OUT NOW: Afternoon of the Unexpected!

Mabel and Constance run the village tea shop and they're hiding a secret or two. One sunny afternoon, the villagers are shocked when a most unexpected occurrence occurs.

URBAN FANTASY COSY CRIME OR WHEREVER IT TAKES US!

This summer, twenty seven of the Harvey Duckman and Robinson House Writers signed up for the second Round Robin Challenge to take it in turns to write an instalment each, and with just the overall brief (as above), the last three sentences from the previous writer and 48-hours in which to submit their part, our awesome writers came up with this fantastic story.

Many thanks to everyone who contributed!

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Or read the whole story right here!

AFTERNOON OF THE UNEXPECTED

AN URBAN FANTASY COSY CRIME STORY

Chapter 1 by Reino Tarihmen

“More tea, Constance?” Mabel enquired with an endearing smile which would lead the unknowing to invariably label her a ‘sweet old lady’ and those familiar with a trope of certain horror films, running for the hills.

“Why thank you, Mabel, I believe I will. Will you take another toasted teacake? Or a scone perhaps? They’re absolutely to die for.”

Passing the refilled teacup, hand crafted by none other than Josiah Spode himself, Mabel sighed. “Well, my dear, it does rather appear that we have another case on our hands, and this one even more perplexing than the last. Unusually, I am somewhat adrift as to where to begin with this one.”

“Now, Mabel, we’ll be having none of that,” insisted Constance sternly, wagging her finger to indicate disapproval. “Whilst I shall concede this case does at first appear perplexing, I do not believe it is beyond our intellect to deduce a solution.”

As she spoke, sirens could be heard drawing closer.

“Sounds like the Inspector is on her way,” Mabel noted, standing and making her way to the door of the ancient vicarage, deftly avoiding the trip hazard presented by the corpse of Reverend Hayes, resplendent with ceremonial Masonic sword protruding from between his shoulder blades.

From outside the vicarage, the distinct crunch of vehicles skidding to a halt on gravel could be heard, followed by a megaphone enhanced announcement blaring out, “Armed police… the building is surrounded… all demonic entities are to vacate the building immediately with their arms, tentacles or other appendages performing a similar function, raised.”

Mabel turned to Constance and said, “Oh dear, I have a bad feeling about this one.”

Chapter 2 by Mary F Carr

The ladies watched as the police fanned out, brandishing guns, crossbows and arcane machinery. Nothing came out of the vicarage except a small jack russell terrier with the guilty expression typical of its breed.

“Covering all the bases, I see,” mouthed Constance. “Is this really necessary, Inspector Hathersage? For a stabbing?”

The Inspector narrowed her eyes. “The Reverend Hayes was on a watchlist after the Harvest Festival incident.”

Mabel snorted. “Lot of fuss about nothing.”

Hathersage consulted her notebook. “He opened a portal into the fungus dimension.”

“Total accident! Mrs Blenkinsop got careless with her flower arrangements and marked out a pattern. Bit of stray Latin and…”

“Poof!” Constance finished for her.

They fixed the policewoman with wide innocent eyes.

“And you two are here because?”

“Oh, we found the body, dear.”

“Figures.”

“How is your mother, dear?”

Hathersage registered the implied threat and clicked her fingers for the Scene of Crime Officers to begin their job.

“I expect you’d like to interview us,” prompted Constance. “Over a nice cup of tea.”

“And some scones. We have that jam you like.”

Hathersage hesitated. She needed to reassert her authority but she was also hungry and they knew her mother. “My sergeant will take some notes.”

“Of course. And perhaps the other ladies and gentlemen would like some tea sending out?”

Those of the police who were familiar with the tea shop waited hopefully.

“Yes, why not?” Hathersage sighed.

Back at the tea shop, Constance gave their statement with suitable corrections, obfuscations and complications by Mabel who was making up several large trays to go.

Hathersage hoped that the sergeant’s notes were good enough to pry some sense out of it all afterwards.

“And you say there are two Masonic lodges in the village?”

“Yes, there was a split in 1983. Nasty business.” Constance pursed her lips.

“Yes, very nasty,” her friend agreed.

Inspector Hathersage thought about Reverend Hayes’ body skewered by a Masonic sword. She opened her mouth to ask what exactly had caused a split in the village masonic lodge, when Constance took the empty tea cup out of her hand and swirled the leaves.

“Oh goodness me – that’s not good at all!”

Chapter 3 by David Dumouriez

“Whatever have you seen, dear?” Mabel enquired.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, the Inspector asked for a cup of Lady Grey and this is very definitely Earl Grey.”

“Not much gets past you, Constance…”

“Mabel, you must be more careful. It’s little details such as this upon which livelihoods depend!”

“It really doesn’t matter,” Inspector Hathersage cut in. “It was a fine brew in any case.”

“It’s good of you to say so, Inspector, but did you not find the citrus content rather underwhelming?”

“I can’t say I did.” The Inspector attempted to reset her face into a more serious mode. “But honestly, I think we might be better off getting back to business…”

“Business?” Mabel asked in a voice that mixed Ebenezer Scrooge with Lady Bracknell.

“The business of murder.”

“Ah, that.”

“Yes, that.”

“Well, it was certainly a rum event,” Constance reflected.

“I think ‘rum’ hardly begins to describe it,” the Inspector responded, a tad impatiently.

Mabel raised a thin eyebrow. “Of course, it’s not every day that a person of the cloth is run through with a ceremonial sword. Especially not here.”

“You say that, Mabel dear, but surely you remember that actress – oh, what was her name now? Jemima? Geraldine?”

“Josephine Pollard.”

“Josephine Pollard. That was it!”

“What happened to her?” the Inspector asked, almost despite herself.

“She was bludgeoned to death with a rolling pin, poor girl,” Constance said. “Pity really. She was ever such a nice looking young thing. Well, before the incident at least.”

“Must have been a long time ago. Never heard anything about that.”

“Oh yes, Inspector. Long before your time.”

“Pretty much when we first came to the village, wasn’t it, Constance dear?”

“It was. Almost to the day, in fact.”

“She was in that thing with Roger Moore…”

“It was said that the two of them were having a fling.”

“I loved Roger Moore!” Mabel exclaimed.

“I loved him, too!” Constance agreed.

The Inspector remained neutral.

“They never did find the killers,” Mabel muttered.

“Or killer,” Constance added.

Though she tried to appear otherwise, the Inspector couldn’t help feeling uneasy.

“How long have you been here, dear?”

“This is my second year.”

Constance smiled benignly. “Where were you before that? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“Birmingham.”

“Ah, Birmingham…” Mabel intoned.

Constance held her smile. “I suppose you find village life quite dull after all the bustle of the city.”

“I thought I would,” Hathersage said. “But I’m beginning not to.”

“Well really, if there’s anything Mabel and I can do to assist you with your enquiries – anything at all – please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

“Oh yes, we certainly wouldn’t want the good name of the village to be besmirched by any more of this infernal beastliness!”

Inspector Hathersage looked first at Constance, then at Mabel; something told her that, when it came to the avoidance of infernal beastliness, it might already be too late.

Chapter 4 by Adam Stone

In fact, she was about to meet with some actual beasts.

Inspector Hathersage stepped out into the lane and as she walked in the direction of the old stone church, the Inspector made a list in her head of everything that was bothering her about this cosy little village and its supposed good name.

She had been here once before, maybe six years back, when a Local Notable had gone medium-bonkers. He’d stripped to the raw, climbed the bell tower of the church, and stood there in the glow of a golden sunset, waving his arms and cursing the Tories, the Americans, someone named Annette, and also the BBC. She’d arrived on scene just in time to see him tumble from the tower into the safety net the fire brigade had deployed (possibly to protect the shrubbery).

So much for the ‘good name’ of the village. She sighed, tripped over a quaintly misaligned cobble, and fell against a door – which promptly opened, sending her tumbling into what appeared to be a miniature zoo.

“Dear, dear, dear!” cried the fusty old man who rushed to her aid, taking her hand to steady her as she staggered through the portal. She snatched her hand away and looked around the cages: There were mice and rats, lizards and birds, something brown-and-furry that had curled itself into a ball. The old man stepped back and half-smiled. “You must be the Inspector.”

