is to understand what the
other men are thinking. If they all read the Daily Worker, then so must I, particularly if there are
strikes this winter. I can’t afford to find myself without fuel.”

Mrs Swettenham was instantly contrite. “Oh, I do see.” Since the war, there had been so few
jobs for all the men coming home, and not enough houses for anyone. Despite all the building of
”Homes for Heroes”, London was in a sad muddle, and Edmund’s old flat in Pimlico was still a hole
in the ground. It was lucky, in many ways, that he had been in charge of transport for his regiment,
and had learned to drive lorries and all kinds of other things. When he came home from France, he
had started driving for a local firm of hauliers, but he wanted to set up in business for himself.

“I’m in it for the long haul,” he said, repeating his favourite joke.

“Yes, dear,” his mother said, as he buttered another slice of toast. So lucky to have butter again,
and plenty of it. “It does worry me, though.” She turned to the back page, hoping that the unpleasant
advertisement would go away.

“Don’t worry, Ma, you know what villages are like.” “I do. That’s what worries me.”

Edmund finally put his paper down, in part to dip his toast soldier into his soft-boiled egg, but
in part to reassure his mother.

“There’s always someone falling out with someone else. Farmer Jones has upset the Tweedy
Ladies horribly by refusing to let them walk their dogs past his barn. Now the stout one - I can never
remember which is which - wants me to stop driving for him. She had the brass neck to ask me not
to.”

“Oh dear, don’t upset Miss Hinchcliffe, or Miss Murgatroyd. We do rely on them for the eggs.”

“Don’t get in a flap, I was very polite. I know the TL’s looked after you while I was away. Now
put that paper on the fire-lighting pile, and try to think of something cheerful. I’ll be home by five.”

***

The Tweedy Ladies, otherwise known as Miss Hannah Hinchcliffe and Miss Amy Murgatroyd,
both leaned over the Gazette, Miss Hinchcliffe’s work-worn hand resting companionably on Miss
Murgatroyd’s shoulder.

“It does look rather dramatic,” said Miss Murgatroyd doubtfully. “Well, someone’s got a shock
coming to them.”

“But in such a public way?” pleaded Miss Murgatroyd.

“There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,” her friend quoted. “It’ll give people something to talk
about, and that’s the main thing. Whatever happens, I shan’t be out there in the dark, waiting. We
shall only just have settled the animals for the night.”

At this last comment, there was a loud quack from Wackford Squeers, the duck with half a bill,
who was in his cardboard box by the kitchen fire. The one-legged guinea fowl who shared the box
had already gone out to search for grubs, so Wackford was free to stretch his long neck over the edge
of the box and protest about the lateness of his breakfast.

“Shush, Wacky,” Miss Murgatroyd munnured. “I’ll take you down to the pond in a minute.”
The other birds ganged up on him if he was left alone, so he could only swim if escorted by either
a human or Bonnie, the epileptic sheepdog. Bonnie herded the other birds and animals away from
him, and ensured that Maggie, the blind Yorkshire terrier, did not fall into the pond.

Maggie was sitting on a kitchen chair, her head tilted to one side, listening to every word her
mistresses uttered. Despite her disability, she could still jump onto chairs, and if she sensed any sign
of distress in her people, she would launch herself onto them.

“Down, Mags,” said Miss Hinchcliffe firmly. “I can’t stand about chatting all day. I’ve got eggs
to collect, eggs to grade, and the deliveries to make. Are you ready with that bran mash yet?”

Miss Murgatroyd gave a guilty start. “Oh dear. I hope it isn’t burning.” She stood up, but Miss
Hinchcliffe was already tilting the contents ofthe pan into a clean bucket, before disappearing out in
her plus fours and brown leather boots, ready for a hard day’s work.

Miss Murgatroyd stole a last glance at the Gazette. “Wait for the chiming of the church clock.”
She shuddered.

***

Miss Blacklock surveyed the crumb-laden breakfast table with disfavour. “Do any of you young
people use a plate nowadays? Or are you hoping a flock of pigeons will descend to pick the table
clean?”

“Sorry,” Patrick said, holding a fourth slice of toast in his palm as he buttered it, with
fragments of black charcoal spraying in every direction.

She was going to have to speak to Mitzi, their cook/maid/general help. The girl was a Displaced
Person, or DP, with no family, although she assured Miss Blacklock it had been a very good one, and
she therefore had very little experience of cooking. Well and good, but surely she didn’t have to burn
the toast every time? It was so very hard to find staff, let alone good staff. Laura Easterbrook had to
make do with Mrs Arthurs, or “Old Halfers” as the Colonel called her, convinced the woman was a
half-wit. Perhaps she wasn’t quite the full shilling, but the Easterbrooks were lucky to have her. At
least she didn’t burst into tears every time she was told off. Mitzi - whose real name was something
unpronounceable - cried at the drop of a hat.

Her niece Julia was no help either. All the girl seemed to think about was lipstick and young
men, not necessarily in that order. Her sister was quite right to pack the pair of them off to Chipping
Cleghorn on a repairing lease.

“Is there anything wrong, Aunt Letty?” Julia asked, raising her eyes from the Telegraph’s so-
cial column.

“What’s wrong is-” began Miss Blacklock, but she was interrupted by a cry from Miss Bunner.

“Oh Letty, do look- how very horrid!” She thrust the paper away from her and held it at arm’s
length.

Miss Blacklock reached out and took the paper, then scanned the colunms. “Which one? It all
looks- oh, I see. “A public example will be made-hmm- at 6.30.” It looks like Dr Rotherham needs to
keep a better eye on his patients.”

Patrick rose, and came to read over her shoulder, still chewing his toast. “I say- that’s a bit -
reprisals and all that.”

“What do you mean?’’ his aunt asked.

“It was the kind of thing they’d announce just before they rounded up a few villagers.” There
was no need to elaborate to anyone in the room who “they” were.

“Let me see,” said Julia, and came to stand at her aunt’s other side. “Oh. Funny little thing. I
expect it’s one of those things people do for Guy Fawkes, as a kind of local joke. In

Lewes, they bum effigies of the Pope and march up and down. It’s pitch black by 6.30, so they
must be planning a bonfire, or there won’t be anything to see.”

“I have lived here for the last 35 years,” said Miss Blacklock, “and no one has put any effigies
on any bonfires.”

“A new Jerusalem,” said Patrick thoughtfully. “Isn’t that what they sing at the Women’s Insti-
tute? Has someone at the WI been making lumpy scones?” His dark eyes glittered with amusement.

“And what, pray, do you know of the Women’s Institute?” Miss Blacklock demanded. “Who
have you been trying to charm this week?”

“He could charm the scones off anyone,” Julia said, aware that Patrick’s good looks had been
her passport to some of London’s most amusing circles.

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Miss Bunner said, her lower lip quivering.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” Miss Blacklock said. “It’s only someone being silly.” She could not
afford to have Bunny upset as well as Mitzi. One lot of waterworks in the house was enough. At least
neither of them slammed doors; her old school-friend was too polite for that, but also too fragile, her
nerves in tatters, too easily upset. Her niece and nephew had acted as something of a tonic to Miss
Bunner, but the young people were too wrapped up in their own lives to take sufficient notice of her
companion’s fears and fancies.

“Six-thirty pip emma, then,” Patrick said.

***

Colonel Easterbrook had brought his wife her morning tea-tray in bed, and enquired after her ankle.
Life had been confoundedly difficult since she had fallen out of the apple tree three week ago, break-
ing her ankle and collarbone after trying to reach the last few apples.

“I had to do it,” she explained through the tears, “Amos is too old to go up ladders.”

She had a point, he admitted, since Amos was close to eighty, but that was hardly a good
enough reason, and her entirely laudable aim of saving money had been costly, in terms of his
comfort if nothing else.

Laura laid aside the Daily Graphic, and took up the local paper. “Stay with me, while I drink
my tea and see if there’s anything amusing in the Gazette - I only want to read the notices.”

The Colonel, aware that his kippers were still at the mercy of Mrs Arthurs in the kitchen,
agreed.

Laura read out one or two snippets to him. “Scarcely used hall carpet - that might be worth
following up, ours is beginning to look rather worn- though perhaps one more winter - and look - oh.
That’s unusual.” She read out the paragraph that had already been the cause of much speculation
that morning. “I don’t like it, Archie, it sounds very sinister to me.”

“Wretched fifth-columnists,” said the Colonel. “Bad for morale. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I really think someone ought to speak to the vicar,” his wife replied.

“Jerusalem is his domain, so to speak. I’m sure Julian would know what it all means.”

“Clever chap,” the Colonel conceded. “He wants to nip things in the bud, though. Not sure he’s
up to the job- the nipping.” He made a little pincer-like maneuver with his
 fingers.

“He can be quite firm, in his own way. He has to be, with that wife of his. Do speak to him,
Archie. It would be a weight off my mind. I’m afraid something dreadful is going to happen.”

“Stuff and nonsense. I won’t stand for it.”

 C HAPTER TWO

At 6. 30 pm

By Nia Tunnicliffe

The chiming of the church clock echoed around the empty streets of Chipping Cleghorn. At 6pm it
was already pitch black and the unseasonably bitter weather had kept most people at home next to
blazing fires clutching steaming cups of strong tea.

In the small snug of the Royal Oak logs crackled and popped in the dusty grate, a few hardy
patrons huddled around its licking flames. Edmund Swettenham sat alone at the bar, a large tumbler
of whiskey cradled in his shaking hands. He stared vacantly down into the glass, his face as pale as
death itself as he watched the amber liquid glow softly in the dim light. Suddenly he threw his head
back sharply and drained the spirit down in one, his face crumpled into a grimace of disgust.

“Another,” he said gruffly, slamming the glass down with a thud.

Nancy Travers breathed heavily into a pint-pot and then rubbed at it with a rather shabby
looking cloth.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Edmund,” she sighed holding the glass up to the light.

“Another,” he repeated firmly, sliding the glass along the bar in Nancy’s direction.

Nancy put down the cloth and took the whiskey bottle from the shelf behind her.

“What will your mother say,” she said, splashing an especially large measure into the tumbler.
“Her being such a nice lady and all.”

“There are lots of things I have done that would probably shock my mother’s delicate
sensibilities,” he replied, swilling the whiskey briefly around the glass before once again emptying
the contents straight down his burning throat.

He ran his long, delicate fingers anxiously across his unshaven chin. Nancy noticed that he was
trembling. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her skirt and offered the box to
Edmund before taking one for herself.

“Come now,” she whispered conspiratorially leaning across the bar, cigarette poised dexterously
between her fingers. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“It’s worse,” Edmund said. “Much worse.”

His shaking hands somehow managed to strike a match into life. Nancy could smell the stale
tang of alcohol souring his breath as he bent forward to light her cigarette.
 “It’s that damned blackguard Balan!” Edmund hissed, throwing the spent match onto the
counter.

“You mean Patrick?” Nancy asked brusquely, standing stiffly to attention.

She poured another shot of whiskey liberally into Edmund’s glass. Her manner had become
immediately frosty at the mention of Patrick’s name and her arms were crossed defensively over her
ample chest.

“The man’s a devil.” Edmund shuddered, his bloodshot eyes swimming with drink and
desperation. “A cruel, angel-faced devil. Got the keys to everyone’s skeleton-infested closets. Knowledge
is power and more importantly money, or so he says...”

Nancy rubbed a well manicured hand instinctively across her abdomen, red lacquered nails
stroking the soft roundness mechanically. Her cigarette smouldered forgotten in her grasp, a column
of ash growing perilously long and heavy.

“He certainly is a smooth talker,” she said absently, her pretty face creased with worry.

“A silver tongued charmer spouting nothing but venom, that’s what he is!” Edmund spat.

Just then the door leading to the inn’s private quarters flew open and a stern, bulky man strode
heavily into the room. Despite the chilliness of the late autumn evening, his shirt sleeves were rolled
up above his elbows and a sheen of perspiration coated his craggy forehead.

“Everything alright in here Nancy?” he growled, a vein pulsing angrily in his temple.

“Fine love,” she replied chirpily, jolted swiftly out of her sombre reverie.

She stubbed out her cigarette smartly and brushed the fallen ash from her skirt.

“Mr Swettenham here’s just having a few problems with one of his trucks, Sidney, that’s all.”

She smoothed her hands across her platinum curls nervously and then once more took up her
cloth, polishing the glassware in her familiar manner.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Edmund retorted, made more confident than was characteristic by
the number of drinks he had consumed.

Mr Travers crossed the room and snatched up Edmund’s glass in one of his giant fists.

“Bar’s closed!” he snarled, the tattooed lady on his forearm dancing provocatively as his grip
tightened.

Edmund held Travers’ gaze daringly for a few tense seconds before swinging himself down
from his stool. Even with a bellyful of whiskey he had sense enough to realise that he was no match
for Sidney Travers. The man was a brute and everyone knew it. He shrugged his slight frame into his
crumpled coat and wound a scarf loosely around his neck.

“I was going anyway,” he said, straining to find the time on the small face of his wristwatch.
“Ten minutes until ShowTime at the new Jerusalem...”

He staggered towards the exit, making every effort to steady his tread. Then he threw open the
heavy wooden door and disappeared out into the darkness.

***

Amy Murgatroyd was roused from sleep by the frenzied squawking of an animal in distress. She shot
bolt upright in the rocking chair rubbing her bleary eyes as she struggled back to full consciousness.
The racket grew louder as Miss Murgatroyd hastily lit the oil lamp and pulled on her heavy outdoor
jacket, battling to shake a quivering Maggie from her legs as she felt her way groggily to the kitchen
door.

She lurched unsteadily down towards the pond, following the mournful clamour, where she
found Wackford Squeers under attack from a brace of tyrannical ducks.

“Shoo!” she cried, wading fearlessly into the fray. “Be off with you! Get gone now! Shoo!”

The ducks retreated noisily to the murky pond, flapping their wings and hissing angrily as they
went, bending their slender necks deftly to avoid Miss Murgatroyd’s thrashing limbs.

“There there, Wacky,” Miss Murgatroyd crooned softly, picking the beleaguered bird up and
nestling him gently in the safety of her oversized coat. “Those old bullies can’t get you now.”

Wackford looked up forlornly, his cracked bill and ruffled feathers plucking at Miss Mur-
gatroyd’s heartstrings. She planted a soft kiss on top of his downy head before squinting into the
darkness for any sign of Miss Hinchcliffe or Bonnie; Wackford never swam alone and so she natu-
rally assumed that one of his minders would be close at hand.

“Hannah!” she called into the dense blackness. “Bonnie!”

There was no response, only the eerie sound of a breeze whipping up and whistling desolately
through the bare branches of the newly naked trees. Miss Murgatroyd shivered apprehensively as
she turned and trudged back up to the house.

In the kitchen she stoked up the fire and settled Wackford in the familiar comfort of his crate
facing the glowing embers. Her head throbbed terribly and her limbs felt thick and heavy. She felt
confused and disoriented. It was so unlike Bonnie not to stand sentry while Wackford took a dip.
And so unlike Hannah not to be within calling distance at this time of the day. When she came
to think of it, she hadn’t seen Hannah for hours. Not since she’d chided her for fretting over that
strange advertisement in the Gazette before setting off purposefully with a bucket of bran mash and
an empty egg basket. Surely she hadn’t decided to go down to Jerusalem after all? Miss Murgatroyd
pulled her misshapen cardigan tightly around her stout body and stepped hesitantly out into the
empty yard once more, making sure to stay within the pool of light which spilled reassuringly out
from the kitchen. She gave one more unanswered call into the darkness before retreating indoors,
shutting the door firmly behind her.
 ***

In the parlour of the Dower House, the clicking of Miss Bunner’s knitting needles kept uneven time
with the sonorous ticking of the old grandfather clock. She had been on edge ever since reading that
macabre little notice in the morning’s paper, pacing from room to room wringing her hands
agitatedly before picking up ball and thread in an attempt to focus her troubled mind and soothe her
raw nerves. Despite her hours of dedicated perseverance, however, she had not managed to produce
much more than three inches of a garish green scarf which she planned to send to her niece Marjory
for Christmas. A sharp knock at the door sent Miss Bunner’s needles tumbling into her lap.

“I’m off, Bunny!” said Julia, poking her head around the door.

She smiled impishly when she saw the pink flush of alarm colour Miss Bunner’s cheeks, the
corners of her heavily rouged lips pulled playfully to one corner. What a jumpy old cat, she thought
maliciously.

“And where exactly are you off to, my dear,” Miss Bunner whispered breathlessly, gathering up
her yarn with trembling fingers.

Julia sidled into the room, her suit far too tight-fitting for Miss Bunner’s liking. She was
wearing her exquisite golden heart brooch, encrusted with shimmering stones; a sure sign that she
was meeting someone she shouldn’t be. Julia pulled on a pair of exquisite calf-skin gloves and tapped
the side of her nose meaningfully.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” she taunted as she checked her reflection in the mirror, turning
conceitedly from side-to-side as she admired her lithe figure from every angle.

The old clock signalled the hour, the turning of its ancient mechanism almost louder than the
tolling of its bell.

“Six already?” said Julia, pouting into the mirror. “Must dash!”

She blew an ostentatious kiss in the direction of Miss Bunner’s wing-back before settling her
new crocodile purse on her arm and strutting confidently from the room.

