Chapter 1

They say ... actually I’m not too sure who ‘they’ are, but anyway, ‘they’ say, that it is better to be born lucky than rich. I suppose there might be something in that, because generally I’ve survived life’s ups and downs, and I certainly didn’t start out rich. And indeed I’m still not. But I do have a good mistress, who looks after me, and is generally kind. This is evidenced by the fact that she had provided me with the wherewithal to travel from Wyldhampton, the village we had recently moved to, to the town of Blackford on her business. This by way of the carriers cart to the main road at Pashmoor, an uncomforable three miles, and then by the stage coach that would stop there on its way to Blackford. Little more comfortable. She could, as many would, have instructed me to walk. No one would regard ten miles as excessive.

The only problem I had at the moment, was that I had no idea why we had recently moved to the village of Wyldhampton, where my mistress had taken a house called ‘The Cuckoos’. I’m really a city boy at heart. Living somewhere where you only have to walk for ten minutes to leave the last house behind and find fields doesn’t really suit me. It doesn’t smell right either. My last occupation had been as the ‘minder’ in an establishment which was, shall we say, devoted to providing gentlemen with company and entertainment. A good class establishment of course. But that’s an entirely different story.

Wyldhampton lies at the junction of the river Wyld, a watercourse of small consequence draining an area of chalk downland, and the Gusset stream, which is of even less consequence, but doing a similar job. There is, of course, an ancient church with its vicarage, a number of shops covering the normal range of goods that the local people would require, and a fair number of houses. It has a small weekly market, and acts as a centre for several smaller communities in the area. There are two doctors to cater for the number of people in the area. Oh yes, and two inns too. If you want anything more, then you have to travel to Blackford, which is, as I have said, where I was bound.

Still, on a fine morning the ride along the valley between rounded chalk hills dotted with sheep, with the Gusset stream meandering, never far from us, was very pleasant. There was an older lady also riding on the cart, but beyond a greeting neither of us had spoken. We entered the village of Gusset St Cuthberga, a tiny community that lies between Wyldhampton and the main road. As we passed the church, I could see a funeral taking place, and it was at this point that my fellow traveller spoke.

“Natural causes,” she said, nodding her head sagely.

“I beg your pardon?” I replied. “What are ‘natural causes’?”

My companion, Mistress Pemberton, spinster of Wyldhampton, smiled.

“Natural causes,” she said, “are when you time is up, for whatever reason that the good lord decides, and you go to meet him.”

I pondered this for a moment.

“And unnatural causes would be ... witch craft, spells, sticking pins in effigies, that sort of thing?”

“Oh no,” she replied. “nothing like that! I don’t believe such a thing takes place. Certainly not here. No, what I mean is murder. That’s an unnatural cause. People going to meet their maker before their time.”

“Murder?” I questioned. “Surely not here. I know such things happen in the big cities, London is full of people who would do that. And at the drop of a hat.” And, I thought with a shudder, make others take the blame.

“Oh yes! Here in Wyldhampton. That is why I am going to Blackford, to see the Coroner. I shall tell him all about it. You see, I’ve learnt to recognise the look on the murderers face. I see that, and then someone dies. It happened with Arnie Smith, though I didn’t realise it at the time. Then there was Emily Grubb, and Roger Green. Mind you Arnie Smith was a nasty piece of work. He was landlord of the Fox and Goose, usually drunk, and I think his wife and daughter are better off without him. Emily wasn’t much of a maid, lazy, and they say no better than she should be, although I couldn’t say. And then there was Roger Green, a quite horrid little boy. Well, not so little, and a bully too. But Doctor Hornbeam received that look the other day, and he’s a good man, a really good man, and I’ve got to stop it. I’d have gone yesterday, but Fluffy wasn’t well, he has an ear infection, rather unpleasant. Luckily he’s better today, so I have left him.”

The last thing, I thought, that the Coroner would do, would be to believe the old daisy’s story of murder. Best he would do would be to listen kindly, and say he’d look into it, but wouldn’t. But most likely he’d tell her not to be so daft, and to go home.

“Fluffy?” Why I asked I’ve no idea, just my natural curiosity I suppose.

“Fluffy is a cat,” she said. “I was looking after him. He’s big and ginger and ... fluffy. Truthfully, not very good tempered either.”

“What happened to these people?” I asked, more to be honest, to pass the time, than of real interest.

“Arnie fell in the Wyld one night,” she began. “Drunk, of course, and the footbridge only has a handrail on one side. Emily drank poison that she mistook for cough syrup, and Roger had climbed the church tower, something he was expressly forbidden to do because some of the stonework isn’t safe, and he fell. They found him on the ground at the foot of the tower. One of the gargoyles had come off and broken his skull.”

“There is a local constable, isn’t there?” I asked.

“A fat fool of a man, drunk more often than not. Draws his stipend under false pretences if you were to ask my opinion,” she averred with some feeling.

“So why don’t you confront the murderer?” I asked.

“And be the next victim? I don’t think that would be a very good idea. Do you?”

I shook my head. We were silent until we reached the main road at Pashmoor.

When the coach arrived, Mistress Pemberton took a seat inside whilst I climbed up on the top. It was cheaper, and I much preferred it. It would leave some change for a mug of ale too. I didn’t see the old lady again. When we reached Blackford I slipped off, and went about my business.