“Word gets around,” she mumbled crossly. “Do you know anything about what happened here, Mr…?”

“Pimble. Rossiter Pimble.”

(Of course, she thought. It’s that kind of place, isn’t it?) She declined his offer of tea and repeated the question.

“I’m afraid I don’t. I sleep above the shop and I never heard a thing. When I learned what had happened, I of course took an inventory, and all the residents were accounted for.”

“The residents?”

The old man swept a hand around the cramped and, as she now realised, somewhat malodorous space.

“A pet store?” she said, bending to peer at a very grey and dusty-looking lizard. It opened one lazy eye and glared at her. She stuck out her tongue.

“I prefer to think of them as companions, and none of them could have been responsible,” Rossiter Pimble sniffed, adding with a touch of formality, “They are harmless creatures, practically just decorative, really.”

That was just the problem, Inspector Hathersage reflected: everything in this village was harmless and decorative.

Constance and Mabel, the children bicycling on the green, the obligatory rose bushes, the tidy thatched roofs; it was all like a postcard, positively reeking of innocence – yet there’d been a crime here, and one way or another, she needed to unravel the dark mystery of the place.

Stepping back into the lane, she reflected that she hadn’t made up her mind about Mabel and Constance (suspiciously eager to be helpful?), and neither was she convinced that all those creatures in Rossiter Pimble’s shop were as harmless as they appeared.

Chapter 5 by Nimue Brown

“It’s a pity really,” said Constance, as she cracked on with dishes. “She seemed like a rather nice sort of police person.”

Mabel gave her a kindly pat on the back. “Best not to think about it. Anyway, she didn’t strike me as being especially virginal. We can get young Rodger to make a pass at her, and at her age she really should be in no danger at all.”

“They don’t make virgins like they used to,” Constance said, nostalgically.

“I’d have enjoyed a bit of a bonfire, to be honest,” Mable said, as she started doing something a bit arcane with the jam.

“I know it isn’t proper or traditional, Mabel, but it strikes me that we could just go ahead and burn a wicker man for fun. We don’t strictly speaking need a human sacrifice, crops will probably do fine, the goats are all looking good. We could just go ahead, people would enjoy it.”

Mabel dropped a small lizard into the jam and paused to consider this. “It would be fun,” she agreed, “but I just worry that the old ones would see it as disrespectful. And we don’t want the villagers going soft and giving up on our heritage.”

Having finished the dishes, Constance turned her attention to the small traps she kept near to the sink. “Are we really keeping traditions alive if we don’t do them, though? We could wait around for decades for a proper virgin police person to come along, and there are young folks in the village today who have never seen a wicker man, much less done any proper sacrificing.”

Sighing, Mabel dropped another lizard into the jam.

“Well, Constance, let’s get young Rodger to check her out. If Inspector Hathersage really is a virgin, then it clearly is fate and we have no choice but to burn her in a wicker man. If she isn’t then maybe we just sacrifice a goat next week and have a good old village barbecue instead.”

Chapter 6 by Alexandrina Brant

They walked abreast as Rodger weaved his unsteady way back through the village, his shorts just a little too high in the leg and a little too tight around the buttocks.

In the early evening light, the air had a faint blueish tinge, carried by the ankle-high smoke that Constance had become accustomed to since moving to the village of Devil’s Folly after her beloved wife had passed away. She eyed it warily anyway.

“Forgive me, dear, for sounding old fashioned, but perhaps we should consult the rest of the elders before going ahead.”

Mabel sniffed. “Of course, this is too much for you. I should have known.”

“It is not ‘too much’…!” But Constance’s words were rid from her as young Rodger raised a hand in uncharacteristically solemn silence.

They had reached the cottage Inspector Hathersage was renting for her duration of inspecting. Ivy and phlox choked the worn oak hinges and twisted outwards towards the windows, veins throbbing with the Old God’s energy. The door itself, however, hung ajar.

Mabel hurried inwards, her eyes alight with what even the slowest of thinkers would’ve seen as delight. Mabel had never been a vicious creature. Maybe in her youth, in her vitality, she’d had a tongue made for wounding other pretty, young women, but she’d never been vicious. All of a sudden, the idea of Rodger and Inspector Hathersage tasted bitter in Constance’s mouth. Even if it glorified the Old God to see her body light up the night like Blackpool Pier.

Rodger worried at his thumb and nodded inwards.

“Tain’t right, dat.”

A young women hung from the centre of the living room ceiling by a thick black wire, her face slick crimson from the innumerable gashes across it. Of what Constance could see, the rest of her body had suffered the same.

“We’ve already had one bloomin’ murder,” she exclaimed. “Sigh. I mean…” she added, conscious the Old God might not be well pleased at a petty criticism of one kind of sacrifice, “I mean, if there’s going to be a sacrifice, we ought to be going about it with the correct methods.”

Mabel scoffed.

“And – thank you, Mabel – a murder most human I can accept. A sacrifice without the consult of the elders… Well, it begs worry.”

“At least we worked out whether Hathersage wasn’t lying about being a virgin,” Rodger said, helpfully.

A throat cleared from the bottom of the stairs. (It was, as the majority of village cottages were, a stairway that sprouted out of the bottom of the front door and occupied most of the living room.) There, prim and out-of-place in the black and white of her suit-with-skirt, she looked as disapproving of their presence as ever. That… and blood-soaked.

“Hathersage!” Mabel barked as Constance clutched her string of pearls. “I thought that was you, all… trussed up.”

Inspector Hathersage raised a delicate eyebrow under an arc of blood that made her face shine in the single working cottage lamp.

“One murder and one ritual sacrifice I can give a good logic-ing,” she observed, “but the question here is which of the village virgins got the chop before I did.”

Chapter 7 by Louise Kerr

Mabel pushed her shoulders back and glowered at the Inspector. “You almost sound jealous! Well, if we’re going to discuss this then we need a good strong drink.”

Constance gasped, “You don’t mean…”

“Yes, dear. Get out the Darjeeling. The fancy stuff, not the supermarket knock-off. And see if there’s a packet of biscuits.”

Inspector Hathersage burst into dry laughter. “You’ve never changed, Mabel.”

Constance hurried into the unlit kitchen of the cottage, jumping at the shadowy presence of a table and chairs. She rummaged around in her purse, retrieving a box of matches and candle that she carried just in case, and struck a match. She lit the candle, a thin twirly affair, casting a flickering aura around the room. Her eyes found the wide-based kettle sat on the countertop. She shakily filled it with water and then flicked the switch on. Whilst she hunted around for a teapot and cups, and serendipitously located a box of Borders Viennese whirls, she listened to the developing conversation in the other room.

“You mean to say you’ve never had a tantalising rendezvous with anyone?” Mabel said.

“I’ve had far more important things to do than tossing my virginity around. Unlike you.”

Constance dropped a cup in a clatter in the kitchen.

“Ahem,” Mabel began, “let’s temporarily cast our differences aside, Hathersage. Whoever did the murdering and the sacrificing must have been in the know about who are virgins.”

“I bet it was the priest,” Hathersage muttered, forming her fingers into a steeple as she thought. “Or the butcher.”

“Why would the butcher… oh, never mind! All this occult stuff is really unnerving, but the priest… well that’s a thought.”

At that moment, Constance reappeared precariously carrying a tray with a teapot, three cups and a mountain of biscuits. She scanned the room – Hathersage was sitting in a flowery armchair, Mabel was perched on one side of a two-seater matching sofa, and a low table stood in the middle. She unceremoniously plonked the tray down on it. Several minutes of silence followed, punctuated only by the pouring, stirring and sipping of the aromatic tea. Even some biscuit dunking occurred.

“Why do you think the priest would know?” Constance shyly asked.

The other two stared at her as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Because, Constance dear, the confessionals,” Mabel said.

“Oh! I never did like doing that.”

“I thought a female priest was very forward-thinking,” Hathersage said.

Constance’s face scrunched up like a sour lemon. “But she’s a nosy-parker. Likes snooping around and… well, we’re guilty of doing that but we don’t make a business of it.”

“I make a job of snooping,” Inspector Hathersage smirked.