Miss Bunner sighed heavily as she peered over the rim of her spectacles at the tangle of thread
in her lap. She tried to hook the dropped stitches back onto the needles but her hands were shaking
more than ever.

What a difference between old and young, she thought, placing her knitting resignedly into the
basket at the side of her chair. There was Julia, striding off out into the night despite the advertised
misdeeds, while she sat and trembled in the house like a frightened little mouse. Girls today were
so different, so much bolder than they had been in her day. Julia was always off gadding about with
someone. Men mostly, thought Miss Bunner shaking her head with disapproval. She had always
been the same, even as a teenage girl in St Peter Port. Miss Bunner seemed to remember Lottie
hinting at there being some sort of scandal involving a married man but when she had squirreled
around for more details she had brushed it off nonchalantly and clammed up as she always did.

Her brother was no better. Always a pocketful of money and no accounting as to where it came
from! But wherever it came from, it was likely to be crooked. Why only this morning she felt
certain she had seen Miss Hinchcliffe slip Patrick something more than eggs from her basket. She
had stomped up the path, her face red and angry while he had smiled wolfishly and held the
garden gate open for her with mock gallantry. Miss Bunner had always suspected that those dark
good looks and charming manners were just the shiny veneer on what was really a very black
character. Well, the Balans always had been a rotten bunch and what was in the roots usually came
out in the branches. Miss Bunner often wondered at how the sister of someone so eminently sensible
as Miss Blacklock could throw in her lot with the likes of the Balans.

The rattling of the windows in their casements startled Miss Bunner anew. The wind was
really picking up and the old house creaked and moaned from the buffeting. She picked up the silver
service bell from the side table and rang it gently. There was no response. Miss Bunner rang the bell
more sternly a second time but still there was no response.

“Really! That girl is impossible!” Miss Bunner complained incredulously to herself.

“Mitzi! Mitzi!” She rattled the bell fiercely but there was still no response.

The wind howled in the chimney and Miss Bunner was all too aware of her solitude. She crept
cautiously into the dim hallway, convinced that she could hear floorboards somewhere creaking
under the heavy tread of an intruder. Perhaps, she would follow Lottie down to visit Mrs
Easterbrook after all, she decided, pulling on her coat and hurrying out of the front door.

***

There was a small crowd gathering outside Jerusalem Churchyard when Charlotte Blacklock
crossed the square from the Easterbrooks’ at a quarter past six. She had almost forgotten that
morning’s announcement in the Gazette and half wondered at what this sorry straggle of people
could possibly be doing loitering in the freezing darkness when the sinister words came back to
mind. With the possibility of foul deeds publicly executed, she was amazed that more hadn’t turned
out. She supposed that the weather had a lot to do with it, although she also suspected that hungry
husbands in want of a good supper had crushed the curiosity of many a good housewife. She stopped
in her tracks and glanced around the square. Curtains were twitching furtively, front doors opening
warily. She was surprised that ‘Old Halfers’ had not tried to sneak out to satisfy her innate nosiness
instead of standing guard over Mrs Easterbrook.

“The mistress is not takin’ visitors this evenin’,” she had said slowly and precisely, barring
the doorway with her tall, gangly frame. “She’s ‘ad a bad day and the Colonel said she was not to be
disturbed.”

Miss Blacklock had looked suitably puzzled. “But she seemed so much better yesterday,” she
said.

Miss Blacklock thought of Mrs Easterbrook chattering cheerily from her bed, comfortably
propped up on a pile of plump cushions, popping expensive Belgian chocolates greedily into her
mouth. She had seemed in good health, eager for all of the Chipping Cleghorn gossip, her beautiful
face beaming gleefully when she heard about Mitzi’s latest disaster with some chicken giblets. She
was such a pleasant girl but far too over-indulged as Miss Blacklock saw it. Archie treated her more
like a spoiled child than a wife sometimes, but then that was what happened when an ageing
bachelor married a woman less than half his age, Miss Blacklock presumed cynically...
 Mrs Arthurs had merely repeated her opening lines and held out her hands for the flowers
Miss Blacklock was clutching.

“I shall see as she gets ‘em as soon as she’s awake,” she had said smarmily as she shuffled back
into the hallway and closed the door in Miss Blacklock’s face.

“Well I never!” Miss Blacklock had sniffed haughtily. The sly twinkle in Mrs Arthur’s eyes as
she slunk back behind the door made her feel as if the woman wasn’t so dim-witted as Archie
Easterbrook thought.

Miss Blacklock shook her head with displeasure and marched onwards towards the Church.
If her company was not required at the Easterbrooks, she would wait for the chiming of the church
clock with the rest of them!

***

Reverend Norris picked up the last of the songbooks left in the stalls after choir practice and slotted
them neatly onto the shelves at the back of the nave. It was late in the day and his back ached sorely.
Never a keen campanologist, he decided he would leave Fred alone with his ropes and bells for this
evening.

He smiled weakly as his wife emerged from the vestry brandishing a duster and some beeswax.
He limped wearily up the aisle to meet her.

“All spick and span,” she said briskly, popping the polish into her basket. “I’ll see you back at
the rectory at seven sharp.”

She tied a scarf neatly around her head and proceeded towards the door, stopping to run her
finger approvingly along the panels of the rood screen as she went.

“Thank you, Ruth, my dear,” the Reverend said, reaching out to clasp his wife’s cold hand in
his. “What would I be without you?”

Ruth nodded efficiently and drew her hand away quickly, forcing her fingers down into her
thick woollen mittens before marching away without saying a word.

The Reverend shook his head sadly. He winced as he thought of Ruth, so capable and strong,
brought so low by his latest transgression. Her eyes welled with shame every time she looked at him.
Thank God she was a discrete woman with a strong sense of duty. She was merciful too, despite what
the village busybodies said about her offhand manner.

They had only been in Chipping Cleghorn for three months. They had moved about so much
since the war, nowhere ever felt like home. And yet this time things seemed different. Perhaps,
things would turn out alright after all. Besides, it seemed as if he wasn’t the only one in the village
with secrets to shield. Colonel Easterbrook had behaved most peculiarly today, stealing meekly into
the rectory kitchen to beg a word at lunchtime.

The Reverand had offered him a seat but he had refused, choosing instead to hover by the door.
He had stood awkwardly, clearing his throat noisily, his large white moustache quivering against his
ruddy face. In the end he had mumbled something about “a lot of nonsense in the Gazette”, and
“scoundrels with no common decency making life abominable”, and “nipping things in the bud...”
And then, snipping his fingers like a pair of secateurs he upped and left, striding back towards the
village almost at a canter. The whole conversation had been completely incomprehensible. One thing
was for sure though, the Reverend had concluded, and that was that Colonel Easterbrook was a man
with a great deal on his mind.

The Reverend settled himself into a pew and clasped his hands together, leaning forward, eyes
fixed on the image of the Madonna and Child emblazoned in glorious stained glass above the altar.
He opened his mouth and began to whisper the familiar words of the catechism but the prayer died
on his lips as a single shot rang out in the churchyard.
 C H APTER TH RE E

E nte r the De te ctiv e

By Margaret Lane

Of course, it wasn’t really a gunshot, Reverend Norris reassured himself. Far more likely to be
somebody setting off fireworks early. Bonfire Night was only a week away after all. Or a child playing
with a paper bag, perhaps. And even if it was a gunshot, there wasn’t necessarily any reason to worry.
The Colonel was always complaining about poachers in the woods behind his estate.

And yet, he couldn’t quite convince himself. It sounded very like a gunshot and far too close
for a poacher.

He had to admit he was worried. Ruth had only just left and while his reasonable side told him
it was highly unlikely anybody would shoot his strong, capable wife – why would anybody even want
to? – he couldn’t relax, knowing she was somewhere out there when shots were, possibly, being fired.

Muttering a quick prayer that God would protect her, he rose from the pew and hurried out
into the courtyard.

To his dismay, chaos greeted him. People were running to and fro, apparently unaware of how
to proceed.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Reverend,” Mrs Swettenham greeted him breathlessly. “I’ve been
looking for Colonel Easterbrook. I do think he’s quite the right person to deal with something like
this, don’t you? But I’m afraid he’s absolutely nowhere to be found. Probably dancing attendance
on that wife of his, don’t you think? I really think that marriage was most unwise. But since he’s not
around, I do hope you can advise us; I really do.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Swettenham, but if I am to advise you, I’ll need to know exactly what
the problem is. I’ve only just emerged from the Church, you see.”

“And nobody’s told you what’s happened. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” She raised a hand to her
forehead in what he couldn’t help thinking looked a rather deliberate gesture. Though he chided
himself for his lack of charity, he couldn’t help suspecting Mrs Swettenham was rather enjoying
herself. His suspicions increased when, with a dramatic flourish, she continued, “She’s been shot,
you see.”

For a moment, Reverend Norris felt slightly weak. His mind still on his wife’s safety, he couldn’t
help imagining it was of her Mrs Swettenham spoke.

“Who?” he choked out, his voice shaking.

“Oh, that young relative of Miss Blacklock’s. Julia Balan.”

 Unpopular though he knew the Balans to be, he couldn’t help being a little shocked at her tone,
which was almost one of relish. He reassured himself she’d naturally had a great shock and the full
reality of what had happened probably hadn’t sunk in yet. She surely didn’t intend to sound so
callous.

“Erm, well,” he began, his mouth still dry. “I daresay somebody had better go inside and ring
the police and an ambulance, if somebody hasn’t done so already, what?”

“Oh no, Reverend. I’m sure they haven’t. We were all so shocked, you see.”

“Well, perhaps you’d do that now, could you?” He was anxious to get rid of her. It was only
hearing her reaction to a woman’s death that he realised how much he’d always disliked her. “There’s
a phone in the sacristy. So that I can be contacted in an emergency.”

“Oh yes, of course, Reverend.” As he could have expected, she sounded pleased to take an
active part in the drama. “I’ll do that immediately.”

Bustling though the crowds, he reached the place Julia’s body lay, her brother kneeling beside
it, a look of complete shock on his face. They must have been standing some distance from the rest
of the crowd and for a moment, all the rumours about Patrick’s unsavoury activities returned to his
mind. He pushed them aside. He knew, none better, how stories spread in a village. There was,
perhaps, some truth to many of them, but they were taken completely out of context, exaggerated
and twisted until something innocuous or well-meant sounded malignant.

And Patrick Balan was a young man with an unfortunate manner, just the type to attract the
venom of elderly spinsters and retired army men.

Any remaining suspicions he might have had about the young man’s background were
instantly dispelled when Patrick glanced up at him, his eyes almost unseeing.

“I was standing right beside her.” He was speaking almost to himself. Reverend Norris wasn’t
entirely sure if he was completely aware who he was or even that he was standing there. “And
suddenly, suddenly, she crumpled beside me. I thought she’d fainted or…or been taken ill. I’d heard
the gunshot, of course, and yet I hadn’t. Julia’s collapse took all my attention and until I saw the
blood running down her back, I made no connection between that and the shot. Why would anybody
want to shoot Julia?”

Why indeed? What struck Reverend Norris rather strongly at that moment was that Julia Balan
seemed almost like the wrong victim. The young man beside him, now, he’d make a far more likely
victim than his sister. Of course, there could be some disappointed suitor in the background. Some
of these young men did get rather het up but it still seemed rather unlikely anyone would follow her
down here and shoot her. Though of course, many of them had brought guns back after the war.

Pushing his thoughts aside, he knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse.

“She’s dead, all right, I’m afraid,” he said softly.

Patrick rolled his eyes.

 “Well, I could see that,” he snapped, apparently jolted out of his daze. “I suppose you’re going
offer some inanities about how she’s in a better place, with God or some sort of nonsense.”

Reverend Norris shook his head. “No, I’m not going to offer anything like that. I don’t think it
would be any comfort to you right now.”

“Don’t believe in any of that stuff.” Even at this moment, shocked by the death of his sister, the
insolence rang through.

And yet, all Reverend Norris felt was pity. These poor children. They were barely out of their
teens, he thought and for something like this to happen.

Despite his faith and his belief, that yes, the dead were in a better place, the death of young
people, especially death by violence, by human agency, always affected him. It was, perhaps, the
sense of lost opportunities. This girl should be dating, getting married, having children, in this
modern era, perhaps even starting a career. Now all those possibilities were lost.

To him, it had been the most tragic thing about the recent war, all the young people killed on
the battlefields or in bombing raids on the cities.

And now, when the war was over and people ought to be able to feel safe again, this happened.
And in a small village like Chipping Cleghorn. Reverend Norris had an irrational feeling that English
villages should be immune from violence, that murders happened in cities or foreign dictatorships.
Not here, not now.

“Your beliefs, or lack thereof, don’t offend me,” he said quietly. “What does offend me is the
idea of somebody shooting your sister like that.”

Patrick nodded. “You know something, Reverend? That sort of offends me too.”

For a moment, it seemed like some form of understanding passed between them.

The moment, however, was interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Wilcox, who, to Reverend
Norris’s eyes, looked completely out of his depth. The Sergeant was used to chucking drunks out of
the Royal Oak, breaking up the odd fight, maybe intervening in the occasional case of domestic
violence. Reverent Norris doubted he’d ever had a murder on his patch before.

He endeavoured bravely to give them the impression of certainty.

“All right, now, all right, perhaps you gentlemen can give me an account of just what’s been
happening here.”

“Patrick here can probably tell you more than I can,” the Reverend began. “And there was quite
a crowd gathered outside the churchyard. They may have seen something.”

“I doubt it,” Patrick interrupted. “Julia and I were alone over here. We’d no particular interest
in associating with that bunch of old fogies. Even the young people around here are old fogies, Julia…
used to say.” His voice cracked a little. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he continued, “But
we were interested to see the show, so to speak. Not much entertainment around here, is there?”

“Ah, yes,” the Sergeant said. “The erm advertisement in the paper. Did that mean anything to
you, Mr. Balan, or to your sister, perhaps?”

“No, no, not to me anyway and I’m quite certain it didn’t to Julia either. She would have told
me, you see. We had quite a laugh about it, really. God, how ironic is that? We didn’t take it seriously
in the least. Just thought it some crazed old yokel.”

An idea suddenly occurred to Reverend Norris.

“If I may make a suggestion…”

“Of course, Reverend.” Sergeant Wilcox turned to him respectfully.

“Well, Julia Balan was rather a good-looking young woman and I’m afraid that…well, there
are those with ‘religious’ objections to good-looking women. See them as inciting men to sin or
something.”

“And people wonder why I say all religion is nonsense,” Patrick muttered. “Why shouldn’t
Julia dress however the hell she likes?”

“It’s always struck me as rather a convenient belief,” Reverend Norris said. “A way to place
the responsibility for one’s own behaviour on somebody else. But this isn’t exactly the time for
theological debate, is it Sergeant?”

“So you’re suggesting that perhaps some man was, say, tempted to stray with her and felt the
need to eliminate her before she caused him to sin. Quite in line with modern psychology, I dare
say.”

The Sergeant was not a man with much time for psychology.

“I’ll admit I hadn’t quite thought it through to that extent,” Reverend Norris said. “But it is
possible, don’t you think?”

“Oh, it’s possible,” the Sergeant admitted. “One thing you learn pretty quickly in this job is that
few things are actually impossible. But personally, I’d be inclined to favour a simpler solution. Some
young man she rejected, perhaps, or even a jealous rival for some boy, though I must admit firearms
are a weapon more likely to be favoured by a man. Can’t quite see a young woman choosing to work
off a grudge this way.” He turned to Patrick. “I’ll need to ask you about your sister’s past, I’m afraid,
and if there’s anybody who could possibly have a reason to kill her, even if it seems utterly ridiculous.
Can’t quite disregard the lunatic element after all.”

Reverend Norris couldn’t help wondering if he was dismissing the possibility of a quasi-religious
motive too quickly. There was the advertisement after all. That, in his opinion, needed to be
accounted for.

“There was a man,” Patrick said. “A married man and quite a bit older than Julia, I should
think. In his forties, perhaps. In fact, I’ve a little idea he’s the reason we were invited down here.
Mother and Aunt Lotty probably cooked it up as a way to keep them apart. But it’s quite absurd to
suggest he killed her. He’s not at all the sort of man to have religious scruples or whatever it is the
Reverend was suggesting. And it’s not as if Julia had any intention of giving him up. Quite the
opposite. She got a letter from him just this week, in fact. I should think her moving down here
suited him admirably. Less chance of his wife finding out. And he could still see her pretty regularly
on those ‘business trips’ of his.”

The sergeant was noting it all down in his notebook.

“Well, we’ll have to contact this fellow, find out if he was anywhere in the vicinity tonight. Do
you have his name and address, please?”

Patrick shrugged. “All I can tell you is that his first name is Edward – Ted, she called him - and
he has some kind of job that allows him to disappear for days on end without alerting his wife’s
suspicions. I’m afraid I never thought to ask Julia his surname.”

The sergeant sighed. “Well, let’s hope she’s kept the letter. In my experience ladies usually do.
I’ve been called to quite a few incidents on account of that. It should have a return address, unless of
course, the gentleman has something more than adultery to hide.”

***

It was late when Reverend Norris returned home.

Ruth rose from her chair. “Where were you? I was getting worried!”

“Haven’t you heard?”

A concerned look crossed her face.

