You might think that after 300 one-thousand-word postcards I would be scrabbling around for things to write about? That maybe I should stop my scribbling and become a little more serious, focus on writing a novel? One postcard in draft concerns some of the books I have enjoyed, some which continue to stay fresh in my memory years after I have read them and others I have been unable to finish. Often novels develop from short stories, expanding the characters, their backstories and the tale itself.  I scribbled what follows three years ago; hope it makes you smile.

“I suppose that, after so many years of being a detective, nothing should surprise me. But life has a habit of doing exactly that and last weekend’s events are a case in point. I was the on-call duty officer, expecting a quiet couple of days and the weather forecast suggested a family BBQ was a possibility. As I wrestled with weighty matters like charcoal and underdone steaks, my mobile rang. My wife Jill looked up as I took the call and immediately saw from my face that duty called.

“Sorry darling! There’s been a death at the summer fete in Folding-under-Sheet and the local chap wants some assistance. I’ll give you a call when I have established just what’s happened. Shouldn’t  be too long!”

Nestling deep in the Derbyshire Peak District, Folding-under-Sheet is a quintessential English village where time and customs turn slowly. Driving into the village I recalled its history, how the family in the manor had owned most of it until the beginning of the 1900s when Death Duties forced them to sell large tracts of land. Today Mrs Grace Girdlestone, (Note 1) the widow who lives in the mansion with her two daughters and son, would be in her eighties. Her daughters, headstrong and arrogant, were known to ride both horses and roughshod over the villagers but their mother would have been presenting prizes at the fete, as was her right!

 As I parked my car I saw PC Benson, a local policeman whom I had met previously, walking over.

“Hello Sir! Good to see you. It’s Mrs Girdlestone I’m afraid; she was found about an hour ago outside the refreshment tent with her skull smashed in.”

“Good God! Forensics on their way?”

“Actually they got here about 5 minutes ago; they are over there now. There are lots of witnesses, Guv! People in the Refreshment Tent heard Grace having a fearful row with her younger daughter Sophia; George was standing meekly by.”

“George?”

“Her son-in- law.”

“What was the row about?”

“In summary Grace said she’d heard Sophia was pregnant by Matt, who runs the riding stables, and that she was disinheriting her. She used a few choice words apparently, quite shocking some of the older people! George was speechless and ran out of the tent.”

“So we’ll need to speak to Matt: what’s his surname?”

“Weaver Sir.”

“OK! So Grace follows George out of the tent and she’s found with her skull smashed in moments later?” 

“Seems that way. The doctor’s doing the preliminaries right now; come on ……”

I walk over to see the duty forensics officer bending over the body.

“Hi! Mark! What have we got?”

“Looks like someone cracked her skull open with a wooden instrument. That somewhat new wooden-handled fork, the one with the maker’s name stencilled in blue, could be the murder weapon; it’s got a certain amount of blood on it. We’ll take it back to the lab for testing. No sign of a struggle, just this blue stain on her right middle finger.”

“Let me know what forensics say. Seems we have the suspect, motive and weapon. Wish they were all so easy. I’ll go up to the manor and look around.”

The manor house lies only a mile outside of the village so within 15 minutes I ‘m looking around Grace’s study. On her desk I find a handwritten note to her solicitors telling them of the changes she needs to her will. A quick scan confirms what witnesses had said the row was about. Sophia was to receive nothing from her mother’s estate, save for a string of pearls and one particular oil painting of a horse. An old Sheaffer pen, very worn and well-loved, lies on the paper. Returning to the fete I arrest George for murdering his mother-in-law.

The following morning I am enjoying a first coffee at my desk, with an appointment at 1100 with the Super to bring her up-to-date, when I’m called down to the front desk, where Mr Wallace and his teenage daughter Tanya are waiting. We find an empty interview room.

“OK Mr Wallace. Tell me what you told the desk sergeant.”

“I hate gardening but my missus has a real passion for growing vegetables. Do you like gardening Detective Inspector? Well, anyway, Doris had two huge Celeriacs in the Largest Vegetable Competition. Such a tragic thing to happen, Mrs Girdlestone and all and …..” 

“Why are you here?”

“Well, Stan won the largest carrot competition……”

“Please Mr Wallace, get to the point!”

“Doris got a prize and Tanya filmed her. We didn’t look at the footage until this morning ……. you had better see for yourself.”

They pass me Tanya’s phone; there’s Doris clutching her large Celeriacs  ……. and in the background is the outside of the refreshment tent. I pinch out the view …… and see Grace come running out ……. she must have tripped on a guy rope, put her foot out, caught that garden rake that had been left against the tent and got smacked very forcibly by the handle. She went down like a stone, her skull cracked like a breakfast boiled egg. No sign of George or anyone.

Back at my desk, I find a note. ‘Forensics just called. That blue stain on Mrs Girdlestone’s fingers? Quink Blue.’ (Note 2)

Richard 28^th October 2022

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Obviously known behind her back as GG

Note 2 Quink, a portmanteau from ‘quick’ and ‘ink’ is a fountain pen ink developed by the Parker pen Company in 1931 and remains in production.