“Do we have any clues to implicate the priest though?” Mabel said. “Other than the fact she knows everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets… we know when and where the murder and the ritual sacrifice happened and that it involved a virgin, but what else?”

Chapter 8 by Keith Errington

“You know I’ve been thinking…” Inspector Hathersage said, as the three of them shared another cup of tea. “There’s one angle we haven’t considered.”

“Oh, what’s that?” asked Constance.

“Aliens.”

Mabel spat out her tea in surprise. Then embarrassedly reached for a napkin. “Terribly sorry, but did you say aliens?”

“Yes. Aliens.”

It seemed for a moment like Inspector Hathersage was going to leave it there, but the outrageous suggestion hung there between them like a giraffe in a hall, and as Mabel and Constance stared at her in disbelief, the Inspector realised she needed to elucidate.

“I’ve never told anyone this, but when I was a young girl…”

Now whilst it was hard for Mabel or Constance to imagine the Inspector as a young girl, they said nothing and let her continue…

“I was abducted by aliens.” She paused for a moment. “I was living on my parents’ farm in Suffolk right next to Rendlesham Forest. And one night in late December, I heard the animals making lots of distressed noises and went out to investigate. As I went towards the yard, I think I must have tripped. I found myself flat on the ground. I remember flashing lights. And that was when I was taken up.”

Mabel and Constance looked at each other, and both mouthed a silent, “Wow.”

“I was lifted into the air and placed on some sort of flat surface. Two strangely dressed aliens stood over me with all sorts of weird equipment.”

“Gosh,” said Constance. “Then what happened?”

“I am pretty sure they probed me,” said Inspector Hathersage, quietly looking at the floor.

“Where?” asked Mabel.

“In the spacecraft.”

“No, I meant… actually, never mind.”

“What happened next?” asked Constance, by now hanging on the Inspector’s every word.

“They did more… things, and then they injected me with some alien substance. I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up in my bed with my mother patting my forehead with a wet flannel. It’s why I can’t have babies, in case… you know… they’re alien.”

Mabel had been deep in thought throughout this last part of the story.

“Ermm, Inspector, what colour were the lights you saw?”

“Blue. Why do you ask?”

“Aha!” Mabel exclaimed with a big smile on her face. “Don’t you see? The trip, blue flashing lights, strange ‘aliens’.” Mabel made bunny ears with her fingers when she said the last bit. “And the injection – waking up later.”

The Inspector was frowning. “What are you saying?”

“I think, Inspector, that you hit your head when you tripped. That made you woozy. Your parents called an ambulance, and you were treated for your injuries and injected with a sedative.”

“No… I don’t think…” The Inspector was stumbling over the words.

“Yes!” said Constance. “It all makes sense.”

“Really? I mean, I…” The Inspector drifted off, realising she had just made a huge fool of herself.

“Mind you,” said Mabel, “I think we probably should consider aliens. I’ll put a call into Colonel Smithers, he generally knows when there is alien activity in the area.”

“Oh, and I’ll talk to M’dok Jyrssi see if any of his alien friends know anything.”

“Good thinking, Constance.”

The Inspector was looking a little lost.

“Let’s see if aliens had anything to do with the murder and the ritual sacrifice of the virgin, and let’s not forget that priest who knows everyone’s secrets.”

The Inspector sighed… it was turning into a long afternoon.

“Come on, Inspector Hathersage, old gal,” said Constance, “up and at it.”

Chapter 9 by Adam McLean

Once the Inspector left, they returned to the tea shop where Constance turned to Mabel, who was already frantic.

“Okay, now she’s left, there’s something I need to show you,” Mabel whispered.

“Wait, what?” Constance hurried after Mabel, who was already knocking over jars behind the counter.

“Mabel, what the hell are you doing?” she asked.

Mabel pulled out an old key, then unlocked a secret drawer with a click.

“I didn’t want the Inspector finding out about this, but I’ve been working on something to help with any murders and rituals and all that, ever since the last time this all happened.”

Mabel pulled the drawer open slowly. The smell hit first, freshly cut grass with a whiff of rancid goo. It drifted through the tea shop like a cloud of poison.

“Mabel, what… have you got in that drawer? Wait, that’s our tax drawer, what did you do with all the paperwork in there?”

“Yeah, yeah, taxes and whatnot.” She trailed off as she rolled up her sleeve and reached in, deep. Whatever she took hold of squelched in her fist and seemed to wriggle. As she leaned backwards, she pulled something out. It was thick and black, slimy with soft, fleshy fingers reaching out from its mouth. It was a slug.

“Look at this! What a beauty! I’ve spent the last few weeks gathering as many of these suckers as I could. Good old garden slugs.”

She placed the slug on the counter and watched it make its grand escape, or possible suicide; it was heading towards the counter’s edge at an alarming rate.

“Did you know slugs have the same heightened senses as sniffer dogs. Their bodies may be, well… sluggish, but they’re actually rather intelligent creatures, capable of…” She paused, hoping for a reply. “Capable of finding the murderer,” she finished with a clap.

Their back and forth was starting to draw the attention of the customers, who weren’t overly happy their servers were handling slugs.

“So, what’s your big plan here then? I’m sure we could help, but I don’t think this is the way to do it. Besides, are you sure your facts are… factual? Where did you hear all that about slugs?”

Mabel mumbled something and turned to the drawer, throwing the slug back into the throbbing black mass, then pulling the drawer off completely and holding it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that…” Constance pushed.

“Oh, y’know, I learnt it from… so and so… Berenade Greene or something… Anyway…”

“You’re taking slug advice from him; didn’t he try to make his own super-fertiliser using Red Bull?”

Mabel ignored the comment. She walked to the tea shop entrance and tossed out the drawer of her highly intelligent slugs in the hopes that they’d be able to crack the case of the sacrificial virgin murder before Inspector Hathersage.

“Right then,” she said, “what’s all this about aliens and a priest who’s harbouring secrets?”

Chapter 10 by Louise Ewing

“Well, the priest is actually my second cousin twice removed.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“No,” replied Constance, “and you know those crop circles up on Mr Morgan’s farm?”

“Oh, don’t tell me – made by the aliens.”

“No, Tony and me, we used to make them. Ropes and planks and that, we got quite good at it actually… oh don’t look at me like that.”

“There’s quite a lot of things I don’t know about you, aren’t there, Constance?”

“I could say the same about you, Mabel – like what you do on Thursday nights at the community hall with those friends of yours and why you all need to wear goggles.”

“You don’t need to know, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway.”

They looked at each other quizzically for a moment, before returning to the business at hand.

“So, it turns out that these aliens saw the circles and as some of them were actually navigation symbols…”

Mabel raised her eyebrows as far as they would go.

“…and they decided to come and visit. It took them a while to get here because of the light years and stuff but yes, that’s more or less what happened.”

“So, this priest guy…”

“Tony. He’s been chatting with them and…”

“He speaks alien?”

“Only theirs. It’s complicated. They’ve been before and he’s good at languages.”

“You said it took a long time for them to get here.”

“The first time, yes, but then they found a short cut.”

“So, he told them about the whole sacrificial murder thing and they said they could probably help.”

“The aliens said they could help with the sacrificing or help find out what happened?”

“Yes, exactly,” said Constance, cutting herself and Mabel a big slice of carrot cake each.

“So, the aliens are maybe going to help, and what about my crime solving slugs, Inspector Hathersage and this Father Anthony guy?” she mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

Chapter 11 by G Murray

Mabel suddenly stopped chewing. She glared at Constance over the rim of her new, pink-framed spectacles, her heavily pencilled brows drawn together.

“Did you put raisins in this cake?”

Constance took a sharp intake of breath and froze, the hand holding her cake hovering in front of her open mouth.

Avoiding Mabel’s eyes, she put her cake back down on the plate, took a sugar lump from the bowl and began stirring it into her tea.

She ventured a glance across at her accuser and winced. “Sorry, I might have accidently dropped a few in.” She bit her lip and scrunched her face up in preparation for the blast.

Mabel spat her mouthful of cake out onto her plate in a most unladylike fashion. “How many times have I told you, I’m allergic to raisins?!”