“What’s happened?”

He took her hands in his.

“You know Julia Balan?”

“Yes!” Her tone was exasperated. She thought he was stalling and she was right. It wasn’t
exactly an easy thing to just blurt out.

“She’s been shot.”

“Shot?”

He nodded sadly. “She’s dead. It happened just after you left the Church. To be honest, I was
a little worried.”
 “Who’d want to shoot me?” She tried to sound light-hearted, but he could see she was shocked.
You didn’t expect murder, not in an out of the way place like this.

“I know, it was ridiculous.” He paused for a moment before bursting out, “But who’d want to
shoot a child like Julia Balan either. It’s this blasted war, you know. Putting guns in young men’s
hands, then they bring them back here.”

“Julian,” she began warningly. She knew exactly how he felt on the matter.

“All right, my dear, all right.” He paced the floor uneasily. “Sergeant Wilcox thinks it’s
something to do with her personal life, a rejected suitor, perhaps.”

“Well, it probably is,” she said calmly.

“I doubt it. He’s completely ignoring the advertisement. You remember? The one in the
Gazette with all that New Jerusalem nonsense. She was shot by the gate of the Churchyard. Don’t
tell me that’s a coincidence.”

She gave him a warning look. “I’m sure the police will investigate every possible avenue.”

“Well, I’m not. Wilcox is perfectly competent when it comes to dealing with ordinary village
crimes, but he’s out of his depth here and he knows it.”

“Well, there’ll probably be outside assistance,” she said vaguely. “He’ll hardly be expected to
investigate single-handedly. The point is, there isn’t anything you can do.”

“Isn’t there though?” His tone was determined.

She sighed. “Julian, this is murder. Don’t you understand? If you go sniffing around, you’ll be
putting yourself at risk. Risking your reputation is one thing. Risking your life…”

“Well, what do you expect me to do? There’s somebody here, Ruth, somebody in this village,
going around shooting innocent young girls…”

“You don’t know she was so innocent! You don’t know anything about her!”

“Ruth!”

“All right, I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but aren’t you rather making assumptions here?
You’ve an idea in your head about some kind of innocence destroyed and it might not be that simple,
you know.”

“I don’t really care. Even if she were a tool of Satan himself, it wouldn’t excuse murder. That
girl had her whole life ahead of her and now it’s just been…snuffed out. Somebody killed her and
that somebody is justifying it, probably to themselves as well as everybody else, with some kind of
religious imagery. I can’t just stand back and let that happen, Ruth. You know that. I’m not saying
the police don’t know their business, but you know these small places. People are suspicious of
outsiders and they’ll be afraid of saying the wrong thing to the police and getting an innocent person
in trouble. I’ll hear things they wouldn’t.”

“All right,” she said quietly. “I suppose I should be used to your personal crusades by now.
Maybe they’re even partly why I love you. The way you care about things.” She reached out and
brushed his cheek gently with her fingers. “But, Julian, don’t go putting yourself in any danger. You
said you were worried when you heard a shot shortly after I’d left the Church, so just imagine how
I’d feel if anything were to happen to you.”

He lowered his eyes. She was right. If the positions were reversed, he wouldn’t be too happy
about her putting herself at risk either.

“I’m not going to put myself in danger,” he promised. “All I’m going to do is talk to people,
or actually, let them talk to me. People will talk to a clergyman, you know. They’ll say things they
wouldn’t say to other people. Especially when it comes to religious matters. I’m afraid people are all
too anxious to inform me of what they consider to be their neighbours’ sins. If somebody thinks Julia
Balan was a sinner deserving of death, they might well let me know about it.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And I’ll do some reading. It’s possible there’s some obscure interpretation of theology that the
killer sees as justifying this. A new Jerusalem…” He paused and screwed up his face in thought. “I
wonder what that could refer to.”
 CHAPTER FOUR

A Mys te rious Stran g e r

By Anne Miller

At seven the next morning the sun rose over a sombre Chipping Cleghorn. At Dower House
Charlotte Blacklock was hunched over the kitchen table while an anxious Miss Bunner bustled
around her in a vain attempt to make her eat or drink something. At Tweeddale Cottage Miss
Hinchcliffe was steadily digging her way around the vegetable plot to get a start on the winter’s garlic
while over at the Vicarage Reverend Norris was blinking in the sun’s beams and wondering where
on earth he was. He reached out a foot but rather than feeling a cosy mattress or Ruth’s carefully
embroidered eiderdown he felt it knock against something cold to the touch, and rather wet.
Springing to his feet he realised he wasn’t in his bedroom after all, but in his small study. There
were piles of books at his feet and a glass on its side, the contents of which were now streaming
steadily towards a pile of papers. At just the right moment, the door opened and Ruth appeared. She
swooped down to retrieve the papers, moved the books to safety and then set down the mug of tea
she was carrying in front of her husband.

Surveying the mess around him the Reverend looked up at his wife and rubbed his eyes.

“Ruth! What’s going on?”

She knelt down beside him and pushed the cup of tea into his hands.

“You’ve spent all night amongst these papers, I thought you’d tire of them eventually but you
must have fallen asleep first. Here, drink this, you’ll be freezing.”

The Reverend took the cup gratefully as he stretched out his limbs which felt stiff from his
night on the floor.

“It’s that ‘New Jerusalem’. I thought I’d be able to find some reference to it, but it eluded me
no matter how fast I read.”

Seeing the number of books pulled from their shelves and scattered around the floor, Ruth
didn’t doubt her husband’s thoroughness but did wonder how much he’d been able to absorb in the
middle of the night.

“Well, you’d better go and get ready for the day ahead, people will need you and you’re not
exactly going to inspire confidence with newsprint all over your face.”

She had a point, the Reverend thought as he looked at his rather inky hands. This wouldn’t do.

***
Come ten o’clock and Reverend Norris was looking much more polished as he set off for Dower
House. Ruth had brushed down the black woollen coat he kept for best, he had a crimson scarf
wrapped round his neck and was wearing his smartest pair of gloves. He stopped off at the florists
too so he had something to bring for Julia’s family, he’d been close to death often enough to know
that his chosen blooms wouldn’t make much of a dent in their grief but he hoped they would show
that there were people who cared. As he left the shop he was greeted by Mrs Arthurs – who had a
basket full of vegetables in one hand and lengthy shopping list in the other.

“Mornin’ Reverend.”

“Mrs Arthur.” He nodded his head politely.

“Awful what happened yesterday wunt it? The Mistress is awfully shook up.”

“Yes, a terrible, terrible thing.”

“She wasn’ feelin’ well yesterday, didn’t even want any visitors, an’ she usually enjoys that so
much! An’ now this, I think the shock has knocked her right back again.”

“I think we’re all shocked by it Mrs Arthurs,” said the Reverend. Except you, he thought,
another one who takes a tragedy and uses it for gossip. “And how is the Colonel?”

“Ah, you know him. Such a quiet one, I never know what he’s thinkin’. Always readin’ or walkin’
or staring off into the distance.”

“It must be hard for him, settling back to normal life after the war.”

“I suppose so,” Mrs Arthurs replied, staring down at the list in her hand. “Well, I must get to
the butchers to get the meat for this pie, I’ll be seein’ you Reverend.” With the air that he’d been the
one inconveniencing her and taking time out of her day, the voluminous woman turned on her heels
and marched across the road in search of a sizeable piece of stewing beef.

Staring after her in bewilderment the Reverend blinked, looked around and decided to go down
the main road then cut through the village green on his way to Miss Blacklock’s house. Pondering
the recent happenings, he was completely engrossed in his thoughts, so much so that he didn’t look
where he was going and walked straight into a man walking out from the train station. Ricocheting
off the man as if he were as solid as a wall the Reverend stumbled, losing his grip on his flowers.

“I do beg your pardon.” The Reverend looked up at the vast man, his face creased as he tried to
recognise him and failed. The stranger towered over the Reverend’s 5 ft 10, making him feel much
shorter than he rightfully was. His hair was as red as the nasturtiums that trailed around the village
in the summer months, he had a thick beard which covered most of his face and clearly hadn’t been
trimmed for days. He wore a long navy coat over causal trousers, and his shoes were smart, and
gleamed in the morning’s sun.

“Quite all right. Here.” The man bent down to retrieve the now slightly bashed looking
bouquet.
 “Thank you.” The Reverend busied himself tidying up the bunch as best he could but when he
looked up to carry on the conversation the man had already gone. Strange, he thought, picking up
his pace, why haven’t I seen you before?

***

After a hearty pace around the village with his thoughts, the Reverend finally arrived at Miss
Blacklock’s house. A tear-stained Miss Bunner opened the door and led him to the sitting room
where Charlotte Blacklock was sitting bolt upright on an armchair, an untouched cup of tea on the
nesting table to her side. She was staring into the fireplace but turned as the Reverend approached.

“Good morning Reverend, it’s good of you to come.”

“My dear,” he held out the flowers, “I’m so sorry this has happened.”

“Ghastly, isn’t it?” Charlotte replied laying the flowers on the table. “It still doesn’t feel real. I
had to ring Julia’s mother last night, she should be here by midday, Patrick’s going to get her from
the…” Her voice broke but she swallowed hard and continued. “From the station”.

“How is Patrick coping?”

“Shocked, he’s barely said a word since he came home last night, those two were as thick as
thieves.”

“Have you had any updates from the police?”

“I had a telephone call this morning, Sergeant Wilcox is coming round to talk to us. I just don’t
know what to say, why would someone want to hurt Julia?”

“Sadly there are some troubled people out there. Is there anyone she fell out with recently? Or
didn’t get on with?”

“Not that I can think of, I know there’s this talk of a married man, Edward isn’t it? Or Ted? But
no one knows much about him.”

“You never met him then?”

“Oh no, Julia liked to keep her personal life private, she’s very good at keeping secrets that
girl.”

So she had been, thought the Reverend, although it looks like this one is going to be under
rather more scrutiny than whatever other girlish secrets she might have had.

***

After making his best attempts to comfort Miss Blacklock, the Reverend bid her farewell, leaving
with his insistence that she telephone him if there was anything at all he could do. Letting himself
out the front door he was winding his way through the meticulously tended garden when he saw
Sergeant Wilcox heading towards the house. The two exchanged pleasantries, the Sergeant seeming
in high spirits.

“I think we’re on to something, I really do. Should have this whole business cleared up soon,
put people’s minds at rest.”

“So quickly?” the Reverend enquired.

“Oh yes, I’ve been doing rounds this morning, asking people if they saw anything unusual, you
know. Colonel Easterbrook said there was a mysterious looking dark-haired chap lurking about the
village yesterday. Sounds like it could be that wandering husband she’d been seeing.”

“Did they say he had dark hair? I heard Julia was very secretive about him and no on else had
ever met him.”

“Well, I’d wager he does. That’s the thing Reverend, you’ve got to make educated guesses if
you’re going to solve a crime.”

Thinking he’d better leave the conversation quickly in case he said something which might be
construed as rude, the Reverend hurriedly bid the Sergeant farewell and left him to his own manner
of detecting.

He made his way back to the main road and wasn’t far from Tweeddale Cottage when he heard
a dismal whine coming from behind a car. He crouched down to peer underneath and saw a rather
grumpy looking duck trapped in a tangle of chicken wire which had been left in the road.

“Waxy… no, Walty… Wackford - that’s it, out you come,” said the Reverend, carefully
untangling the bird, who quacked indignantly, and decided to take him home. Mercifully the beast
seemed to sense this was his best chance of a swift return to his comfy box beside the fire so he didn’t
squirm or flap his wings but instead nestled his head against the Reverend’s arm and clacked his
half-beak impatiently.

“My dear ladies, I believe I have something of yours,” called the Reverend as he manoeuvred
his way carefully around the cottage’s gate without letting go of Wackford.

Miss Murgatroyd, who had been busy spreading out food for the chickens, set her pail on the
ground and came rushing over.

“Oh Wacky, did you get out again? Thank you so much Reverend, I don’t know how he does it.”

“Maybe he’s seeking new friends, he is a very good-natured fellow.”

Wackford, now home, wasn’t interested in praise and was already waddling off in search of the
kitchen.

“I’d better put some food out for him, will you come inside for a cup of tea, Reverend?”
 Reverend Norris gratefully accepted and followed Miss Murgatroyd through the cottage’s
narrow corridors to the old, dark kitchen at the back. Hannah Hinchcliffe was already there, boiling
water for their midday tea, Wackford running happily round her feet.

“Oh Hannah, can you make an extra cup for the Reverend please? He just rescued Wacky from
another escape.”

“Another escape? Has he got out before?”

“Yes, that time last week when Patrick Balan brought him back. And then last night he was
went missing again, although, did he follow you?”

“Follow me?”

“Yes, I thought you’d taken Bonnie out for a walk.”

Miss Hinchcliffe opened her mouth to reply but the cottage’s doorbell rang before the words
came out.

“I’ll get it. Coming!” Miss Murgatroyd called, already heading off to see who it was.

Reverend Norris heard her footsteps fade away, then the creak of the front door followed by
the murmur of voices. Then two pairs of feet made their way back along the winding passageway.

“Hannah, it’s your brother!” Miss Murgatroyd’s voice called out.

“Teddy? What’s he doing here?” Hannah jumped to her feet and greeted the man before he
reached the kitchen.

“Hi Hannah, I’d have got here sooner but the train was delayed, I came as quickly as I could.”

“What a surprise, come in, we were just making tea.” She came back into the room and smiled.
“Reverend, this is my brother.”

The Reverend looked up to see the red-haired man he’d met two hours earlier looking rather
uncomfortably down at him from his great height.

Sticking out his hand he said, “Edward Hinchcliffe, pleased to meet you.”
 C HAPTER FIVE

A B ody is Foun d

By Anna Killick

It was a constant source of consternation to Mrs Norris that more people did not attend church – or
at least her husband’s church. During and just after the War, the pews had been filled and people
had felt the need for God that they no longer seemed to feel.

In the middle of a particularly rousing sermon about Jonah and his somewhat miraculous
extraction from the belly of a whale, Mrs Norris, turned and pretended to fumble in her purse for a
pen, casting a furtive eye over the congregation.

Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner sat together. Miss Blacklock was an iron rod with eyes fixed
ahead, while Miss Bunner scribbled something furiously on a slip of paper. Mrs Swettenham’s head
listed and she looked on the verge of slumber while Edmund had already achieved this state, a
single drop of spittle suspended at the corner of his mouth. The Colonel looked as he always did; red,
angry and restless - like a lobster, Mrs Norris pondered, roaming around his gloomy underwater
kingdom seeking whom he could destroy. She did not like him, she decided. Not one bit. There was
a sprinkling of others, Mrs Butts and Johnnie, Dr Rotherham, the Smedleys and the Tweedy Ladies
muttering to one another sotto voce.

As they all rose (except Edmund) to sing the last hymn, she felt distinctly disappointed and
hoped her husband did not feel the same way.

***

If Miss Blacklock had her way, then Sunday dinner would be served at Dower House at 2pm exactly.
As it was, Mitzi was already running a half hour behind, having already burnt the brussel sprouts
and under cooked the mutton.

‘Please Mrs Blacklock, I try, I do!’ Mitzi said wild-eyed. ‘Farmer Jones, he did not give me the
good cut of meat – it is tough, as you say, as a boot, and the little cabbages I forget about, trying to
set the table for the visitors.’

Sensing a total collapse, and facing the possibility of no lunch at all, Miss Blacklock reined in
her frustration and took Mitzi firmly by the shoulders.

‘You will be fine, Mitzi. Please, pull yourself together and do your best. I am sure your meal will
be appreciated by everybody.’

‘Okay, Miss Blacklock. For you, I put myself together and make my best meal ever!’

Soon the dining room started to fill with the invitees. The Reverend and Mrs Norris were given
pride of place near the head of the table by Miss Blacklock. Next to them were Colonel and Mrs
Easterbrook, the latter looking much revived. Mrs Swettenham and an agitated Edmund sat across
from the Easterbrooks. At the end of the table was Miss Bunner. Four empty chairs remained.

‘Is anybody coming to the Women’s Institute sports regatta?’ asked Miss Bunner softly,
looking around the table. ‘I wish I could participate, I am too old these days,’ she said with a sad
smile.

‘What utter rubbish,’ said Patrick sweeping into the room. ‘You’ve put me to shame at
Badminton a few times! Remember the day we rowed down the river and let’s just say I didn’t do
much of the rowing! Well, hello everyone! So sorry I couldn’t make the service this morning
Reverend, but I do find a church service does rather grate on my principles.’

The Reverend acknowledged his greeting with a nod and a smile. ‘Well I am doing a very
thought-provoking talk on the existence of God at the boys’ school this Thursday if that would pique
your interest, Patrick?’

‘I thank you for the offer but I’m afraid I’m rather tied up on Thursday, Reverend.’

‘Doing what I wonder?’ muttered Edmund.

As Patrick sat he said: ‘Working, old chap, not something you would not know much about?
Unless you count writing a tome about men who actually do work, then throwing in a bit of haulage
on the side?’

‘Why you swindling scoundrel!’ stammered Edmund, his face reddening and a vein pulsating
on the right side of his forehead. ‘And you call what you do work?’

‘I don’t know what you mean Ed. Anyone here will tell you that since I arrived, I have been
working like a trojan.’