Constance took a slurp of her tea, promptly had a choking fit and tried to speak at the same time. “Do you think… cough, cough… the aliens… cough, cough, cough… could be allergic to raisins? I gave them half the… cough… cake as a thank you for saying they’d help with the… cough, splutter… sacrifice and help us find out what happened?”

Mabel shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Who gives a flying tart? Could’ve been them what dunnit… I mean, that did it… who did it? For all we know they could be just saying they’ll help to cover their slimy backs. Anyway, you haven’t told me what you think, yet… of my would-be crime solving slugs… not to mention Inspector Hathersage and this Father Antony?”

Constance bent down, lifted a corner of the gingham tablecloth and wiped her mouth on it. She sat up again and nodded across at Mabel, a knowing look sparking in her eyes. “Father Anthony’s a good bet, he’s dead sneaky, him. I saw him.”

“Saw him what?”

“Yes, I did. I saw him.”

“Saw him… WHAT?”

“At the village show last year, he was meant to be judging the children’s handwriting. I was judging the cakes. Ron had gone; he’d just finished the veg. Father Anthony watched him go then he strode across and swopped the cucumber prize tickets – gave himself first place! He didn’t see me because I was behind June’s ginormous Victoria sponge.”

Mabel grinned. “Slinky little ferret! Good, he sounds perfect. And the sacrifice? How about one of Geraldine’s chickens? Should be easy enough to catch one without her seeing – she lets them roam about all over.”

“Oooh, yes! That big, fat, white one would be perfect… you know, instead of a dove. She might notice it’s gone, though; she gives them all names.”

“Well, if she asks, we’ll just tell her we saw a buzzard hanging around that day. Right then, we’ll ask my Inspector Hathersage and shifty old Father Anthony, the ‘cucumber cheat’, to help solve the crime. And we’ll nick Geraldine’s big, white hen for the sacrifice – unless the aliens object on principle… they could worship chicken gods for all we know.”

Chapter 12 by Phil Sculthorpe

Suddenly, a bright streak flashed across the sky.

“Did you see that?” asked Mabel.

“You what?” her friend replied distractedly.

That wasn’t like her, Mabel thought. And yet, come to think of it, Constance had seemed a bit distracted, off and on, for a while now.

“That streak across the sky,” clarified Mabel. “I was wondering whether it was a comet. Or, perhaps, more aliens arriving.” Then an uncomfortable thought struck her. “You don’t think it could have been Geraldine’s big chicken making a run for it, do you? What could we use for a sacrifice, if it was?”

Constance made an effort to focus. “I didn’t see any streak across the sky.”

“That’s because you’re distracted,” Mabel told her.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m NOT,” Constance stated firmly. “I’m thinking, that’s all. Trying to work things out. I just wish I knew what was going on.”

“Well, don’t we all,” Mabel agreed. “After all, today has certainly gone in some strange directions. But maybe sacrificing Geraldine’s big white hen will appease the fates in some way and things will calm down.”

“Look, I know it sounds silly,” Constance began, “but I can’t help wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

“Well, I know it sounds crazy but…”

“Come on, Constance, spit it out.”

“Okay. The truth is, I can’t help wondering whether – in some inexplicable way, that I can’t determine – all this peculiarity could be, somehow, related to your jam fetish.”

Of all the things Constance might have come out with, Mabel hadn’t wanted to hear that.

“My what?”

“Your jam fetish.”

Mabel’s response was vehement. “I have not got a jam fetish.”

“You have got a jam fetish. You know you have. And the reason you’re so vehement about saying you don’t, is because you’re uncomfortable with me finally pointing it out.”

“I have not…”

“Oh, don’t bother trying to deny it, Mabel. This week alone you’ve made at least five varieties: Strawberry, Raspberry, Blackcurrant, Redcurrant and Blueberry. The jam pan is never off the stove.”

It was rare for the two ladies to be so openly at cross-swords. Yes, they had their differences but, by and large they managed to disagree without sticking pins in one another. Mabel had to take a deep breath to fight off the queasy feeling in her stomach.

Eventually, she tried to justify herself. “I only make it to keep the shop supplied. People in the village like my jam. We sell a lot of it.”

“Do we heck as like,” rejoined Constance, instantly. “If we sell three jars in a good week we’re lucky. But you must make at least fifty.”

“My jam is renowned. The Vicar even asked me to make a special run of cucumber flavour for him. It won first prize at the Church Fete.”

“But who was judging?”

“The Vicar. What are you implying?”

“You won because the whole village knows about his cucumber obsession, nobody else bothered entering their jam, did they?”

Mabel’s eyes moistened. She had to sniff back a dew drop that was forming in her nose. “Have you finished?”

“Not really,” said Constance, deciding, now she’d started, she had better say it all. “The truth is, Mabel, I’ve begun to wonder who you really are.”

Mabel’s hand went to her mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you first moved in to the village and we became friends, I realised you were an avid knitter. But I did wonder, if I invited you move in to become my partner in the Village Tea Shop, I’d be able to live with the constant clack of knitting needles. I’d simply turn my hearing aids down when it got a bit too much. But I never realised about the jam compulsion. It’s been bothering me for a while, though.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“No. Well, as you say, at first, homemade jam was a welcome addition to our range of products. But the situation is getting out of hand. The cellar, the garage, and the outhouse are all packed to the rafters with the stuff. Some jars have been in there five years.”

“So? They’re conserves,” reasoned Mabel, “and as the name implies, they won’t go off. We can sell it as Vintage Jam.”

“And then this morning,” said Constance heavily, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her handbag, “I got this in the post.”

Mabel thought she might be sick. As Constance passed the paper over, she felt her legs turning to jelly.

Unfolding the note Constance had been sent, Mabel saw a message composed of glued-on letters – which judging from the familiar font, must have been cut from the Parish Magazine – and read:

CONSTANCE… A WARNING: YOUR BUSINESS PARTNER IS NOT WHAT SHE APPEARS… IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE, DON’T LET HER MAKE ANY MARMALADE!

“Oh God,” cried Mabel, burying her face in her hands, “I don’t believe it… even after plastic surgery; a change of name; a whole new identity and a move to a village hundreds of miles away from where it happened, they have still found me… how?”

She began weeping and Constance couldn’t help noticing another bright streak flash across the sky.

Chapter 13 by Jan Sayer

A bell suddenly broke the atmosphere that had developed in the kitchen.

“I’ll go,” said Constance, reluctant to leave the distressed Mabel and delaying the opportunity to find out more about who Mabel was and what she was hiding from her past. She couldn’t help notice the quick startled glance Mabel made in the direction of the bubbling pot on the stove.

“More tea, Vicar?” Constance asked.

This was the afternoon of the month that the vicar often spent several hours in the tea shop mulling over the submissions for the monthly Parish Magazine. By the time he left he was usually sure of the articles he would select. Mindful of this, Constance wondered if he would recognise the words cut out in the note. Obviously, being a vicar, she could surely trust him to be discreet about the contents?

“Yes, please, and what is that amazing smell coming from the kitchen. Might it be something that would go perfectly with the fresh batch of scones you brought out earlier?”

Constance set about preparing a new pot of Earl Gray, the preferred tea choice of the vicar.

“Mabel is making some orange jam. She is experimenting with a new recipe.” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, the reality struck. Orange jam, there was no such thing as orange jam, orange jam was…

Constance dropped the mug which shattered behind the counter. She headed quickly to the kitchen, stopping dead at the door. The back door to the garden was open. There was no longer a pot on the stove. The empty pot was on the kitchen table where there had been a row of freshly sterilised jars waiting to be filled with the jam and then be sealed ready to be used in the tea shop over the coming months. Judging by the mess on the table, these had been hastily filled and had vanished, along with Mabel.

Walking up to the table, she saw that the anonymous note was still there. It was now covered in sticky orange goo.

Constance ran out into the garden, shouting, “Mabel! Mabel! We can talk about this, nothing can be that bad!”

Mabel was nowhere to be seen. Constance returned to the kitchen deep in thought. She was unaware that the vicar had followed her into the kitchen as she slumped down on a kitchen chair, the vicar enquired, “Are you alright?”

Startled, Constance pointed at the note warning her about Mabel and marmalade, and as they both looked at the cut out letters, now sticky with an orange hue, there seemed to be a pulsating glow and a piece of orange rind slowly wriggled its way to the edge of the table.

“Ah, about that…” said the vicar, who clearly recognised the letters cut from his very own Parish Magazine.

Constance stood up, startled; what did the vicar know about Mabel, marmalade and the note warning Constance about both?

Chapter 14 by Davia Sacks

But as Constance stood up, gasping at the realisation that the letters had been cut from the Parish Magazine, she couldn’t help but notice that the vicar was tugging obsessively at his collar. Was this a sign of nervousness, indicative of some degree of guilt, she wondered, or was it merely the oppressive heat wave that was causing him to perspire, and, thereby, triggering some sort of intensely itchy rash on his throat? She was leaning toward the former as he had, after all, begun sweating bullets when he recognised that she recognised that he recognised where the letters had come from.

But, sweaty vicar aside, Constance looked again, more closely this time, at the poison pen note; could it be true that Mabel’s murdered twin sister, Maisie, hadn’t been murdered after all, and that she was still alive and this note was from her… or, as everyone had believed, had Maisie met her demise via the jar of marmalade that she had taken from the shelf of the tea shop… or, on the other hand, had that poisoned marmalade really been meant for Mabel and not Maisie, but the wrong twin had consumed it… or, did Mabel, herself, poison Maisie… or was Mabel actually really Maisie, who had been posing as Mabel after poisoning her and assuming her identity?

All these swirling convoluted thoughts were giving Constance one grandaddy of a headache, so, in need of fresh air, she lurched for the door, only to find the sticky orangey letter was stuck to her frock and the glowing, pulsating piece of orange rind had attached itself firmly to her wrist.

As she tried to shake it off, she heard the tiniest, faint, yet familiar voice, and wondered, had Mabel’s murdered twin sister been reincarnated and come back as a piece of orange rind in a jar of marmalade?

Chapter 15 by Shadow Liptrot

Constance turned quickly around. There was a figure sitting at the table. She would recognise those long, red fingernails like claws, the blood-stain-red lipstick and that preposterous pile of marmalade-coloured-hair piled on top of her head any day. She was Mabel’s double in her natural appearance, but in the way she dressed and the way she spoke, she was anything but.

“Maisie!” Constance breathed.

“Constance, my dear.” The voice was dripping with the flavour of Benson and Hedges and was heavy and clingy like cheap perfume. “How are you, my dear?”

“What do you want, Maisie?” Constance’s hands were trembling as she groped about behind her for the breadknife.

“No time for small talk? Dear, dear, dear, that’s not like you at all.”

Constance could hear the threat in the voice. She whipped her hand around at once, producing the weapon she intended to use to defend herself, and found herself presenting an extra-long cucumber.

Maisie stood up, the chair scraping angrily behind her. “Very well, if you are determined to forego the pleasantries, I’ll get straight to the point. I have a message for you to deliver to my sister. Tell her that the misdirected gift will be delivered to her on Friday.”

With that, she was gone.

•••

“She said what?” Mabel said with a panic.

“Exactly as I just told you.”

“But, I don’t understand…” Mabel continued, absent-mindedly pouring pepper over her cornflakes. “If the poison was meant for me and not Maisie, how did Maisie end up taking it? How could Maisie be the one issuing the threat?”

Constance looked perplexed, but her friend was already speaking again.

“Someone is going to try and kill me!”

Mabel leapt up from her chair at once and began finding all the locks on the doors and windows. She was buzzing around like her life depended on it.

“Mabel, please,” said Constance, “you’re making me dizzy! You’re buzzing around like a bee round a pot of…”

“Marmalade?”

As she said this, Mabel noticed a pot of marmalade sat upon the kitchen table. She grabbed it as though it was on fire, intending to fling it out of the door. She went to the back door, pulled on the handle, remembered it was locked, pulled back the bolt on the bottom, tried again, remembered the bolt on the top, pulled that back, pulled the door open and threw the jar into the back garden like it was a cricket ball. An outraged yell from next door’s cat informed them that it had landed.

“Mabel, calm down!”

“I could be poisoned! What day is it? Monday? If I can avoid eating or drinking anything until Friday, I should be guaranteed to stay alive!”

“I doubt it!”

“You’ll have to help me though, Constance… don’t let anyone so much as look in through that door!” and with that, Mabel quickly picked up the crocheted blanket that was on the sofa and drew it over her head.

Chapter 16 by Robert N Crathorne

Constance considered Mabel’s take on the situation. She knew no food or drink until Friday would only guarantee light headedness, not survival. Also, covering yourself with a fancy blanket and sticking your thumb in your gob would fool nobody.

She considered the door, realising, as long as it stayed closed, nobody could look through. That’s one issue solved but how do I stop them opening it? I know, I’ll put a chair against it.

She placed a chair against the door but the fact it opened outward proved problematic. I know, I’ll climb out of the window, go round the back, and put the chair against the door on the outside. That’ll work.

She forced the sash upwards until the gap was wide enough to get the chair through. Me first, or the chair first?

The noise of the chair scraping on the windowsill caused Mabel to stir and risk taking a look. Slowly, the crocheted blanket slid from her head to reveal her eyes. The purple one spun in alarm.

“What in the sacred Ariana’s name are you doing, Constance?”

Constance, with the chair and one leg hanging out of the window, craned her head around one hundred and eighty degrees to look at Mabel. The spinning eye was a distraction.

“I love how you do that. Can you teach me?”

“Never mind my bloody eye. Just explain what you’re doing.”

“Well, you know when you said nobody was allowed to look in the door?”

“Er… yes.”

“I thought, if I put a chair against it, nobody could get in.”

“Good thinking, Constance.”

“Knew you’d like it. Anyway, I don’t think it works because the door opens outwards. So I’m going to put it on the outside. I’d best get on before somebody comes. You just get back under your rug.”

“I’ll do that but there’s a couple of things to consider first.”

Ever receptive to new ideas, Constance nodded and sat astride the window sill to listen.

“Go on.”

“Well, first, what’s to stop someone just moving the chair, then opening the door. Or, even worse, stealing the chair. It’s my mother’s best one, you know.”

“Don’t you think I thought of that, stupid? I shall be sitting on it. Nobody would dare touch it with me there. So what’s the other thing?”

“Well, being on the seventeenth floor’s a bit of an issue.”

Constance put her head out of the window and looked down. Her head spun, not like Mabel’s purple eye, but in a literary sense.

“My God! I thought we were still in the tea room. Get me back in, quick.”

Mabel pulled her in and Constance slammed the window shut.

“Well, you silly goat, what are we to do now?”

“I don’t know but it’s worse than we thought, Mabel… I left the chair outside.” Constance looked around hopefully, stuck her thumb in her mouth and added, “Don’t suppose you’ve got another blanket, have you?”

Chapter 17 by Mohammed Kibirige

“Mabel, I am not as silly as you thought, because I have another blanket indeed. It is in the car. I spotted a parking space next to the women’s shop which had a large glass window and any one in that shop could see what went on the dead-end road. I took advantage of the free parking space and manoeuvred the car by reversing it facing the high street. I squeezed into the space with some difficulty using parking assist technology screaming at me during the forward and reverse manoeuvres.”

Constance had not been aware of onlookers in the women’s shop including Mr Hope and his family, a spouse and two teenage children, a girl and boy. They had a cunning plan waiting for the driver. They had a clear view of what Constance had gone through parking the car through the big glass window facing the road on the passenger side.

As Constance rushed to get the blanket out of the car, she was approached and informed by Mr Hope that they had witnessed her parking difficulty. Mr Hope claimed that during the reversing, Constance had scratched his car, and he had photographic evidence on his phone. It could not have been farther from the truth. Constance had reversed into the parking space, but when Mr Hope pointed out where his car had been scratched; it was on the front bumper on the driver’s side. This could only have been caused by approaching the parking space from the driver’s side of Mr Hope’s car. Constance explained the obvious, but Mr Hope would have none of it. Bristling with anger at that juncture, he informed Constance of the potential claim for damages. “Where there is crime, there is a claim.” He was a cheer leader supported by his fans – the family. Constance informed him that she would contact the traffic police and walked to the police station and requested assistance in resolving the problem. In the meantime, Mabel collected the blanket to keep warm, but in fact it was not necessary as she had to escort Constance to the police station.