‘Oh,’ said Edmund angrily, rising from his chair, ‘so blackmail classifies as work now does it?
You have no moral code, Balan!’

Patrick had now also risen which had lead in turn to the rising of Colonel Easterbrook.

‘Patrick – you wouldn’t! Surely Edmund is lying,’ cried Miss Bunner reaching for a handkerchief
and knocking over her water glass. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry everyone.’

‘Now look here you two...’ blustered the Colonel, thrusting out two accusing fingers and
pointing each one simultaneously at the young men.

‘Archie,’ said Mrs Easterbrook. The Colonel looked at his wife whose eyes were fixed on
something beyond him. The room fell silent as one by one everyone’s gaze turned in the same
direction.

In the dining room entrance stood the Tweedy Ladies and Edward Hinchcliffe.

***
‘Good afternoon Ladies and Gents,’ smiled Edward, taking a seat. ‘My name, as you may already
know is Edward. Miss Blacklock, I didn’t think you’d mind if I tagged along with my sister?’

Miss Blacklock, whose face had gone as white as the table cloth, looked from Miss Hinchcliffe
to Miss Murgatroyd and back again.

‘Oh, you’re wondering which one I’m related to?’ asked Edward. ‘Hannah is my sister.’

Miss Blacklock opened her lips to speak but no words came.

Miss Bunner who was wriggling nervously in her chair burbled, ‘But surely, you are not the
Edward. Julia’s Edward. I mean the man whom Julia had...what I mean to say is...there have been
rumours of, but oh, you have red hair.. It can’t be that Edward?’

‘The very same,’ said Edward.

Complete silence descended. All that could be heard was the frantic banging of cupboard doors
coming from the kitchen.

Mrs Norris broke the spell. ‘Welcome Edward, let me introduce you to everyone.’

Miss Blacklock stood shakily and announced that she was feeling unwell and left the room.

‘Lotty!’ called out Miss Bunner, and ran after her.

The Colonel immediately began a very forced conversation with Edmund about the price of
fuel while Mrs Swettenham and Mrs Easterbrook talked somewhat distractedly about what a mild
winter it was expected to be.

How dinner was got through, Reverend Norris would never know. When it did eventually
arrive, nobody except himself seemed to notice that the parsnips were al dente and the meat was all
at once burnt and under cooked.

***

After having checked on a rather fragile Miss Blacklock and an even more frazzled Miss Bunner the
Norrises stood outside and watched the guests leave one by one. Mrs Swettenham swept Edmund
away as if he were a small child and Patrick set off in a huff, his overcoat collar turned up against
the encroaching darkness, announcing that he was going to the Royal Oak to find people who ‘really
trusted him.’

The Norrises headed for home, taking the same route as Patrick.

‘That really was rather a disturbing scene, Julian. Do you think Patrick could be involved in
blackmail? And poor Miss Blacklock, when she saw Edward, she looked liked someone had died...’

The irony of her sentence struck her and she fell silent.
 ‘I don’t know what to think my dear. It is all rather troublesome. I do sense a presence of deep
malice although I don’t know from which direction it comes. I see a picture forming but I can’t quite
make out the lines.’

‘Yes,’ pondered Mrs Norris. ‘Yes.’

***

Patrick marched up the hill towards the inn. The cool of evening did nothing to calm his umbrage. A
little way behind him he heard footsteps and then rustling in some bushes. When he looked behind
him he couldn’t make out anyone. ‘Good,’ he thought to himself. ‘Follow me, fight with me and then
we’ll see who comes out on top!’ Again some rustling and a thump as someone jumped out behind
him. This time when he turned he felt it first, piercing his chest. He uttered a cry before falling to the
ground. As his eyes glazed over he saw his murderer stand over him, then walk away.

‘How unusual,’ he thought.

The church clock struck a quarter to the hour: 4.45pm.

***

Mrs Norris heard the cry first. ‘Julian! Did you hear that?’

The Reverend had been deep in thought but the sound had shaken him out of his reverie.

‘Quickly, it came from over here,’ said Mrs Norris, rushing on. The two hastened up the hill
and saw something on the path just ahead.

‘Wait, my dear,’ said Julian, holding Mrs Norris back. ‘Let me go’.

As he approached, he made out Patrick lying outstretched on the path, a small spear-like
object sticking out from his chest. He bent his ear to Patrick’s mouth and felt his breath ever so
slightly on his cheek.

‘Patrick,’ he yelled. ‘It’s Reverend Norris. Just hang on, we will call for help.’

‘Him,’ uttered Patrick.

The Reverend inclined his head once more.

‘What is it Patrick?’

With one last gasp Patrick looked into the Reverend’s eyes, and repeated the word: ‘Him.’

***
Sergeant Wilcox was first to arrive. He and his officers had fenced off the crime scene and had
organised a make-shift headquarters at the Royal Oak.

Although any potential witnesses and suspects would be interviewed first thing in the
morning, the Norrises acquiesced to be questioned immediately. Sergeant Wilcox sat on one side of
the heavy oak table and the Norrises on the other. Although still suffering from shock, the Reverend
reflected on how interesting the tavern was; the lowness of the ceiling, the odour of stale beer and
the clink of mugs as Nancy finished up early in the light of the night’s events. As she came around
the bar to tell the officers she would be going, he noticed she had a roundness to her stomach. When
he looked up into her eyes he could see that they were rimmed with red and she looked on edge. As
she had already stated that she had neither heard nor witnessed anything, she was free to leave. A
prayer was needed not just for the dead, he thought, but for the living too.

Sergeant Wilcox took up his pen and officiously shuffled some papers.

‘Reverend Norris, would you please tell me who was present at Miss Blacklock’s this afternoon?’

The Reverend proceeded to tell Sergeant Wilcox the guest list and told him that they all
remained present throughout the dinner, including Mitzi who was constantly coming in and out to
collect dishes and, in all probability, to listen to the conversation.

‘Afterwards we all left together, after my wife and I checked on Miss Blacklock. She’d had
rather a fright you see. When everyone was assembled, Edward Hinchcliffe – Hannah’s brother –
walked in. With the rumours about him and Julia, and him seeming so blasé about inviting himself
to a dinner at Julia’s former residence, well, surely you can understand Inspector?’

‘Edward? Julia’s lover?

‘But we don’t know,’ interjected Mrs Norris, ‘that he was Julia’s...’ Mrs Norris gave a little
cough and looked distinctly uncomfortable ‘...friend. But it was a shock all the same.’

‘Did anything else of note happen at Dower House?’

Reverend Norris nodded hesitantly.

‘Well, there was a little set-to between Edmund and Patrick.’

‘Concerning what, Reverend?’

‘I cannot be sure exactly, but Edmund accused Patrick of blackmail and Patrick countered that
Edmund did not ‘pull his weight’ as one might put it.’

‘Blackmail?’ asked the sergeant, his blue eyes glistening with interest.

‘That’s all I can say, Sergeant. There really wasn’t anything more to it.’

‘And you say you that all the guests left at the same time – did you all set off in the same
direction?’
 ‘Why, no. I believe Miss Bunner left the house to water the garden at the Women’s Institute.
The Colonel and Mrs Easterbrook headed back into the village centre, and the Swettenhams had
decided to visit with Miss Murgatroyd, Miss Hinchcliffe and Edward so they all went off in a group.
Patrick set off a few minutes before us. He said he was going to the Royal Oak. He seemed rather
upset about Edmund’s allegations.’

‘Tell me how you came upon the body?’

‘Well, as I said we walked in the same direction as Patrick. We could not see him as he had
just crossed over the hill and it was growing dark. We heard the church clock strike a quarter to five
then we heard a cry, and rushed up the hill. I made my wife stay behind. I approached the body,
ascertained it was Patrick and leant over him to see if I could feel him breathing. Unfortunately, he
passed on before we even went for help. But he did say one thing to me.’

‘What was it?’ said the Inspector, barely able to contain his excitement.

‘Him,’ said the Reverend. ‘Patrick said ‘him’.’

***

Straight after leaving the inn, the Reverend and Mrs Norris walked to Dower House and knocked on
the door.

The door was opened by an hysteric Mitzi. ‘Reverend Norris, Mrs Norris! The most appalling
thing has happened. The boy, Patrick, is dead!’

‘I know, Mitzi.’ said the Reverend, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I am so very sorry.
Please may we check on Miss Blacklock. We may be able to offer some small comfort and perhaps,
a prayer.’

Mitzi admitted them into the hall but could not stop crying.

‘It is a curse Reverend, a curse – do you not see it? Two young people from this very house? It
is me next, I can sense it. Please bring your holy water and a cross and cleanse us!’

‘Mitzi, I will say a prayer for you all, and if Miss Blacklock allows it I will bless the house.
Please, take us to her.’

Mitzi flung open the sitting room door and announced loudly.

‘Miss Blacklock, it is the Reverend and his wife, Mrs Norris.’

Mitzi left the room wailing.

‘Miss Blacklock?’ asked Mrs Norris.

The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp on the far side of the room. Miss Blacklock looked
nothing like herself, slumped in a chair, and silent.

‘Miss Blacklock?’ repeated Mrs Norris edging forward, then kneeling at the foot of her chair.

‘How am I to call their mother again?’ asked a small voice. ‘This is all my fault.’

‘It is not your fault,’ said Mrs Norris standing then taking a chair beside Miss Blacklock. ‘It has
nothing to do with you.’

‘But I am so afraid that it does, my dear.’

***

The Reverend slipped out of the room and headed silently along the corridor until he found a door
ajar. Opening it quietly he switched on the light. On the dressing table were several lipsticks in
varying shades of red and three expensive-looking perfume bottles. Julia’s room. Quietly he opened
her bedside drawer and found a stack of envelopes tied with ribbon. There was no return address but
he could guess who they were from. Underneath this was a single, folded piece of paper.

He gently smoothed out the page and read the neat type:

Julia,

I beg of you - repent and turn from your sin before it is too late.

Your friend always.

Reverend Norris refolded the note and carefully put it under the stack of letters. Opening her
dresser drawers one by one and running his hand along the contents he felt something cold and hard
underneath his hand. He gripped the item and pulled it out. A revolver. The Reverend’s mind raced
as he put the gun back exactly where he has found it. As he left Julia’s room, careful to keep the door
as it had been, he crept further along the corridor and was about to enter a second door when Mitzi
came out from the kitchen.

‘Reverend Norris!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why are you sneaking in the dark?’

‘Oh,’ said the Reverend, hoping God would forgive his lie. ‘I, er, need to use the...’

‘But, please, let me put on a light for you. The bathroom is straight ahead and to the left, next
to Patrick’s room.’

‘Thank you so much.’ He said, hoping that Mitzi did not detect his nervousness. Mitzi dashed
off towards the living room and the Reverend headed to the bathroom, turned the light on, closed
the door without going in then entered the adjacent room. He assuaged his guilt by telling himself
that he was an instrument of justice.

He quickly checked Patrick’s nightstand and found nothing but a spy novel and a half empty
water tumbler. Running his eye along his bookshelf, something caught his eye – ‘Oremus Hymnal.’
He wondered why Patrick, a self-confessed young atheist would have an English school hymnal.
Listening first for any noise, he plucked the book from the shelf and noticed a page corner had been
turned down. Turning to the page he scanned the words and was struck by the last two verses:

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire!

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England’s green and pleasant land.

‘Spear? Jerusalem?’ he muttered to himself, his mind frantically trying to make connections.
Then he looked at the hymn number itself: 446. Something stirred within his mind.

Patrick had cried out just after the church clock struck the quarter hour, 4.45pm. Had he per-
haps not died a minute or so later, uttering the word ‘him’?

Or was it perhaps, he wondered, the word ‘hymn’?

 C HAPTER SIX

Som e on e is Missin g

By Patricia Furstenberg

The stench of sulphur was filling his lungs to the point of suffocation. Frantically combing the
battlefield with his eyes he searched for someone to save, the deafening bomb explosions concealing
any cries for help. Finally, he found him, his comrade. Grabbing the outstretched hand he pulled,
soon to realise the futility of his actions: his comrade had no legs, having just lost them in the
blitzing. The blasting would cease and only the sulphurous tang and the raced pulse of his heartbeat
rhythmically chanting in his ears would be left behind.

“Too late to save! Who used a bow-to pull the arrows of desire? Who held the spear, only too
near - the hell is all a burning fire!”

The Reverend woke up dazed, his heart racing; he’d left the shrilling blasting behind, yet he
could swear the room ponged like the underworld.

“Your old dream?”

“Haven’t had it in a while - thought I got rid of it…” panted the Reverend. “Almost there,
Julian, almost there!”

Yes, he thought to himself. Just to unmask the correct persona.

***

Sergeant Wilcox opened the glass-panelled door of the Royal Oak; a smell of fresh coffee welcomed
him.

“Morning Sidney!” he called out. “I’ll have some of that too, please.”

With a grunt, a mug of steaming coffee slid towards him across the length of the timbery slab.
Appreciating the strength of the steaming liquid, Wilcox chose a table by the window and called out
to Travers. The heavily built man shifted his feet across the room and let himself fall on a nearby
chair. He groaned. His bloodshot eyes were marked by dark circles and his shirt looked slept in.

“I guess you want to hear where was I last night?”

“More like 4.45 pm,” specified Wilcox.

The man frowned, a vein pulsating on his temple. “Sorry, don’t keep track of my time like that,”
he snapped, his shaky hands battling to strike a match to life.
 “Two innocent people have been killed, Sidney.”

Travers’ heavy fist came crushing down, engulfing match and flame. His voice thundered.

“Not that Balan! A devil with an angel’s face, always sticking his tail in other people’s lives… I
hated his guts!”

Hearing distant chatter outside, Travers stood up, eyeing the back door towards his private
quarters.

“I was here the whole evening, attending the bar. Nancy was… not feeling well.” He watched
Wilcox. “I did not kill Balan, but I’m damn glad he’s dead!”

***

The Tweedy Ladies quieted as soon as they entered the unfamiliar space. Upon throwing curious
glances around they approached the Sergeant, now standing. The Reverend was accompanying
them; he had asked to be part of the investigation and with Detective Inspector Cradock suddenly
away on another mission, Sergeant Wilcox thanked him, considering it best to use all the help at
hand. More coffee was brought, almost spilled over.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Amy Murgatroyd. “Would you perhaps have some tea, young man?”

But Travers was already gone; with unsteady moves he disappeared through a back door.

“Shush, Amy,” whispered Hannah Hinchcliffe. “We’re not here to socialize.”

“Ladies, about last night…”

“Oh, that poor boy!” exclaimed Hinchcliffe clasping her hands together. “Such a tragedy! Sister
and brother gone at the chiming of a clock!”

Just as she spoke the church-bell chimed the hour. Murgatroyd jumped in her seat and grabbed
Hinchcliffe’s arm.

“… Your whereabouts after leaving Dower House?”

“Yes, we’d been there for dinner, darling Lotty!’ continued Hinchcliffe.

“Sprouts were burned,” confirmed the first.

“Mutton under-done,” completed the latter.

“And after?” asked Wilcox impatiently.

The women chorused.

 “We visited with the Swettenham’s.” Hinchcliffe smiled.

“We went to the Women Institute,” Murgatroyd nodded.

Sergeant’s eyebrows rose, the Reverend looked interested; the two ladies exchanged glances.

“We did visit with the Swettenham’s, but Sadie, Edmund’s mother, wanted to rush home first,
so we thought we’ll just as well water the garden at WI before meeting them later at Tweeddale
Cottage.”

“I thought Miss Bunner intended to-?” the Reverend intervened.

“Bunny!” exclaimed Amy.

“Yes, but as we left Dower House Bunny caught up with us and asked if we won’t mind as she
would much rather stay with poor Lotty …”

“We never mind,” agreed Amy.

“And a good opportunity to do some weeding it was! Weeds must always be kept under
control!” specified Hannah.

“Interesting,” uttered Wilcox. “And you’ve been together the whole time?”

The Ladies agreed in unison.

“What about your brother, Miss Hinchcliffe?”

Hinchcliffe’s cheeks turned pink. “Edward…” she uttered, unsure of how to proceed.

Wilcox leaned backwards in his chair. “Yes?”

“Teddy!” exclaimed the woman again, this time looking over the Sergeant’s shoulder.

Wilcox and Reverend Norris greeted the newcomer, both just as surprised by his sudden
materialisation.

Guessing their bewilderment, the giant smiled while casually taking a seat.

“I’ve stopped by Travers. Sidney and I go back a long time. We served together.” Pouring
himself a cup of coffee he looked Wilcox straight in the eyes.

“You want to know what I did after that lousy dinner last night?’

***
“I came here; I needed a drink and to see Sidney. However, I did not come up with Patrick; I did not
want to speak to him. I thought he was a scum. So I waited a few minutes while my sister made plans
with the others. When the church clock struck quarter to, I imagined Patrick would have already
reached the pub so I started up the hill myself.”

“Saw anything? Heard anything?” inquired the Sergeant; the Reverend kept silent watch.

As quiet as a church mouse, thought Edward.

“Besides my sister’s chatter? No, the wind was blowing away from us. But as I climbed the hill
I saw someone running through the thicket towards that big place near the road; how do they call
it? Women’s House?”

“Women’s Institute!” exclaimed Amy, one hand over her mouth.

“Could you describe this…person?”