“Has anyone been injured?” the police officer enquired.

“No, sir,” Constance replied.

“In that case you can resolve this through your respective insurances.”

Constance walked back and informed Mr Hope that they need to exchange contact address and Insurance details. The police had declined to get involved because no one had been hurt.

When Constance looked at the address – Elwich Street – she and Mabel gasped and claimed that they knew the place, but did not mention that it was a well-known address for frequent misdemeanour.

At that stage, the family were shouting obscenities followed by vulgar finger gestures. A week later, Constance received a reminder from Mr Hope with a budget and for the cheque to be sent to the address. Constance responded with a request for a police report after they had paid him a visit. There had been news coverage of illegal clamping of vehicles and the owners of the cars had been paying money to Mr Hope. There was no further communication.

Chapter 18 by Tim O Tee

Unwilling to let things drop, and fearful of potential consequences, Constance decided matters must progress. Adopting full ‘sleuth’ mode Constance began digging into Mr Hope’s business affairs. What became evident was truly shocking. Underhand this, semi legal that plus all kinds of other goings on. Every stone turned, and Constance turned many, revealed a new snake wriggling out into the open.

Determined not to miss anything but also fully aware of the need to move quickly Constance set a two month time limit on the investigations.

Pieces started to fall into place and a full, shocking picture soon emerged… not even their wildest dreams could have prepared the grounds for so much corruption.

When the time was right, and when all evidence had been gathered, Constance was sure the full force of the law would tumble onto Mr Hope and his Empire.

Events though would prove Constance’s assumptions to be very wide of the mark.

Chapter 19 by Ken Braithwaite

Immediately Constance reviewed all the evidence she had collected to date.

This just had to go to the right people if justice was to be served and she had no hesitation in contacting a high official in the Judiciary asking him to accept her latest evidence of corruption that seemed irrefutable.

Plus a notable member of the police had to be informed.

Mr Hope would have serious difficulties once this detail came to light.

Contacting her recipients proved somewhat elusive despite their connections going back so many years.

“Could you possibly call back?”

“He is in a meeting presently but will definitely call you back…”

“Why don’t you call in with all your details to help us take action.”

In all Constance’s experience, this had never happened before. Always her calls were met with immediate action.

Collating all her vast evidence into a professional set of documents, she carefully copied the whole file and took it to her bank where it was placed in a deposit box she rented under an assumed name.

Then, with many a look over her shoulder, she carefully delivered to her trusted contacts the explosive detail she had amassed, handing the detail in to the Department but carefully obtaining a signature for each delivery and recording this, secretly, on her mobile phone.

Days passed, no contacts were made and it gradually became obvious that Mr Hope’s Evil Empire had spread far wider than she imagined.

Nobody could be trusted and Constance had to act, on her own initiative, to counter this evil with evil.

Mr Hope must die, quickly and efficiently at her own hands in a manner that would never lead to her.

His ego was such that this should be a simple task as he believed he was invincible and that would be his downfall.

Chapter 20 by Janet Jackson

Constance knew she had to protect herself against Mr Hope’s dark energy. Could she find a solution in the book that had been kept secret in her family, since the burning times? She closed her eyes and asked her ancestors for help, and, to be on the safe side, she asked Archangel Michael for his protection. She jumped when the book fell from the counter and lay open at a page about poppet dolls. For them, she would need to get some of Mr Hope’s DNA, but how?

“Of course,” she gasped, heading to the table where the crumbs of his unfinished sandwich and dregs of his coffee sat waiting to be cleared. Constance turned the door sign to closed as she went to collect mud from the spot where Mr Hope parked his car. Maybe his footprints would also contain traces of his vileness.

Back inside, Constance rubbed the mud around the handle and rim of the cup to collect the DNA, then around the saucer as Mr Hope had carried his coffee from the counter. All that was left to do was crumble bits of Mr Hope’s leftover sandwich into the mud, that should contain plenty of DNA. With that done, she shaped the mud into a figure of a man, a poppet of Mr Hope, and placed it beside the oven to dry.

Sleep didn’t come easy for Constance that night. She tossed and turned, mulling over ways she could use the poppet to dispatch Mr Hope somewhere where he could do no harm.

When she finally slept, her dreams were full of her ancestors offering their advice. When Constance woke, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Mr Hope always parked his car in the exact same spot; the rest of the village knew this and made no attempt to occupy that site fearful of incurring his wrath.

Back in the tea shop, Constance pulled the rug off the floor in the storage cupboard to reveal the pentacle, and standing in its centre, she called in the elements – Earth, Wind, Fire and Air, and the spirits of her ancestors and together they cast an immobilisation spell into the poppet. All Constance needed to do was place the poppet in the tyre tracks of Mr Hope’s parking space and wait for him to arrive. As soon as he drove over the poppet, he would cast the spell upon himself and be unable to move and the second spell would start to work, sucking all his evil power out of his body.

Chapter 21 by John Holmes

Constance carefully placed the loaded poppet in the exact spot where Mr Hope’s right rear wheel would rest. Now all she had to do was wait. Wait for that moment when the poppet would explode into life – freeze that first horrible spell and, if everything went to plan, Constance would witness the expulsion of all evil from Mr Hope’s soul.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t due to arrive for at least another hour, which is a long time to wait – a long spell, she joked to herself, and headed back to the tea shop.

With a mug of Earl Grey in her hand, Constance took up the window seat from where she could keep a clear eye on the parking lot. She didn’t want to miss a thing, but staring out of steamy tea shop windows wasn’t an occupation often discussed with career-guidance teachers. She picked up a well-thumbed copy of People’s Friend and quickly got engrossed in a story about a lollipop lady who was going to retire: she will be replaced by a pelican. What a sad story. A few tears trickled down Constance’s cheeks. She rubbed her eyes a little too forcefully which momentarily blurred her vision.

When her vision had recovered, she glanced out of the tea shop window towards the parking lot, and despite the condensation’s best effort to hide the facts from her, Mr Hope’s car was definitely in its parking spot and the back wheel had landed exactly where it should have done – on the loaded poppet.

Constance jumped up from the table, spilling the remnants of her Earl Grey over the People’s Friend, and dashed out into the street… Mr Hope was nowhere to be seen; his car was there, but he wasn’t. She had to find him pretty smartly and discover whether the poppet had done its job and cleared Hope of all Evil.

Chapter 22 by Steven C. Davis

“You won’t believe what’s happened to the Battenburg!”

Constance turned back. Mabel was holding up something… that definitely wasn’t Battenburg cake.

“Mabel! Mr Hope’s car… but he’s not there!”

Mabel sniffed, staring at the bone China tea pot from which curious sounds were emanating, along with ribbons of tea-scent. Mabel’s brows furrowed. Whatever was in the pot… wasn’t Earl Grey.

“You sort it, dear,” she called to Constance, picking up the thermonuclear-proof oven gloves and lifting the tea pot cautiously.

The tea pot rattled.

It wasn’t something inside the tea pot that rattled, Mabel thought. And it was their favourite pot, the one they had been given before they’d even opened the tea shop. No, it was the tea pot itself rattling, as if it was…

“Mabel! Is it safe or can I go after Mr Hope?”

“Go, go,” Mabel waved her away. “You didn’t like the black liquorice tea, anyway,” she whispered to the tea pot.

The pot was… changing.

It wasn’t melting, but parts seemed to be… receding, whilst other parts were becoming… better defined. She looked around absently: the steam was billowing out through the open door, so it wasn’t that, and it wasn’t her varifocals, they were still on a chain around her neck.

A chain made of pure silver and blessed with Holy Water. Well. You never knew, did you.

Mabel frowned. There were a lot of… odd things, in the village. It was a remote village in the countryside, after all. But even counting the After-Hours Morris Side, the Ladies and Gentlemen of the Stone-Circle Moving Society, the knitters club and the crochet kids… don’t capitalise them, don’t mistake one for the other and whatever you do, don’t come between them on a High Tuesday Afternoon…

But nothing like this, surely?

Mabel put the tea pot down carefully as it changed from its caterpillar stage to its butterfly stage, a skeletal hand… or maybe it was simply transforming into who it truly was... but unfortunately, the tea, despite not being Earl Grey, that had been securely contained within the pot, was not so secure within the skeletal hand, and so splashed across the floor, her leggings, and the already damp lino.

“Oh, out-of-date fruit shoots!” Mabel cursed in exasperation, looking around, checking that no one had heard her swearing.

She looked up, suddenly remembering that Constance was out there, chasing the evil Mr Hope… if the poppet hadn’t done its magic… or worse, if it had…

Chapter 23 by Adrian Lee

Constance was feeling light headed, thirsty but this had nothing to do with the evil Mr Hope but to do with the humidity of an untypical British summer day. The temperature had risen into the 30s and the pale Caucasians just did not know how to cope.

Was this global warming or the mark of an evil force deciding to turn the tables in his favour?

She wanted to talk to Mabel. Nutty as a fruit and nut cake but her closest friend. She understood Constance’s need to confront Mr Hope. So much depended on her neutralising him by whatever means; conventional or magical.

She saw a small village ahead, whose name she didn’t know.

“Ah a tea shop, just what the doctor ordered.” Upon entering, she asked, “Do you have Darjeeling? You do… fabulous. A pot for one and a jug of cold water please. I’m dehydrated. Oh and a slice of carrot cake.”

“What brings you to Upper Poppleton on this fine day, Madam?”

“Oh, I’m pursuing a fellow who may have passed this way.”

“We had a stranger in first thing this morning. Wanted strong black coffee and bacon. Sinister looking. Carol and I felt distinctly unsettled – but listen to me – gossiping and that will never do.”

“What did he look like?”

“Shifty, wearing a raincoat (in this weather) and a Trilby hat. Not a handsome man. A sense of evil follows him, Carol said.”

“Do you know which way he went? It sounds like the man I am searching for,” said Constance, feeling anxious now.

“He was heading for Nether Poppleton, the next village. About three miles away. He was walking. “

Constance took twenty minutes to collect her thoughts, fortified by tea and cake.

Then she walked briskly away towards Nether Poppleton and as an act of habit she reached inside her shoulder bag where her hand found the metal, surprisingly cool: the Smith & Wesson 642.

She silently said to herself, “If I have to use it, I will… I know Mabel will stand by me whatever happens… she agrees that it needs to be done for all of us, because if we fail, our lives will be changed forever, with us continually looking over our shoulders.”

Suddenly as the lane straightened, there he was in the distance, the evil Mr Hope.

Chapter 24 by Irene Lewis

The dark and ominous figure of Mr Hope stood tall, like a foreboding black shadow, against the rose red brickwork of Saint Everilda’s churchyard wall. Constance stopped in her tracks, her heart racing. With her gloved hand firmly gripped around the handle of the revolver, she readied herself. She’d do anything, no matter how extreme, because she needed to take back some control and feel safe again. As she drew a deep, cleansing breath, Constance continued, carefully this time, along Church Lane towards him and a fate that neither she nor Mabel could ever have predicted, but one thing above all else still remained… it had never left Constance, it kept her strong, and that was ironically what is called ‘hope’.

There was still hope that she could put things right.

As she got closer, Constance realised that Mr Hope hadn’t yet noticed her. She saw him move. He appeared to be lighting up a cigarette, then he turned to lean against the wall, facing away from the direction in which she as now confidently gaining on him. His large, strong back became an easier target with her every step.

“I should just do it, grab the opportunity now and empty the barrel into him. Maybe I’ll leave the last bullet for his sick head, just to be sure.”

It was as if Mr Hope had heard Constance’s every thought, as if she’d spoken them out loud and within his earshot, she’d clumsily given her enemy an unwitting gift. He now had the advantage.

Mr Hope had already turned to meet her determined, steely gaze, a gaze that was as hard and cold as the barrel now pointing directly at him. He moved slowly and calmly to take a long drag of his cigarette. Any smoke he hadn’t expertly swallowed drifted in silk-like strands from his nostrils and magically disappeared into the stillness.

For a split second, Constance was entranced at the skill of it until the moment was broken.

“I’m so pleased to see you, Constance. I had no doubt that you would be the one to meet me here.” He threw the remainder of the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with a swift stamp and twist of his foot.

Constance detected no hint of smug satisfaction or arrogance in his tone. If this was his way of keeping the situation civil and calm, a ruse to make her think that she was the crazy one and that the whole diabolical situation was acceptable and somehow normal, she wasn’t falling for it, not one bit of it. She had to proceed with caution.

“What choice do I have, Mr Hope, and what’s to stop me from shooting you stone dead, right here and right now?” Constance still had the barrel of the gun squarely pointed at her nemesis.

“Nothing, I suppose, but it won’t do much good to be totally honest with you, Constance. Mabel emptied the barrel just before you left. She knew that you wouldn’t think to check it for yourself. I really do admire the trust you have in each other.”

“I’m surprised that you even know the meaning of the word trust, Mr Hope, or honesty come to think of it. I know that Mabel would never do such a thing. She has my back, she would rather die than put me in danger.”

At that, Constance shifted uncomfortably. Did she detect pity in Mr Hope’s eyes? Her head immediately warned her not to think with her heart, saying, “Impossible, he’s playing with you, he must think you’re a fool!” She tightened her grip on the gun.

“Constance, look, the church is open, no one is in there… shall we go in so I can explain everything? Will you let me at least try?” Mr Hope needed to secure Constance’s trust. Sensing her dilemma, he continued earnestly as he slowly raised his arms in a pose to imply some sort of surrender to her. “Constance, I would never do anything heinous in God’s house. Do not tempt the Lord thy God, that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

Constance silently responded by way of a quick nod and an overly obliging smile. She lowered the weapon to her side and, seeming to comply with his request, followed Mr Hope through a narrow archway in the wall and along the path toward the church entrance. The loud crunching of the gravel as they walked was somewhat at odds with the tense silence hanging between them.

“This is my chance. Enough of the bullshit!” Constance’s decision to strike was followed by a resounding shriek. “I don’t believe you, Mr Hope! Mabel does have my back and now I have yours!” Raising the gun once again, Constance secured her aim. The snub-nose barrel was within point blank range of his back, and with a rage never felt before she shut her eyes tightly and screamed like a banshee as she pulled the trigger five times.

The huge relief of believing the chaos was finally over caused Constance to fall onto her knees in fitful sobs, taking some seconds before she opened her eyes to wipe away her tears… and in them, the evil Mr Hope could clearly see the look of horror and crushing disbelief as she registered that he was still alive and walking towards her, that she had failed. He knew exactly what Constance was thinking, the questions whirling in her head… “He wasn’t lying, Mabel did empty the barrel of the revolver to save him! Why had she done that and why now?” and he was convinced that she would succumb, let him explain what he recognised she still believed to be both inexplicable and inexcusable.

The ‘evil’ Mr Hope helped the confused and defeated Constance to her feet before gently guiding her along the path, through the doorway and into the sanctuary of Saint Everilda’s church.

Chapter 25 by Jane Allen

The cool and peaceful interior of the church with the sun slanting softly through the intricately designed coloured leaded windows onto the stone floor calmed her chaotic thoughts and helped her mind focus on the one question that truly mattered: ‘Whose side is he on?’

“You must realise by now, my dear,” he began, “that everything you thought was true, was in fact misguided. Mabel was the only person who knew the whole story, for I had to have at least one friend in whom I could confide and who could influence the events which were to follow. That it would come to the point that she would be the one to save me, I was not sure, but I reasoned it might be a possible outcome and so we planned for it together.”

“But…” began Constance, “…” and found she couldn’t complete the sentence, still not able to understand the thread that held the events of the last few days together in a way that could differ from her preconceived idea.

“Please let me explain,” Mr Hope begged, “before you utter another word. I feel the need to tell the whole story from beginning to end, and my part in it. It will help you understand how you misinterpreted the key events and help you realise that you were fed selected misinformation so that you would become my adversary. But let me reassure you, you are in no danger from me. I bear some of the blame, for as you will shortly see, it suited my purposes also to have you kept in the dark.”