“He had a large overcoat, brown hair.”

“He?” interrupted the Reverend.

“Listen, it looked like a man, but I can’t be 100% sure. Could have been a woman in a large
overcoat, only that the hair was short and straight, more like a man’s haircut – like the Reverend’s
here,” mocked Edward.

The Reverend smiled, musingly; Sergeant and Ladies automatically glanced towards his head.

“Was he tall, short?”

“Hard to tell, I would say medium height. When I reached the top of the hill and saw all the
commotion… I thought someone was taken ill and did not want to get involved; went all the way
around and finally reached the inn. Sidney was not there; I had one drink – and went for a walk.
Alone.”

“That’s all?” asked the Sergeant.

Edward Hinchcliffe confirmed without hesitation.

The Reverend coughed. “How do you feel about Julia’s death?”

Edward considered the question for a moment, all the same studying the cleric.

“Listen, we already parted on amicable terms. Yes, I did write her a letter, but only to inform
her that I will be visiting my sister in the same village where she herself found residence. It is sad
that she died; she was full of life. Can’t think why anybody would want her dead.”

***
“Oh!” exclaimed Murgatroyd excited.”Mrs Swettenham and Edmund!” Then whispered to Hannah:
“I wonder if she has your hymnal.”

The Reverend took his chance, smiling. One can’t find a good hymnal anymore. Hinchcliffe
agreed. She treasured hers, kept from the times she was part of the WI’s choir; but lately it had gone
missing. She’d leant it to Ruth, who said she would pass it on to Bunny, who also needed it.
Apparently Edmund Swettenham now had it next for his book.

Mrs Swettenham walked in first, thrilled at the thought of being interrogated by the police;
Edmund trailed behind. No, he had never seen that hymnal – imagine!

As soon as the Tweedy Ladies had left, the Sergeant fired his first question.

“We went straight home,” cut in Edmund, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Now, Edmund, the Sergeant asked me. Well, we wanted to visit with the Tweedy Ladies, such
darlings! Especially now that Hannah’s brother is here – he ought to enjoy some male comradeship
…Oh, Amy makes the most marvellous carrot cake!”

“Ma!” exclaimed Edmund.

“Oh, yes, sorry. You want facts, Sergeant. Well, I was feeling chilly so decided to first fetch my
cardigan from home. Edmund walked with me – how far was that?”

“All the way home…” sighed Edmund.

“No, you walked me to the corner of our street, said you’d have a smoke while keeping an eye
on me; but when I reached the front door you were nowhere to be seen.’

Edmund’s face went white.

“Do you know what time it was?” The Sergeant observed Edmund.

“Well, it took me a couple of minutes to reach the front door. When I came out the church bell
struck quarter to the hour… I returned to where I’d left Edmund and called out.” Looking accusingly
at her son she added, “And there you were, making your way back from the Royal Oak. Did you think
I wouldn’t notice?”

Sergeant Wilcox skillfully cut in.

“Did you talk to anyone in the pub?”

“No.” Edmund hesitated. “But Sidney saw me, he - he poured me a drink.”

Making a note of everything, Wilcox glanced towards the bar - empty.

He addressed Mrs Swettenham. “Afterwards?”

 “Afterwards we visited the Tweedy Ladies. Together. And came home; together. Is this all?”
she asked, suddenly irritated.

“The fight you had with Balan before dinner – what was it about?”

Edmund lit himself a cigarette.

“Now, Sergeant,” intervened Mrs Swettenham, “who said anything about a fight? It was a mere
disagreement, wasn’t it darling?”

“Ma, enough!” Staring into the cloud of smoke, Edmund Swettenham carried on. “I hated him.
I hated him like sin!”

He smiled, as if voicing his anger pleased him. Mrs Swettenham fidgeted in her chair,
uncomfortable.

“When we returned from the War, filled with hope and enthusiasm, we found no job prospects
whatsoever. At least not for ex-service men without qualifications… I started driving for a job, come
rain or shine…”

He paused, pulling in deeply from his cigarette.

“And writing…” suggested his mother in a small voice, gently touching his hand. It was
ice-cold; she recoiled.

“Writing…” Edmund went on thoughtfully. “I’m not good at it, but it sounds damn well, doesn’t
it? Writing a book! Who needs four years to write a chapter? Not Balan for sure! He would have
enough material in his rotten self to write in a fraction of that time and sell it all right! He was damn
good at making money! And at getting the women he wanted. Damn good!”

“Using unorthodox ways, my darling. He would blackmail anybody, anybody – why, even Ruth
Norris!”

The Sergeant glanced towards the Reverent who seemed lost in thought.

“Who cares how he made his dough! Always in money, always getting the girl…”

Edmund narrowed his eyes, following the curved line of his cigarette smoke slowly lifting,
painting the outline of a woman; a woman with a curved belly.

“I didn’t kill Balan. I just wanted to see - her. I was worried about her, but she wasn’t here. I
had one drink – and left right away. I’m glad he’s dead; but I didn’t kill him.”

“Came to see who?” Wilcox asked.

“Nancy…” whispered Edmund, exhaling one last lungful of smoke.

 “Mrs Travers?” inquired the Reverend softly.

“Edmund!’ cried his mother.

No answer came. Edmund Swettenham, stripped of his secret, killed his cigarette and left the
inn. As he opened the door, one of Wilcox’s men strode inside; he begun whispering.

“Sir, we’ve got the report on the murder weapon. It is a spear – from a fence; the fence
surrounding the Women Institute, sir. The vegetable garden to be precise. And – we’ve found this in
the bushes adjoining the murder place.” He showed the concealed evidence.

“A scarf?” the Sergeant studied the misshapen cloth.

“Why, that’s Edmund’s!” exclaimed Mrs Swettenham alarmed.

“Are you positive, Ma’am?”

“Miss Bunner knitted it for him last Christmas…” She watched the dark cloth in agony.

***

The Reverend took it upon himself to walk a much shaken Mrs Swettenham home. He would
be skip the Easterbrook’s interview and meet the Sergeant later at Dover House.

The Easterbrook’s were short and concise. For once the Sergeant appreciated the Colonel’s
brief manner of speaking. Of course, Mrs Easterbrook agreed to everything her husband said - so
the Sergeant was done quickly.

While standing in the doorway, his hand mechanically adjusting his hat, Wilcox gazed left
towards the pub, then right towards Mrs Swettenham’s house. Turning on his heels, he remarked.

“Mrs Arthurs, one has a good view of the village from here, isn’t that so?”

“A lot can be seen, if you only have time to sit and watch!” the woman answered with a twinkle
in her eye.

“Last night, when your patrons returned home, did you happen to glance upon the street? Did
you see anybody?”

“Saw Mrs Swettenham and that son of hers. He sprang as soon as she turned her back, off to
the watering hole, was he! Thought to myself: what a thirsty boy! Such a shame!”

“Have you seen him entering the tavern?”

“Nay, sir, had to take the tea tray to Ma’am upstairs.”

 ***

It was only when the Sergeant approached Dower House that Reverend Norris appeared in sight,
striding from the opposite direction.

“Thought of taking a quick look at that fence your man was talking about; been seeing it so often,
never thought of it as a possible murder weapon,” the Reverend explained. “Speaking of spears…”

But just then the black bow and wooden cross adorning the front door came into view. Two
candles were lit in the window adjoining the front entrance.

“Mitzi’s hand?” the Sergeant whispered.

“Most probably; All Saints Day. It is November 1st after all…”

Before any of them could even knock, the front door of Dower House opened. The two men
made way, but no-one came out. Instead, a hand showed up from behind the door and waved them
inside. A very quiet Mitzi, wearing black, stood there.

She whispered to the Reverend. “You pray for All Saints Day in church today, yes?”

“I will speak to Miss Blacklock on this matter; we have a service on Sunday.”

“No, you pray today in church and pray tomorrow here! Tomorrow - All Souls Day. I lit candles
in the window. The two poor departed souls find way in the dark with my candles. But you come and
pray here, Reverend, I begs you.”

“I’ll speak to Miss Blacklock and pray for their souls, nevertheless. Where is she now?”

Miss Blacklock was alone in the front room, looking frailer than ever, but determined.

“Reverend and the police are here, Ma’am. And I ask Reverend to pray for their souls; he say
he will pray.”

“I do not believe in these traditions,” whispered Charlotte Blacklock, “but it is important for
her. Mitzi believes that Julia’s and Patrick’s souls are trapped in Purgatory and that we must pray for
them, to help them reach the eternal sublime happiness.”

Returning to the window, she glanced upon the street.

“Tell me, Sergeant, what developments?”

Wilcox went briefly through the results of the morning’s interviews and findings.

“Edmund is a good man, Sergeant. The War took everything away from him – especially his
youth. He did the best he could with whatever he had left… The thought of him having killed
Patrick…” She shivered.
 The Sergeant intervened; he needed to question Miss Bunner and conduct a search in Patrick
Balan’s room – could he?

“Yes, but Reverend, hasn’t Bunny come to see you this morning about funeral arrangements?
She left for the Rectory early this morning. That’s why I’m watching the street; she should have been
back by now.”

The Reverend coughed. “I am afraid I must’ve missed her. I had a rather early appointment.”

A knock on the door and Mitzi announced a phone call for Sergeant Wilcox.

Upon his departure, Miss Blacklock whispered hurriedly, “Reverend, I have a confession to
make. I am afraid it is my fault entirely, the deaths of these two children. I should not have asked
them to come and stay with me… You see, Bunny, she has been so peculiar of late.”

“Oh?”

“Bunny is so active for her age – gardening at the WI, especially now that she has Ruth’s
companionship over there; sports and all that. I guess she lived a second youth with Julia and
Patrick around. She adored Patrick – she liked Julia too, just that… Well, she once said she thought
Julia was a bad influence on Patrick. How he would be a better person without her around. I think
she – she took a liking to Patrick. And this, this fell from her handkerchief yesterday after church!’
She handed the Reverend a crumpled piece of paper.

Reverend Norris glanced upon it; three names were written down, two crossed out. He frowned
and decided to pocket it quickly.

Miss Blacklock collapsed in a chair; she looked away, embarrassed, clasping her hands
nervously.

“I feel like such a bad Christian to say this – Bunny, Julia… But it wouldn’t explain Patrick’s
death, would it?”

“What about Patrick’s death?”

Startled, the Reverend and Miss Blacklock turned towards the door. In the midst of their
discussion they had forgotten that it was open. There, in the doorway, stood a very flushed Miss
Bunner wearing her best two piece blue suit.

“Reverend! Miss Blacklock!” called out the Sergeant from the floor above. “There is something
you need to see!”

But before another word could be said Mitzi burst inside, wild-eyed and panting. “I listen to
Sergeant speak in the phone! Sidney Travers confessed – his wife is now missing! Since last night!
She is gone! Nowhere to be found! And I am next, I know it! I leave, I leave now!”
 C H APTER SE VE N

An O bje ct is Foun d

By Anna Killick

Edmund Swettenham rubbed his hands together nervously, pacing up and down the vestry, beads of
sweat clinging to his forehead.

“It was blackmail,” he said.

The Reverend Norris leaned forward in his chair, his clear blue eyes squarely meeting
Edmund’s.

“That’s why I hated him so much. He was blackmailing me – and countless others no doubt.”

“Patrick,” said the Reverend.

“Yes, the villian! Took me for every penny I had, and more. I even stole some of mother’s silver
she had stored in the attic. His demands got more and more as time went on. Why, if he hadn’t have
died, I...”

Edmund stopped abruptly, looking anxious.

“I didn’t mean, well that is to say, I didn’t actually kill him. But I can’t say that I’m sorry he’s
dead either. I suppose that’s the wrong thing to say to a man of the cloth!”

Reverend Norris looked out the office window and out towards the town square. Colonel
Easterbrook appeared to be having an altercation with a man wearing a hat in an unusually bright
shade of green.

“I’m more interested in who you were protecting, Edmund.”

“Protecting?” he blustered. “What makes you think that I would be protecting anyone other
than myself?”

“Because, like you, I’ve been to war, I’ve been almost fatally wounded. I have been to the brink,
and then over the edge, but I have only ever seen a man, in the state you are in now, when he fears
for the lives of his friends. When he has seen those very same friends die right in front of his eyes and
he feels powerless to stop it.”

Edmund froze. “Then you know? If I tell you the story, will it stay between us? I know this isn’t
a confessional, Reverend, but I need help. I am so very, very afraid.”

***
Mrs Norris sat in the rectory, her puzzle pieces laying scattered over the dining room table. Each
time she looked at the painted picture of Big Ben and then to her puzzle, nothing seemed to match
up. The clock face seemed to be showing the wrong time. It’s not the same picture as on the box,
she thought to herself, feeling slightly annoyed. A thought came to her. Then as quickly as it came,
it disappeared. What was it now? Something about the time? Or was it, something about the clock
itself?

Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the front door.

Hurrying from the kitchen, she made her way into the hall and opened it.

The diminutive figure of Dora Bunner stood framed in the doorway, basket in hand.

“Why, Miss Bunner, I wasn’t expecting you. Come in.”

Miss Bunner gave a small smile and followed her hostess into the sitting room.

“Do sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“No, I shan’t be staying,” said Miss Bunner meekly, lowering herself into an armchair. “I hope
you don’t mind me calling in like this, but I wanted to see you. I know that your husband was at
Dower House when the call came through that Sidney Travers had confessed to the murders of
Julian and Patrick.”

“Yes, he was,” said Mrs Norris, sitting down across from her.

“Well, I hope you don’t think it impudent of me but I was wondering what he had to say about
it. I mean, I don’t mean to pry, I simply wanted to ask if he could perhaps help us understand the
circumstances better, and...”

“Well, I...” interjected Mrs Norris.

Dora continued, unabashed: “...and I believe that your husband had spoken with the police
and with Travers himself. I would never normally ask,” she hurried on, “but surely you can
understand that although not strictly family, Julia and Patrick were the closest thing I had to a niece
and nephew and I want to gain some insight as to why Sidney, of all people, would commit such
heinous acts...?”

Mrs Norris, feeling flustered, stopped her. “But Sidney didn’t do it!”

“What?” said Mrs Bunner, turning slightly pale.

“The police arrested him, took him in for questioning and that’s when he said that Nancy had
disappeared. It seems that when Nancy didn’t return home after a whole night, he went quite, er,
batty, you might call it. He started raving about Patrick getting what he deserved and that he was
proud to have ‘taken to him’ and of course everyone assumed it was a confession – maybe it was of
sorts.”
 “But I don’t see how that doesn’t make him guilty?” said Miss Bunner.

“Sidney couldn’t have done it. Police later confirmed that he was seen at the Royal Oaks at the
time of Patrick’s murder by seven or eight different people and although no one can swear he didn’t
kill Julia, he really had no motive to, and again was seen nowhere near Julia or in her direct line of
sight. He has been been released into the care of Dr Rotherham and is said to be suffering from some
sort of nervous breakdown.”

Miss Bunner stood up abruptly. “Well I won’t take up any more of your time, you have been
most helpful, thank you.”

Mrs Norris stood. “Please give my regards to Miss Blacklock. How is she?”

“She blames herself for it all, as we all do. Oh that reminds me, Lotty asked me to give you
these, a token of gratitude for all that you and the Reverend have done for us.”

She opened her hamper and thrust out a bunch of cut white lilies. Before Mrs Norris could
thank her Miss Bunner had hurried down the hall and exited the house.

Mrs Norris, feeling distinctly confused by Miss Bunner’s visit, went into the kitchen in search
of a vase. After opening and closing many cupboards in frustration, she remembered that she had
recently put some of her older things, including a rather care-worn decanter, into the garden shed to
make more room in the small house.

She followed the wayward paving stones to the small outbuilding. Opening its rickety door
she scanned the shelves in vain. Now where was it? Maybe Julian had moved things around again.
Bending down she moved out an old crate of gardening tools. Behind it, was a single shoebox.
Curious, she reached forward, grasped the box and opened the lid. She gave a sharp intake of breath.
Inside lay a small black revolver. Dropping it, she ran from the shed and into the house and locked
the doors behind her.

Julian knew something. He was at it again.

***

“I’ll tell you what – we’ll trade a secret for a secret shall we?”

Edmund looked up, questioningly.

“You, a reverend, are going to tell me a secret? Why?”

“Because confession is good for the soul, young man.”

Edmund’s angst appeared to abate for a second. “Go on then.”

“I snoop,” said the Reverend emphatically. “I’m not proud if it, but there now, it’s said.”
 Edmund looked perplexed. “What do you mean by snoop?”

“Well, I guess now that I’ve begun I might as well make a clean breast of it. When I know
someone is in trouble or that someone is causing someone else trouble, I go looking for answers.
Take Julia and Patrick, for instance, when I found out they had been murdered, I left my wife alone
with Miss Blacklock and searched their rooms.”

“You did what?” said Edmund, shocked.

“I opened their drawers, went rifling through their bedside tables and searched their
bookshelves.”

“But why?”

“I guess it’s my little attempt at playing God. I felt an overwhelming urge to get to the heart
of the matter, to leave no stone unturned until I found a clue to the identity of the murderer, or a
motive for the killings.”

Edmund’s mouth dropped open.