He was speaking in a kind and moderate manner, and Constance was having some difficulty aligning the soothing character sitting next to her on the wooden front pew with the evil Mr Hope who was still lingering in her brain. However, she also understood that she was not in a position to initiate any response other than to listen, as she was physically and mentally exhausted and more importantly, her gun was empty.

He continued, “From the beginning, it was necessary to flush out the covert members of the Society Of The Hidden Hand, for only by doing so, could I be sure the power it wielded in our community would be eliminated.

“There was a public face and a private face to that Society. Consider if you will, the layers of an onion. As you peel away the outer layer, you come to another, and another, until you arrive at the centre. You were in the outermost layer of the group, to you they showed only their public face. With skilled orators, outward signs of successful projects and warped media coverage, your impression was of a Society whose purpose was to give a helping hand to those in our culture who had become disenfranchised for a variety of reasons. These were the ones you believed you were defending and time and effort was put in to maintaining that facade, for it allowed Society members to pierce higher and higher in the echelons of government.

“However, if you could have peeled away that layer, the next layer would show you the petty thieves and criminals who provided everlasting funds, and removing that layer would reveal the network of spies providing vital information, the next, the assassins who removed obstructions, the next, the manipulators who oversaw daily operations and so on until we get to the nub. The Society used you and others like you to maintain its disguise. Who better to outwardly appear to help those it was inwardly manipulating? You were central to its image, but not its true purpose. It was the mastermind and the inner circle that I needed to destroy. You believed me to be the mastermind of those who committed those heinous crimes against your family, whereas, in fact, it was the unseen heart of the very group you were so very determined to support.”

Constance was listening hard for any signs of misdirection, fitting the words he was saying with her assumed truths of the man she only knew as the ‘evil’ Mr Hope, but so far it was only talk… she needed more; she needed verifiable facts backed by evidence before she could let go of her determination to avenge her family’s murderer and her dreams of a more egalitarian humankind.

“Stop! Not another word!” came the shout from behind the pulpit as Mabel stepped firmly into the light of the slanted coloured rays, her revolver held securely in both hands and pointing at Mr Hope as she walked slowly and determinedly towards him, her eyes fixed on his surprised face.

Chapter 26 by J.R. Whitbourn

“You can’t spell blame without Mabel, can you?” said Mr Hope.

At that, a shot rang out, loud and clear. For a moment that ear splitting sound filled Constance’s head entirely. Only with the echoes came the consequences.

Mr Hope fell to his knees, holding his chest and failing to stem the rapidly radiating circle of red spilling out between his fingers. Constance looked back at Mabel only to be ignored. All of Mabel’s focus was on the downed Mr Hope, locked in with a predatory glare.

“I did say stop. I really did. Why did he have to wisecrack? Why did he have to make it so complicated? Can’t anyone ever just follow advice?” said Mabel.

“You don’t give advice, you only give orders,” replied Mr Hope with a raspy edge to his failing voice.

Still Mabel did not break the lock of eye contact with him, even as Constance slowly began to back away into the pews.

“What do you even want the freedom to choose for? Something disgusting most likely. Sometimes other people do know best. Life would be so much better if we acted like it, like I have.”

“Life,” sighed Mr Hope, every breath now a forlorn desperate whistle. But one last wistful exclamation of “Life” was all he could add before sprawling on the ground, speaking nevermore.

At that, Constance started to back away faster, her eyes pinned on Mabel, just as Mabel was focused on Mr Hope.

Another gunshot rang out.

Mr Hope, or the body that had been his, took the bullet the way only the lifeless could, without protest or movement.

“Any chance, any chance at all, that we could go back to how things were, Constance? I’d really like that. Life was so much simpler.”

“You killed my family, it’s as simple as that,” Constance replied

“Well, back to how it was aside from the dead people. Can’t fix that, be reasonable,” said Mabel.

Constance held back on her reply, she’d made it to a doorway with a dark corridor beckoning on beyond it. Mabel was staring her down now, but the gun wasn’t pointed at her. Yet.

“Why? Why do this?”

“Well…”

Constance took a chance and darted for the doorway, expecting a gunshot to ring out at any moment.

“Final warning, stop this, stop now,” came Mabel’s voice from behind the door.

Constance concentrated only on getting the door shut and feeling through the gloom to get the latch in place, knowing her life depended on it.

A gunshot cracked. For a moment in the stillness after the eruption of sound Constance wondered if she was dead. But no, she was still here, along with a shaft of light streaming through the newly made bullet hole in the door that had narrowly missed her.

Another gunshot.

This time the sound was all metal and mechanical. When Constance’s senses came to, she saw the door swing open, its latch fully blasted off. Pain was ringing in her ears and fear gripped her, but she wouldn’t just lay down to die. She ran. Not knowing when the end would come.

Gunshot.

A lancing pain erupted across her arm, but still she flew down the corridor. It must have only been a glancing shot, or had shock and adrenaline made for the perfect anaesthetic? She knew she had no time to investigate. Especially as she cornered the end of the corridor into somewhere new, yet bitterly recognisable in type.

Running through the room set up for the Church Tea and Coffee morning was like running back into her and Mabel’s shop. They even had the chairs set out just how she and Mabel liked them.

“Perfect,” said Mabel, stepping into the room. “Tea and coffee was our business together for so long, it seems appropriate we should finish it with some and a nice biscuit or two. Or do I have to pull the trigger again?”

Yes, again, thought Constance, how many times had Mabel pulled the trigger?

Constance quickly counted: two shots for Mr Hope, two for the Church door and one for her arm – Mabel might be down to her last bullet, if she hadn’t reloaded, that is. It gave her a chance, she knew, and a chance taken amidst the setup for tomorrow’s Church Tea and Coffee morning would have to do.

“Why did you do it, Mabel… why did you kill my family?”

Chapter 27 by Reino Tarihmen

“Ah, sweet Constance,” Mabel cooed, sounding genuinely surprised. “I honestly thought you must have worked it out long ago and only neglected to mention it only out of propriety. After all, murder is such a tacky subject when in polite company. But all the clues were there.”

Constance raised an eyebrow quizzically, “You mean…”

“Yes, my dear, the Josiah Spode tea set with the Masonic markings, the wicker man figurines for sale in the church gift shop…”

Constance picked up the thread. “…the strange lights over the moors, the way the cows all face east when they lie down, why the cockerel always crows thrice, even though there isn’t a cockerel, the Jones’ boy who speaks backwards and drools a lot, the way people’s shoes float off on aeroplanes if they don’t tie the laces to the seat in front…”

“All of that and more,” Mabel agreed, “all there for you to solve the most mysterious case of your life.”

“Yes, now I see it,” Constance sighed. “It all makes perfect sense now, and certainly explains why Reverend Hayes always wore New Rock boots. But you still have a bullet left, Mabel, and I’m not sure of your intentions. You did shoot me in the arm after all.”

“Ah, you have nothing to fear, my dear,” Mabel said reassuringly. “These are silver bullets and I winged you to confirm a theory, which I am pleased to say, resulted exactly in exactly the outcome for which I hoped. So now you understand, what say we put all this silliness behind us, get that teensy-weensy little scratch attended to and get ready for the Church Tea and Coffee morning tomorrow. There’s still a lot to do. And you’re so much better at scones than I am.”

Tentatively Constance approached until the two women were face to face.

Suddenly Mabel flung her arms open wide. “Hugs?” she enquired. “And no hard feelings about that little ‘murdering-the-family-in-a-sacrificial-orgy-of-violence’ thing?”

Hesitant for a moment, Constance’s stern demeanour cracked into a smile as she hugged her dearest friend. “Oh Mabel, I could never stay angry at you. And I really must get on if I’m to have those scones ready for tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Mabel, “and whilst you’re doing that, I’ll pop down to the basement and sort out the filling for the ‘Hope’ pies.”

“Waste not, want not,” Constance advised sternly, before the two ladies broke into fits of giggles.

Thanks everyone! The third Round Robin will be launching soon! If you'd like to take part, please throw your name into the hat by emailing me with the subject line ROBINIII.
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