“Yes, I daresay, my boy. My wife doesn’t like it either. Interfering, she calls it. She knows when
I’ve been doing it too. And I do feel terrible that it hurts her so. But I simply feel that if God has given
me the gift of being at the right place at the right time and will allow me to bring a perpetrator to
justice, then I must! There was a time, many years ago now, when my amateur detective work saw
my best friend sentenced for murder. It’s a burden that I carry daily, but it is one I know I must carry.
And I know your burden, what you’re going to confess to me - Nancy is carrying your child and your
fear for her life. You are terrified that Sidney Travers will strike her, as he has so often before, and
you can not stand to see her suffer. But you are terrified of him also.”

Edmund stared at the reverend, dumbfounded.

“She found me here at the church, last night, scared and frightened. She told me everything.
And, as I am prone to do, I meddled. She is now safe and well with trusted friends about 20 miles
from here, and will be until the baby is born. You need not fear for her anymore. She asked me to
share this with you, if you came to me.”

“But you must tell me where she is! I need to know! I have a right to know!”

“That I can not tell you, my friend. She is scared that if you know anything, Travers will beat
it out of you. And you must go back to the tavern, and to Sergeant Wilcox and tell him you are sorry
you ran off and that you will stay until his questions have been answered satisfactorily.”

The reverend put his hand gently on Edmund’s shoulder.

“Go now, lad. And this time, tell them the truth...”

***
Colonel Easterbrook added a rose to the bed-tray prepared by Mrs Arthurs for his wife.

He knocked softly at her bedroom door and heard a faint ‘come’ from within.

The colonel entered the room and set the breakfast down gently beside the bed.

Mrs Easterbrook stirred from within layers of down.

“Archie, is that you?”

“Yes, my dear, I’ve brought you something to eat.”

Mrs Easterbrook blinked a few times and sat up, propping herself up against the pillows.

“Why thank you, dear,” she muttered weakly.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m afraid to say, not a whole lot better. It was a long night. I was in a lot of pain and I do feel
quite peaky.”

The colonel fell silent. He perched precariously on the side of her bed.

“Laura, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. The last thing I want to do is upset
you, but I feel I must.”

“What is it, Archie?” Mrs Easterbrook sat up straighter.

“Well, I don’t quite know how to ask this, but er, well, dammit, I’m just going to say it – you
were seen at the town square on the night of Julia’s murder.”

“Why Archie! But that’s impossible! You know that I was here in bed – you know I was very
unwell that day. Mrs Arthurs can vouch for me.”

“That’s the thing, Laura, she that when she tapped on your door, you didn’t answer and as-
sumed you were sleeping. So she can’t be sure you were there either.”

Mrs Easterbrook seemed to make an almost miraculous recovery, jumping up from the bed
and leaving the room. She paused at the door, indignant. “You think I did it, don’t you, Archie? You
really do. Well, if you must know? I think you did it.”

With that, she slammed the door, leaving Archie alone in the bedroom.

***

Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner found themselves oft of an evening alone in the drawing room
sharing a cup of tea and light-hearted conversation, Miss Bunner’s knitting needles going ninety to
the dozen. Tonight was different. As the fire roared and crackled in the hearth, the two sat in silence
nursing cold cups of tea.

Miss Blacklock spoke first. ‘Bunny, I hate to ask you this. You know I mean nothing by it, you
are my dearest friend. But the other day, you dropped a piece of paper. I couldn’t help but see that
there were three names on it and two of them had been crossed out. I saw the Reverend Norris’
name, Edmund’s name and then the last – and not crossed out, my name.”

Miss Bunner turned to face her friend. “Lotty, Letty, oh I am so sorry – after all these years I
still muddle your name and your sister’s, forgive me. Lotty, I had no idea you saw them. She turned
her gaze towards the fire. “I’ve, well, I feel rather embarrassed to say this, like I think I’m pompous
or above my station. You might as well know I’ve been doing a spot of detective work. The list you
saw was my list of suspects. The two I’d crossed out were the ones I had deduced were innocent of
the crimes.”

“But Bunny,” said Miss Blacklock, staring at Miss Bunner with confusion. “You mean to say
that you think I killed Patrick and Julia...”

Miss Bunner, extremely agitated and upset, broke into tears.

“I am so sorry Lotty, I am so very sorry.”

 C HAPTER E IGH T

Th e Suspe cts Asse mble

By Bryony Rheam

Reverend Norris sat in his study lost in reverie. There was a knock at the door and his wife entered
with a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Ginger nut,’ she said, putting the tray down on the table. ‘Your favourite.’

‘Yes, dear,’ he replied, absently, drumming his pencil on the pad in front of him.

‘You’re miles away, aren’t you?’ she said with a smile.

‘What? Sorry – oh, er yes. It’s this confounded mystery,’ he replied, taking his glasses off and
polishing them with a small piece of cambric.

‘Can I help at all?’ asked Ruth Norris, pouring a little milk into the teacup.

Reverend Norris shrugged and looked down at his notes.

‘Julia Balan was supposedly having an affair with a married man. Edward claims to be that
man – but Edward also claims that he had broken the relationship off. Therefore, who was Julia
going to meet on the evening of her death?’

‘Perhaps she was hoping to lure him back?’

‘Hmm, perhaps, but I don’t see her as that type of girl. You know, the type who begs a man to
stay with her. She was strong and independent.’

Mrs Norris shrugged. She had her own ideas about the sort of woman Julia Balan was. Men
were often quite unaware of the strategies many females used to get a husband.

‘Well, was she going to meet anyone?’

‘Miss Bunner certainly thinks so. She said she was dressed up to meet someone. Had some
special brooch on apparently and was all made up. She appeared to have an appointment because
her last words to Miss Bunner were “Six already. Must dash.” She must have been going somewhere.’

‘Yet by six thirty she was standing in the square alone. She obviously hadn’t met anyone at all.
Why the rush?’

‘She was expecting to meet someone and they didn’t turn up.’
 ‘Because they murdered her instead?’

Reverend Norris looked up sharply at his wife’s words.

‘I think you have to find the link,’ said Mrs Norris, moving towards the door. ‘You have to find
the link between the two murders. Now Patrick was also due to meet someone. Remember at the
lunch at Miss Blacklock’s? He mentioned being tied up on Thursday. I wonder what that was all
about?’

The Reverend nodded slowly and gave a wry smile. ‘You don’t want to join at me this do you?
We’d make a fine duo.’

‘Absolutely not!’ she smiled back. ‘Besides I have my new puzzle to start.’

‘Have you finished the other one so quickly? Big Ben, wasn’t it? You were only doing that
yesterday.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve had to shelve that one. I’m a bit annoyed really. It’s the one I bought at the W.I.
fete. Miss Bunner assured me all the pieces were there, but really it’s two different puzzles mixed up
in the same box. Both of them are of Big Ben and they’ve obviously been lumped together as one.
Not Miss Bunner’s fault really. She wasn’t to know. It’s a case of putting two and two together and
making three, I suppose.’

After his wife had gone, Reverend Norris sat thinking. He turned back a couple of pages in
his notebook and read slowly. ‘A murder is announced . . .’ Suddenly, he sat upright in his chair. ‘Of
course,’ he said with sudden vehemence. ‘Why didn’t I see that from the beginning?’

***

‘Why do you keep saying it’s your fault Julia and Patrick are dead?’

Reverend Norris was sitting with Miss Blacklock in the sitting room at Dower House. The
curtains were closed against the weak November sunlight and a small lamp in a corner provided the
strongest illumination of the room. Reverend Norris found it dark and oppressive. Miss Blacklock,
looking very small and gaunt in her favourite chair, kept pulling her cardigan around her as though
she couldn’t get warm.

‘It was my fault.’ Her voice was small and he strained to hear her. ‘Their mother, my sister, had
written to me to ask me to have them to stay for a while. Julia had been particularly troublesome.
There was a man. My sister had a strong suspicion he was married. Young girls, you know . . .’ Her
voice trailed off into silence as she fiddled with the beads of her necklace. ‘Anyway, my sister thought
the break would do them good.’

‘Their father, is he dead?’

‘Yes, unfortunately he is.’ She shifted slightly in her chair. ‘You will have heard of the case, I am
sure. It was all over the newspapers at the time.’
 Reverend Norris cocked his head expectantly. ‘Balan? Yes, I do remember something now.
During the War, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Reginald Balan worked in the Secret Service. He was top notch and destined to do very
well. Such a good man he was, too - and very handsome! I remember when Letty introduced us . . .’
she smiled and then looked away. ‘Such a long time ago now.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Reverend Norris, trying desperately to keep Miss Blacklock
focused.

‘He was betrayed,’ she said simply. ‘An operation had been planned. Very hush-hush, of course.
I really don’t know all the details, but information was discovered – it was planted on him - just as it
was about to take place and the whole thing had to be abandoned.’

‘What sort of information?’ the Reverend urged.

‘The sort that says a man is a traitor,’ Miss Blacklock said with sudden aggression.

She leant forward and the Reverend recoiled slightly. Her face seemed strangely contorted.

‘They claimed he was a spy, collecting information for the other side!’ She gave a dry, mirthless
laugh. ‘He went to jail, of course. He couldn’t prove his innocence, but he did try. Then one day he
was found dead in his cell. Hanged. The verdict was suicide, but Letty thought otherwise. He wasn’t
the type, you see. She was convinced he knew who it was.’ Miss Blacklock paused and seemed to be
looking at a spot in the distance. ‘Terrible business.’

She leant back and seemed to shrink into herself again. ‘None of us recovered. My sister worked
very hard to clear his name, but it was all closed doors. She didn’t get very far.’

There was a silence for a few moments. All that could be heard was the ticking of the clock on
the mantelpiece.

‘Miss Blacklock,’ said the Reverend, his voice cutting through the silence. ‘Do you know who
murdered Julia and Patrick?’

‘No! Of course I don’t! Don’t you think I’d say something if I knew?’

‘Do you know who she was going to meet on the evening of her murder?’

‘No, I don’t.’

She fiddled with her beads again and Reverend Norris had a strong feeling she was holding
something back.

‘Oh, all right! I’ll tell you. I was worried. They had come to stay with me to get Julia away from
this . . . this Mystery Man. Yet here it was all starting over again. I wrote her a note, I tried to warn
her. I couldn’t speak to her myself because I thought she’d find me all old and fuddy duddy. The
young, you know, Reverend, never suspect that we too might have felt the flames of love once.’
 She blushed and the Reverend nodded politely, wondering what entanglements Miss
Blacklock may have involved herself in in her bygone youth.

‘That night, the night she was murdered, I followed her. I thought I’d nip this in the bud once
and for all. I left before she did to give the impression I was going somewhere else and then I hid in
a little thicket at the end of the lane. It was evening, she wouldn’t have seen me. I followed her and
saw her go into the square. She sat on a bench and seemed to be waiting. Nobody came.’

‘Can you be sure? You went to see Mrs Easterbrook.’

‘Oh, er – yes. You seem to have got all my movements covered, Reverend.’ She laughed but he
could detect a note of annoyance in her voice.

‘At one point I thought she saw me. She seemed to be looking in my direction. I was right near
the Easterbrooks so I knocked on the door and asked to see Mrs Easterbrook. She wasn’t in and
when I turned round, a crowd had gathered to see what was going to happen. I blended in in the
dark.’

‘Where was Julia?’

Miss Blacklock pulled a face. ‘I had lost her. She wasn’t on the bench any more. She had
obviously given up waiting for Edward and joined in with the others, not knowing she was to become
the spectacle.’

‘You say Edward, Miss Blacklock, but can you be a hundred per cent sure it was him that Julia
was due to meet?’

‘Well, who else could it have been?’

‘You said Julia was a very secretive person. Why then would she reveal the first name of a man
she was having an affair with?’

Miss Blacklock shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s just what we were told.’

‘What about Patrick? Do you have any idea who he was to meet on Thursday? Or what he
meant when he referred to his work?’

Miss Blacklock shook her head. ‘I have no idea, although I could hazard a guess and say it
probably wasn’t very legal. Both of them were very secretive, Reverend. Just like their father, I
suppose. Now, if you have finished Reverend Norris, I’m rather tired. I think I’ll have a lie-down.’

The Reverend took his cue and stood up. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Blacklock. Thank you for
talking to me.’

Miss Blacklock managed a faint smile. ‘Not at all, Reverend. I just hope you manage to catch
whoever committed these terrible murders. Do you know, Bunny even thought I might have?’

‘Did she really?’ said the Reverend, his eyes narrowing.

 She gave a sudden high pitched laugh and blushed. The grandfather clock struck the hour just
then.

Reverend Norris looked at his watch. ‘That’s a bit fast,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes it is, isn’t it?’ agreed Miss Blacklock. ‘It’s been like this for about a week now. Do
you know it’s kept perfect time for years? This is the first time I’ve ever had a problem with it.
Everything’s going wrong these days!’

‘One other thing,’ Reverend Norris said, putting on his hat in the hall. ‘Whose idea was it that
Julia and Patrick come and stay with you?’

‘Why, my sister’s of course, Reverend. You’re not taking Bunny seriously are you? You don’t
think I’d invite them down here to murder them –’

‘Oh, no, no Miss Blacklock. I didn’t think that at all. I just like to have everything clear in my
mind.’

Miss Blacklock calmed a little. ‘The most awful thing is, Reverend, that my sister asked me to
take her children in because the village sounded like such a safe place. I suppose I wanted to make
her send them to me. I wrote weekly to her, telling her all the goings on. You know - Miss
Hinchcliffe’s ducks and Mrs Easterbrook falling out of the tree, and I suppose I made it sound so safe
and homely but – oh dear, it’s not is it?

Reverend Norris paused at the door and pursed his lips. ‘No, it’s not. Not at all.’

***

Later that afternoon, Miss Blacklock rose from her bed. She looked at her watch and checked the
time. She had given Mitzi the afternoon off and Bunny was at the W.I. committee meeting and
wouldn’t be home until a half past four.

The doorbell rang and she went downstairs to answer it.

‘Hello,’ she said, opening the door. ‘You’re on time. . . Oh, it’s you.’

***

At about half past three, Reverend Norris opened his door to a very distressed Mitzi. Her hair was all
over the place and tears streamed down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Mister Norris, you to come quickly, please. Please, please. Miss Blacklock – she dead,
Mister Norris.’ She pulled at his arm and half made to drag him out the door.

‘Mitzi, Mitzi, calm down!’ he insisted. ‘Just calm down. What on earth is this all about?’

‘Mister Norris, I come back from off afternoon and I find Miss Blacklock like so in the chair.’
She rolled her eyes back and lolled her head to one side. ‘I call doctor, but she dead. I know she dead!’

‘Where’s Miss Bunner? Where were you when all this happened?’

‘Miss Bunner, she not back yet. I come home early because I forget Mrs Beeton at home.’

‘Mrs Beeton?’

‘Yes, recipe book Miss Bunner give me. I like to show my friend in next village. Also not English
girl. Bakewell tart, Victoria sponge, Beef Wellington. But you must come quickly, Mister Reverend
Norris. Quickly!’

Reverend Norris grabbed his coat and hat and dashed off down the street. Not another one, he
kept thinking. Not Miss Blacklock.

***

At Dower House, Doctor Rotherham was just packing up his bag when Reverend Norris arrived.

‘She’s all right,’ he said calmly. ‘Strychnine, I’d say. Probably in her tea. Luckily, she didn’t
drink enough to kill her, but whoever did it definitely meant to finish her off. She’s asleep now. I’ll be
in to check up on her later.’

Reverend Norris saw the doctor to the door. ‘I need you to do something for me, Rotherham,’
he said. ‘It’s of absolute importance.’

***

The first people to ring the doorbell were Mrs Swettenham and Edmund.

‘Oh, Bunny!’ cried Mrs Swettenham, throwing her arms round Miss Bunner, who had come
home just before the doctor left. ‘I’m so sorry! I’ve just seen Doctor Rotherham and he told us what
happened. We had to come at once!’

She pushed past Miss Bunner into the house while Edmund stood outside, smoking a cigarette.

Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd were next.

‘We came as soon as we heard!’ they cried in unison.

‘Dr Rotherham just came round to deliver Hinchcliffe’s prescription and he told us all about it,’
said Miss Murgatroyd. ‘Hinchcliffe, dear. Are you all right? You look terribly cut up.’

‘It’s just terrible! Ghastly! Whatever is becoming of Chipping Cleghorn!’ gushed Miss
Hinchcliffe with tears in her eyes.
 The Easterbrooks were less vocal. Mrs Easterbrook was pale and hardly uttered a word.
Colonel Easterbrook was his usual angry self, but there was a restlessness about him that wasn’t
there before.

‘Don’t know why we’re here. Nothing to do with us,’ he grumbled, looking out of the window
of the sitting room.’

‘It’s polite, that’s all, to show one’s respect,’ she said, a rather strained smile on her face.
Turning to Mrs Swettenham, she said: ‘Dr Rotherham said it was a heart attack when he telephoned.’

‘Terrible!’ gushed Mrs Swettenham, turning to her with relish. ‘Well, it was the all the goings
on wasn’t it, that did it. I don’t think we’ve heard half of what Julia was getting up to.’

Edmund rolled his eyes and looked away from his mother in disgust.

‘Where’s Edward?’ Mrs Easterbrook asked Miss Hinchcliffe. ‘Is he coming?’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Miss Hinchcliffe managed a small smile. ‘He’s just packing his things.’

Mrs Easterbrook started in alarm. ‘So soon? He’s only just got here.’

‘The sooner the better, that’s what I say,’ growled Colonel Easterbrook. Under his breath he
added: ‘I’ll make sure of that!’

Miss Hinchcliffe just managed to catch his words. Her eyes widened in alarm and she darted a
quick look at Mrs Easterbrook who looked as though she were about to burst into tears.

At that point, there was another knock on the door and Edward appeared.

‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted everyone with a smile. His eyes met those of Colonel Easterbrook
who looked away in contempt.

‘Right,’ said Reverend Norris, walking into the room. ‘Anyone for tea?’

Mitzi followed him with a tray. She put out a plate of sandwiches and some tea cups and saucers.

The grandfather clock in the hall announced it was six o’clock.

‘I say, it’s a bit late for tea, isn’t it?’ said Edward, lighting a cigarette. Mrs Swettenham threw
him a look of admonishment.

‘Actually, it’s only a quarter to six,’ said Reverend Norris.

Edward looked at his watch. ‘Why, so it is. Still too late for tea though.’ He blew a large plume
of smoke into the air.
 ‘You see,’ said Reverend Norris, ignoring Edward’s comment, ‘one should never quite believe
what one is told, even if it is by a grandfather clock that has been working perfectly for years.’

‘What are you getting at, Norris?’ asked the Colonel grumpily.

Reverend Norris took a piece of newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.

‘A murder is announced,’ he started to read.

‘Not all that again,’ exclaimed the Colonel. ‘For Heaven’s sake, man!’

Reverend Norris ignored him, too. ‘A murder is announced,’ he repeated in a slightly louder
voice. ‘But not a murder is about to take place.’

Everyone was quiet now.

‘You mean . . .’ began Miss Bunner, her voice trailing off.

‘I mean,’ said Reverend Norris, his eyes travelling slowly round the room. ‘I mean that a murder
was going to be announced. We were to hear of a murder. A murder which had already happened.’

‘When?’ gasped Miss Murgatroyd. ‘Do you mean to say there was another murder?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Reverend Norris. ‘A while ago. A few years now, but someone had never
forgotten and never forgiven. That someone had brooded and deliberated and eventually they came
up with a plan for revenge.’

Everyone looked round the room at each other.

‘Who?’ said Mrs Easterbrook at last. ‘Which one of us are you referring to?’

‘Julia,’ announced Reverend Norris, his voice clear and loud in the stillness of the room. ‘Yes,
Julia was about to reveal a murderer and that was why she had to die.’
 C HAP TER NI NE

R ec onstruction of the Crime

By Patricia Furstenberg

“Julia? How absurd!” exclaimed Mrs Easterbrook scowling at her husband. “All she could think
about was money! Couldn’t care less about the rest of the world.”

“Her brother was none the better and it didn’t seem to bother you, my darling!” riposted the
Colonel under his breath.

“Here, here!” Swettenham approved nonchalantly. “He wasn’t speaking to you, Edmund!” his
mother nudged.

Sergeant Wilcox stole inside through the general commotion. He deposited his case by the
window giving the Reverend a nod. Then, eyeing the tray laden with tea and sandwiches helped
himself.

“Now, please, everyone!” the cleric’s baritone voice rose above the riot.

“Whose murder did she want to announce?” an enquiry materialised from the winged-back
armchair by the fireplace.

Acknowledging Miss Bunner with a nod, Norris continued, “Julia seemed like the wrong
victim at first. Who could have possibly wished her dead, when her brother was the one hated by half
of the village?” He paused, weighing the guilty looks he perceived. “This newspaper announcement
consists of two notices merged into one. A threat towards a murderer who acted long ago and was
to be exposed by Julia and a promise to offer us the offender against the new Jerusalem. Why would
Julia, a freethinker, mention the new Jerusalem in her advert? Because it wasn’t she who wrote the
published draft; someone else altered Julia’s original advert because he or she either planned on
killing Julia or acted under the instructions of Julia’s killer.”

The Sergeant stepped in. “There has been another notice published in the Gazette on Friday
which was penned in Julia’s own handwriting as the analysis proved. This one here has a different
calligraphy, proving it’s been written by someone else.”

The Reverend continued, “Why were we meant to believe Julia was executed for her sins and
not to be silenced? Was she genuinely interested in men and money or was there something else
she tried to overcome by focusing her attention on more... trivial aspects of her life? The answer lies
within her past.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Laura Easterbrook. “She wasn’t half the martyr you want us to believe
she was, Reverend!”

“You know nothing about her past, child.”

 “Her past, my word! That girl only lived for the present day! I want – and I want it now! She
couldn’t even consider the consequences of her actions! She got what she deserved, if you ask me!”

“Should I, Mrs Easterbrook? Should I ask what you were doing around the town square the
night Julia was shot?” Sergeant Wilcox approached. The woman seemed to be sinking into her seat.
She glanced up, silenced.

“In your statement you confessed to have been bedridden on Friday evening, too weak to even
answer Mrs Arthurs when she knocked on your bedroom door. And yet Fred, the bellboy, saw you
sneaking around the church.”

“I beg your pardon, Sergeant!” thundered the Colonel as he stood, his white moustache
trembling with fury. “Fred is nothing but a drunkard! He’s not to be trusted! Not to be trusted!”

“He was perfectly sober when we spoke to him, Colonel,” the Reverend intervened.

“The man’s a liar, I’m telling you, Norris! He’s a hateful, deceitful liar! He tried to blackmail me
with this story the other day, in broad daylight!”

“Oh?” the Reverend’s eyebrow arched in attendance. Easterbrook stared back, red in the face.
Norris reflected on the cooked lobster Ruth mentioned.

Laura Easterbrook reached for her husband’s hand. “Archie, please tell him.” She shook his
arm impatiently. “You got to tell someone, Archie, for Heaven’s sake!”

The Colonel stood still. Reverend Norris spoke calmly. “Is there anything you wish to say,
Colonel?”

Never had a room filled with people ever grown so quiet.

Laura Easterbrook stood up, determined. “I’ll tell, then! Fred hates us, he hates Archie. His
younger brother served in Archie’s battalion. He was shot – entirely his own fault; he didn’t obey
Archie’s orders. Fred made Archie his scapegoat. So you see, Fred would say anything to hurt us.”
She rested her hand on the Colonel’s shoulder, now collapsed in a heap on the settee.

“Yet, you were in the town square, Mrs Easterbrook. Someone else saw you there. Actually,
quite a few people; they just didn’t know who they were looking at.”

Laura Easterbrook glared defiantly.

“Mrs Easterbrook, you enjoy keeping up with the latest fashion?”

“I do. But I don’t see how...”

The Sergeant retrieved something from the case he brought along.

“What is that thing?” whispered Murgatroyd, squinting from her place.

 “A wig!” Hinchcliffe answered over her shoulder.

“But it’s got short hair!”

“It’s a flick wig, silly!”

“Does this belong to you, Mrs Easterbrook? It was found at the back of your cupboard.”

“You went through my things?”

“How dare you!” the Colonel boomed.

The Reverend silenced them with a gesture of his hand.

“Laura, I’m afraid you had a valid reason to kill Julia, as you suspected your husband of having
an affair with her. And this wig together with the Colonel’s over-sized army coat proved to be the
perfect disguise. While everybody ignored the short-haired chap lurking about, you sneaked behind
the Balans and pulled the trigger.”

“But that’s absurd!”

“It was the other advert in Friday’s Gazette that was the last straw for you, confirming their
relationship wasn’t over.” The Reverend retrieved the cut-out paper from his pocket. “All a mistake,
darling. Undying love. Friday as usual. – J...” he read out loud.

“Not in a million years. I was not. And Laura, she just couldn’t have! Laura would never kill a
human being; she is too kind and caring!” Lowering his eyes, the Colonel went on, “Julia was just
a lost child in search of support. There was nothing more to our... friendship. I never went to meet
her that Friday evening. Miss Blacklock insisted I leave her alone.” Collapsing beside his wife,
Easterbrook took her hands in his, caressing them. “I know you didn’t do it, darling.”

“Yet your friendly attitude towards Julia drove your wife into searching attention elsewhere.
Were the Belgian chocolates she received from Patrick what triggered your desire for revenge? For
you too, Colonel, had motives to kill Balan.” The Sergeant concluded.

Assessing the confused looks, Reverend Norris took over.

“The afternoon Patrick was shot, we all left Dower House fifteen minutes earlier, most of us
without knowing it because someone had moved the hands of this clock ahead of time. You could
have walked your wife home and left right away, taking the shortcut behind Royal Oak, pulled a
spear from the WI fence and, surprising Patrick up on the hill, killed him. In her statement Mrs
Arthurs said she took the tea up to Missus, not to both of you.”

“I never!”

The Reverend pressed on. “I think Fred might have shared some war memories with Patrick,
providing ammunition for a double blackmail.”
 The Colonel’s eyes flared in disbelief. “I didn’t kill him!”

Edmund Swettenham clapped his hands. “Bravo! Should we ask for an encore?”

“I wouldn’t speak up if I were you,” cut in Sergeant Wilcox. “Mr Swettenham, you had the
motive and the opportunity to execute Balan. As a matter of fact, you’re the only individual in this
room to have had an open dispute with him only minutes before his murder.”

“I had no reason to kill him.”

“Oh, really? Maybe you didn’t have one reason, since you had several. Although you both
returned from war at the same time, Patrick effortlessly managed to set himself up financially much
better than yourself. He was always at ease around women, wasn’t he? Ultimately, he blackmailed
you. You did admit he was squeezing every single silver out of you.”

Swettenham gave the Reverend an odd look.

The clergyman sighed. “I’ve done it for your own good; to save your back.”

“Save my back or my soul?” Swettenham laughed bitterly.

“Mrs Arthurs saw you darting towards the inn as soon as your mother turned her back,
heading for home. But you walked past the pub, forced a spear from the WI’s fence and jumped onto
Balan, killing him. In your haste to get back and re-join your mother, you didn’t realised your scarf
was caught in the thicket.”

Edmund Swettenham held his wrists together, his tone icy. “Then arrest me, Sergeant. What
took you so long?”

Sergeant Wilcox took a step forward.

Mrs Swettenham burst into tears. She grabbed her son’s hands in a maternal attempt to
protect him. “My boy! It wasn’t you, tell them it wasn’t you! You’re not a killer!”

“But I am, Ma. I killed during the War. We are all murderers.”

The Reverend pushed Edmund back onto his chair and turned towards the Tweedy Ladies, his
tone rough.

“I believe it was you, Miss Hinchcliffe, who helped Julia write the advert. You, a firm supporter
of the Women’s Institute and the new Jerusalem, the way it is depicted in the WI anthem. That’s why
you had a row with Farmer Jones who wanted to bring electric machines into Chipping Cleghorn,
hence his interdiction to walk your dog past his farm.”

Edward Hinchcliffe stood, whispering between his teeth, “Leave my sister out of it.”

The Reverend showed no reaction.

 “When I returned Wacky to you on Saturday morning, Miss Murgatroyd was wondering if you
took Bonnie for a walk the night before. And you did. That’s when you spotted Edmund walking
uneasy out of the inn and losing his scarf. You picked it up, but didn’t return it. I remember seeing
it partially covered by your coat, hanging on your kitchen door. Only later did I realise it couldn’t
have been Edward’s, since he only just arrived himself. Sunday afternoon when Patrick was killed
you were at the WI and one of the first to arrive at the murder scene. You hastily retrieved Edmund’s
scarf from home planting it in the thicket for the police to find. By removing Edmund from the
picture Farmer Jones would have no-one to help him bring in those machines and jeopardise the
hands-on work of the WI. Later you tried concealing being so close to the murder scene but Miss
Murgatroyd spoke up, providing us with the truth.”

Amy Murgatroyd asked in a small voice, “Is it true, Hannah? You put Edmund’s scarf by the
dead body so that he will get the blame?”

Hannah Hinchcliffe laughed. “I would do anything for the WI!”

“Even murder?” the Sergeant questioned.

There was silence.

The Reverend gave an uneasy nod, speaking his next words carefully. “The night Julia was
killed, Miss Hinchcliffe was out meeting someone, someone from Julia’s past. The same person
who suggested editing Julia’s advert. Have you brought him here to search for any proof that they
were once involved with each other? Miss Bunner heard the attic’s boards cracking. Was it then
you planted the friendly advice letter ‘repent and turn from your sin’, tying Julia’s death with
the newspaper advert, giving it a religious justification? Was it your idea or your accomplice’s? Who
planted the gun in Julia’s dresser, trying to alter her true intentions?”

“That’s absurd. You’re bluffing,” Edward Hinchcliffe thundered.

“Miss Hinchcliffe, why was Patrick Balan blackmailing you?” drilled the Sergeant.

“Because of Farmer Jones, like he said, that’s why,” the woman snapped, her voice tense.
“Patrick was blackmailing you long before the Jones incident. What was he holding against you?”

“It was me,” Edward Hinchcliffe cut in. A twinkle of satisfaction shone through the Reverend’s
eyes.

“Balan took advantage of my sister’s purist nature, threatening to reveal the true identity of
Julia’s lover – myself, a married man. This would have undermined Hannah’s position within the
WI hierarchy. My sister never approved of my extra-marital relationships. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

Looking the Sergeant straight in the eyes he continued, “Balan took his chance with my sister
and it worked.”

“Tell me,” the Reverend stepped forward, “what did you do on Saturday between 10am, when
we accidentally met outside the train station, and at noon, when you arrived at your sister’s house?”
 The answer came quick. “I went to see Sydney. Haven’t seen the old boy since the war was
over.”

“You served in St. Peter’s Port?”

“Yes.”

“Judging by the mermaid tattooed on Sydney’s forearm he was in the Royal Marines. And you,
Hinchcliffe?”

“I was a Naval Officer... Sydney was my adjutant.”

“A Naval Officer in the Secret Service?” probed the Sergeant.

“How the...?” Hinchcliffe stopped abruptly, his eyes now two slants the colour of steel.

“Well now, just tell us why you arrived in Chipping Cleghorn. Was it for Julia? Were you not
quite through with her? Or was it to retrieve your gun – that in a moment’s flare you offered her
for protection? Perhaps a little birdie told you,” the Reverend nodded towards Miss Hinchcliffe,
“that Julia was about to reveal something from her past and it worried you so that you came here
to kill her. Julia had developed quite a strong attachment towards you during the War at St. Peter’s
Port, isn’t that right? She was too old to be deported with the rest of the children during the Nazi
occupation so she stayed behind to face the war and everything it meant; lack of liberties, rations,
absence of everyday commodities, suspicion. Except that the young, dashing spy was there to offer
her little gifts in return for - what? Was it then that Julia met your sister?”

“Rubbish! My sister asked me here because she couldn’t handle Balan anymore.”

“So you decided to eliminate him.” Sergeant Wilcox completed.

Hinchcliffe laughed. “How idiotic is that? Either way you have me killing someone! I was with
my sister and several others when Balan was killed and only arrived in this forsaken village the day
after Julia was shot.”

“You arrived quietly the night before, Hinchcliffe. It was you who persuaded Hannah to lure
Julia into the town square through a very crafty plan. It was you whom Miss Hinchcliffe met the
evening and brought here to search for any war-related evidence that might incriminate you. That’s
when you planted the fake note written by your sister, asking Julia to repent from sin, when Julia
was not even thinking of committing adultery. She was just searching for the paternal affection and
advice she always longed for, ever since her father had been taken away from her. Your red hair
would seem dark in the night, a short haired chap. You had planned to shoot her, hidden in the
darkness.

“But when Julia was killed by someone else, you left the village and made your official entry the
following morning, away from any suspicions. Did you also meet Patrick on Saturday morning? Did
you share with him the name of Julia’s killer, knowing his speculative nature? Did he think he could
make an extra buck, perhaps blackmailing you too along the way? That’s why you arrived here on
Sunday: dinner and a quick kill. Afterwards, on your way to the inn, you could have caught up with
Balan. Perhaps your sister met you half way to hand you the spear. You killed Patrick, solving both
you and your sister’s problems.”

“That’s the most absurd story I ever heard! How do you explain the short haired chap lurking
about when Patrick was killed? The fenced garden of the WI is at the far back; my sister is not that
fit.”

“How would you know that unless you’ve been to the WI?” probed Wilcox. “Probably the day
you arrived, on your way from the train station. That’s when you retrieved the spear. Nothing better
that a white weapon, you thought, untraceable to its owner.”

Edward Hinchcliffe rolled his eyes while nonchalantly stepping towards the French doors. The
shadow of a policeman could be noticed behind the curtains.

“What a...” Hinchcliffe spun on his heels. “Are we detained here, Sergeant?”

“Not at all. A few of my men are here for Miss Blacklock’s safety.”

“Not Lottie!” gasped Miss Murgatroyd, a terrified stare on her face.

“Is she next?” Mrs Swettenham turned towards Edmund who was nodding in disbelief. “They
don’t even know who the killer is!”

“Is that so, Reverend? Sergeant? Don’t we know yet who committed these heinous murders?”
a voice rose from the wingback chair.

“Now, Miss Bunner, nobody is above suspicion here, not even yourself,” assessed Sergeant
Wilcox.

“And why would I have killed two of the dearest people in my life?”

“Not two, perhaps one,” explained the Reverend. “It was unlike Julia to mention the new
Jerusalem in her advert. But someone like you, Miss Bunner, versed in religious matters, could have
placed the advert intending to reveal Julia as a greedy, selfish sinner. The advert was crafty,
instructing everyone to wait, ‘wait for the chiming of the church clock’. And the closer to 6:30pm it
got, the more focused on the chiming itself everyone became. Nobody was paying attention to whom
was standing where exactly. You could have easily slipped behind the crowd and shot her. Then
disposed of the gun in my outhouse, where Ruth found it later. You disapproved of Julia’s life
choices, but none of us knew how much you really hated her.”

Miss Bunner slowly shook her head; she took off her glasses and tried to focus on the cleric.

“Reverend, my eyes can’t focus in the distance. They serve me well when I knit, but further
than that life is foggy for me. It was pitch dark when Julia was shot, I couldn’t have seen who exactly
I was aiming at and she was standing next to Patrick. Do you believe I would have risked his life?”

“You’ve spent a lot time in his company,” observed Norris.

“I enjoyed chatting to him. His mind worked differently from the minds of most men, you
know?” She gave a disdainful chuckle as she surveyed the room. “Patrick was a genius. Especially
when it came to making money...”

“He was a louse...” Edmund snapped.

“... And deciphering human nature,” Miss Bunner went on, raising an eyebrow at Swettenham.
“I liked to pick his brains, but as most men he had to be active when carrying a conversation. We
shared a passion for sports.” She eyed Edmund. “Patrick wasn’t the parlour type.”

“Pick his brains?” interrupted the Sergeant.

“Sergeant Wilcox, you can’t believe Patrick was making all that money out of blackmailing
people. He was a genius at investing. Too bad he wasn’t as good at keeping his earnings away from
Julia’s claws! Without her wasteful ways he would have been far better off. I used any financial
information Patrick shared to make my own investments. Perfectly legal! Thanks to Patrick I am
financially independent now, for the first time in my life.”

“Wait a minute, Miss Bunner,” the Reverend intervened, eyeing the Colonel. “Was it Patrick
who was giving Julia all that money?”

“More like she was pressing him: more and more each time! She had expensive tastes, that
girl. That’s why he was... relieved after her death. He wanted to travel. Julia was keeping him back.”

Laura Easterbrook’s apologetic eyes fell upon the Colonel.

Mrs Swettenham tugged at Edmund’s sleeve. “Ma, I’ll ask! Reverend has there been an at-
tempt on Miss Blacklock’s life?”

The Reverend’s tired eyes surveyed the little gathering. Miss Murgatroyd, hanging onto his
every word, Miss Hinchcliffe staring into the fireplace, Edmund Swettenham waiting nonchalantly
for an answer, his mother, hanging onto his arm. The Colonel, oblivious to the rest of the world,
smiling lovingly towards his young wife, nestled at his chest. Edward Hinchcliffe absentmindedly
smoked another cigarette, while Miss Bunner peered cautiously from behind the big armchair.

“Yes, it appears that someone tried to kill Miss Blacklock this afternoon between 2.30 and
3pm.”

“Standard time or mantelpiece time?” smiled Edward Hinchcliffe, while disposing of his
cigarette. “By the way, it is Miss Blacklock’s home. She could have easily changed the hands on the
clock. Isn’t she a suspect?”

The Reverend and Sergeant Wilcox exchanged glances.

“But this is preposterous!” exclaimed Mrs Swettenham.

“What has become of our village, Hannah?”

“Who in the world would want to kill Lottie, Murgatroyd? I’m asking you!”
 “How would I know?” she gasped. “You don’t suppose it’s one of us?”

“Are we to be your suspects all over again?” grinned Edward Hinchcliffe from across the room.

Miss Bunner threw him a scrutinizing look. The Colonel pulled his wife closer.

“I could think of a few people with valid reasons to get rid of her,” Hinchcliffe went on.

Edmund Swettenham counterattacked, “Speak for yourself!”

“As a matter of fact,” continued the Reverend in a forceful tone, “there is someone who can
shine some light over this puzzling mystery. Someone else was present during the troubled times
when Julia’s father was killed. For it was the murderer of her own father that Julia wanted to expose
that Friday evening.”

He nodded towards the Sergeant who knocked twice on the French doors before opening them.
All faces turned towards the empty doorframe apart from the Reverend’s, who surveyed everyone’s
reactions. For a moment the dining room alone reflected back into the parlour.Then someone
emerged and stopped onto the threshold, studying the small gathering.

“Lettie Balan!”exclaimed Miss Bunner, welcoming the newcomer.

 CHAP TER TEN

The Truth

By Roger Hoke

Having been ushered into the drawing room in silence, Mrs Balan took up her position in the winged
armchair that Miss Bunner had previously occupied. Nervously, she crumpled a small
pocket-handkerchief in her hands whilst she gazed searchingly at each face in turn. She looked
anxious but she held a determined expression.

“You will stay with me Dora won’t you?” she pleaded, clutching hold of Miss Bunner’s arm
firmly.

“Of course, Lettie dear,” said Miss Bunner.

Reverend Norris spoke sympathetically. “Thank you for coming Mrs Balan. I know this is
extremely difficult for you.”

“I must protest,” interrupted Colonel Easterbrook. “I see little point in this charade. You can
see the poor woman’s distraught.”

Mrs Balan maintained her determination. “It must be done. I need to know – for Julia and
Patrick’s sake…” Her face contorted as she used all her energy to fight back her tears.

“We understand,” said Mrs Swettenham softly. “Don’t we Edmund.”

“But you don’t!” said Mrs Balan sharply. “None of you do. You can’t. It’s not only Julia and
Patrick. I need to know what happened to my husband Reginald and why someone tried to poison
my sister this afternoon. I need to know why someone wants to destroy my family. What on earth
have we done to deserve this?”

Reverend Norris broke the momentary silence. “That’s what we are going to find out.”
Cautiously he asked, “Tell us about Reginald. What sort of man was he?”

Mrs Balan dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and composed herself. The look of
determination had resumed.

“Reg was a good man - the best. He was a kind man and a good father.”

“What did he do during the war?” asked Sergeant Wilcox.

“He was… in Intelligence,” she said hesitantly, “I don’t know what he did exactly - but
sometimes, I had the impression he was at Bletchley Park and at other times he was in London – the
War Office I suppose. He never did say.”
 “And what happened to him, Mrs Balan?” continued Wilcox.

Mrs Balan looked at the others- gauging their response before answering. “They said he was a
traitor.

“Oh my…” said Miss Murgatroyd.

Mrs Balan continued. “He hadn’t been convicted – just held on remand. They claimed to have
found some papers in his possession and a secret operation had to be aborted at the last minute.
They said it had cost one or two lives – it apparently would have been many more if the operation
had gone ahead. But they never gave any details.”

Reverend Norris observed the gathering – noting who flinched, who avoided eye contact, who
stared at who, before asking, “What happened when he was in prison?”

Mrs Balan hesitated for a few moments before answering. Dabbing her eyes with her crumpled
handkerchief and fighting back tears she said, “He died. They said he had hung himself but I didn’t
believe it then and I don’t believe it now. There was no way he would take his own life - neither
would he betray his country. Never! Anything they found on him had to have been planted by the
real traitor.”

Reverend Norris sat looking around the room at the emotional carnage. Miss Murgatroyd sat
timidly nibbling at a sandwich. Miss Hinchcliffe sat staring at her boots, Edward Hinchcliffe sat
smoking another cigarette. The ash was long and at any moment would tumble onto the carpet.
Mrs Balan, sat clutching her handkerchief while Miss Bunner, who had perched on the arm of Mrs
Balan’s chair looked vague. Mrs Swettenham sat next to Edmund like a proud mother hen picking
cotton threads from Edmunds jacket, much to his irritation, and Colonel and Mrs Easterbrook sat
together – the Colonel soothing Laura’s shoulders saying, “There, there, kitten. It’ll be alright.”

He viewed the emotional carnage and wished that Ruth were with him. The case had reached
stalemate. At least, he thought, Ruth would know what to say to comfort everyone. There was no
doubt, it was a mess with so many possibilities. Someone should have cracked by now and
confessed. It should have been simple – clues should fit together like a puzzle. His mind wandered
to the mixed up jigsaw puzzle of Big Ben that Ruth had bought from Miss Bunner. What was it that
Ruth had said? ‘Two different puzzles mixed up in the same box.’ He pulled a small wad of paper
from his pocket. It hadn’t made sense before but now…Two puzzles in the same box…Suddenly, he
noticed his hands were trembling, he felt his heart pounding…pieces were indeed falling into place.

Reverend Norris stood up and spoke forcefully. “Two puzzles in the same box. That is what
we have here. Two cases inextricably linked by time. Tell me Mrs Balan, who told Julia and Patrick
about their father’s arrest and betrayal?”

Mrs Balan’s voice faltered. “I - I did – not enough that would upset them - but they had a right
to know. I wanted them to know their father was a good man.”

Reverend Norris held up the wad of paper. “I found this wedged in the clock case in the hall. I
think Miss Blacklock will find the clock keeps perfect time from now on.”

“What is that?” Edward Hinchcliffe asked casually stubbing his cigarette out.
 “Evidence.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” growled Colonel Easterbrook. His face grew even redder as he added
loudly, “Absolute Poppycock! It’s just a load of old paper. Admit it. You’ve nothing to go on. What
you need to establish is who was the last person to see Miss Blacklock. That’ll be your man.” He
glared accusingly at Edward Hinchcliffe.

Edward Hinchcliffe stood up and looked around. “So who was the last person to see Miss
Blacklock?”

Miss Murgatroyd cleared her throat. “I think it was me.”

“Murgatroyd!” exclaimed Miss Hinchcliffe.

“Oh but I didn’t poison her. Well I don’t think so. I couldn’t have.”

Sergeant Wilcox moved towards Miss Murgatroyd as if ready to make an arrest.

Reverend Norris thought back to his days of the war. During his time as army chaplain he had
failed to act to protect a comrade and this was, he felt, to his shame. Sometimes he had great
difficulty in coming to terms with this perceived failing but he was determined he would not fail this
time.

“Of course you didn’t,” Reverend Norris replied. “As you are all aware, Ruth and I have only
been in Chipping Cleghorn for a little over three months. I would have said that I knew you all and
that we are all friends but it’s amazing how little we really know about each other. For example, I
didn’t know that you Mrs Easterbrook, suspected your husband of having an affair. I also was
unaware of the relationship between Edmund and Mrs Travers. I also wasn’t aware that Miss
Bunner’s father was a prison Governor.”

Miss Bunner looked up. “Oh how extraordinary that you should know that.”

“I also didn’t know that you had a brother.”

“Oh umm yes,” said Miss Bunner startled. A glazed expression came over her. “Of course, he
died in action during the war. So sad. I do miss him.”

“Sergeant ‘Bunny’ Bunner.”

Miss Bunner was clearly stunned. “But… but, how?”

Reverend Norris looked directly at Sergeant Wilcox and gave a single nod of his head.

“Miss Bunner,” began Wilcox, “I’m arresting you of suspicion of the murder of Julia and
Patrick Balan. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down in
evidence and used against you.”
 ***

Later that evening in the drawing room, Miss Blacklock, wrapped in a woollen shawl, sat gazing
into the fire. She was surrounded by Reverend and Mrs Norris, Sergeant Wilcox, Colonel and Mrs
Easterbook, Mrs Swettenham and Edmund, Dr Rotherham and Misses Murgatroyd and Hinchcliffe
and Edward.

“I still can’t believe it,” Miss Blacklock said shaking her head in disbelief. “Poor Bunny. What
on earth possessed her I shall never know.”

“Well, we’ve got a full confession from her,” said Wilcox. “But what I don’t understand is how
you worked it out.”

“Well!” began Reverend Norris. “It was difficult – so many twists and turns. Forgive me for
saying so, but I thought originally it was down to Colonel and Mrs Easterbrook. I thought Mrs
Easterbrook had shot Julia because she thought they were having an affair and the Colonel speared
Patrick because he feared he was having an affair with Laura.

Colonel Easterbrook interrupted with a growl, “I sincerely hope you’ll quash any rumours on
that front.”

Reverend Norris continued, “But for both to commit murder over that seemed so extreme so
it had to be something else. Correct me if I wrong Colonel, but your relationship with Julia was one
of advice and guidance. She came to you as a retired Colonel to ask for help in clearing her father’s
name. Am I right?”

Colonel Easterbrook nodded. “Well, I knew some chaps that might have been able to help.”

“And Laura, because their conversation was strictly confidential, you assumed it was because
they were having an affair. You feigned your sprained ankle and fractured collar bone so that you
would be ‘confined’ to bed. Unbeknown to the Colonel - and Mrs Arthurs perhaps, - you used this as
an opportunity to spy on the Colonel to ‘catch him out’ using a short haired wig and an old overcoat
as your disguise.”

Mrs Easterbrook hung her head down and softly murmured, “Yes. Sorry Archie. I feel so
ashamed.”

“I also think that when these ‘chaps’ were made aware, they called in Edward to try to persuade
Julia to let the matter drop.”

“Spot on, Norris,” said Edward. “The Minister at the War Office in those days is now a very
senior member of the Government. Scandal could easily have toppled a few important heads or even
the Government itself. I was just asked to observe and report back. I had approached Julia to let
the matter go but she was determined to see it through. We concocted the romantic affair to divert
attention away from the real issue.”

Reverend Norris produced the wad of paper from his jacket pocket. “I think you’d better have
these Wilcox. Julia made notes and hid them in the clock case in the hall. It was you, Miss Blacklock,
who put me onto that when you complained it was losing time. I think she possibly suspected a
connection with Miss Bunner and couldn’t risk keeping them in their room in case Miss Bunner
found them.” He turned to Edward. “Or that you Edward might just find and destroy them.

“Initially, Miss Bunner welcomed Julia and Patrick until they told her about their father. What
they couldn’t have known was that one of the lives lost as a result was Miss Bunner’s brother. She
couldn’t bear to see them happy and reaping the rewards of life whilst her brother had perished as
a result of their father. When she thought Julia was having an affair with a married man, that was
the end.”

“I’m rather afraid that may have been my fault,” said Edward.

“You weren’t to know,” said Miss Blacklock. “Who could?”

“What about Patrick – how did she… she…” asked Mrs Swettenham.

“Miss Blacklock had gone to her room during lunch and she used a feeble excuse of watering
the WI’s garden.

“Why did she do that?” said Miss Hinchcliffe.

“Because,” said Reverend Norris, “She could get everyone going in the same direction at the
same time. Then, changing her mind, saying she ought to stay with Miss Blacklock, she was able to
wait for Patrick. I do think she liked Patrick and he was useful to her but once her was financially
independent…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“What I don’t understand is Patrick’s dying word of ‘him’,” asked Ruth.

“Ah well that, I think, was directed to Edward – to tell him. I’m sure Patrick knew who you
were.”

“Yes, Reverend. I had warned him to be careful,” said Edward blowing a ring of smoke into the
air but…” He shrugged his shoulders.

Miss Hinchcliffe added, “What about Murgatroyd? She could have been poisoned as well!”

“That’s right. Oh my…” added Amy.

“What about Edmunds Scarf?” interrupted Mrs Swettenham.

Reverend Norris raised a hand to stop the flow of questions. “She prepared the tea things
before she left. Remember, it was Mitzi’s day off. She invited Amy to tea knowing she wouldn’t be
late and it could appear as though she was also a target to throw us off the scent. As for the hymnal
and Edmund’s scarf…”

“And the gun in the garden shed,” added Ruth.

“And the gun,” repeated Reverend Norris, “were all planted by Miss Bunner. She would call as
she did at the vicarage or Miss Hinchcliffe’s on some lame excuse and while you were busy making
tea or something, she would leave an incriminating object.”

Sergeant Wilcox said, “But I’m still not certain how you worked it all out.”

Reverend Norris smiled and took Ruth’s hand. “I didn’t know who until the last minute. It
was all down to Ruth and her jigsaw puzzle. Two different puzzles in one box – putting two and two
together to make three. There were three murders.”

“I don’t follow,” said Rotherham. “Are you suggesting the Reginald Balan was murdered?”

“Yes. I think he was. You see, Dora Bunner’s father was the Governor of the prison. He had
just lost his son through this and there in the cells was the very man who was responsible. I think he
somehow managed to take the law into his own hands. But they’re gone too so there is no proof. But
Edward, there is real doubt. Perhaps when you go back to London you could have a word and see if
under the circumstances Reginald Balan couldn’t be pardoned. It would mean a lot to his widow.”

Edward Hinchcliffe smiled - a warm obliging smile. “I’m sure that under the circumstances,
something very amicable could be arranged. You have my word.”

 
AC K N O W L E DGE MEN TS

Agatha Christie Limited and the Agatha Christie Team would like to thank everyone who
participated in the Write Your Own Christie Competition 2013-2014. Whether you wrote
entries, won chapters, or simply read along and commented in the forum – thank you for your
contribution to the competition.

We would also like to thank our judges, David Brawn at HarperCollins UK, and Mathew
Prichard, Agatha Christie’s grandson, for their time and dedication.

Special thanks to our Agatha Christie intern for putting together the cover image for the final story.