The Meadowford Mysteries – Book One

Maude’s brogues were heavy with mud as she emerged into the clearing that served as garden to ‘Lone Cottage’. Dusk was falling, accompanied by a searching Autumn mist. The complaints of her niece, Celia, who was a few yards in her wake, assaulted Maude’s ears. Trailing brambles caught Celia’s jacket and low branches scraped her face; she was fed up with her Aunt’s demands. Behind the two women, Celia’s husband Mortimer crashed through the bushes like a wounded buffalo. Reaching the clearing, the three stood regarding the ruinous cottage. It was almost beyond belief that two elderly women called this isolated, ramshackle place home. ‘Dotty! Dotty!’ screeched Maude into the gloom. There was no answering bark. The Colonel felt he was getting beyond this kind of lark. His breath came in gasps and he thought wistfully of his own fireside and his beloved pipe. Maude and her ridiculous little dog Dotty took up far more time than he would have chosen. But really, what choice did he have? The old girl was in her seventies now. ‘Maude, do you think Dotty may just have run home?’ he asked wearily. ‘That dog’s a darned nuisance, Aunt!’ snapped Celia. Why she can’t come when she’s called, like my Gingernuts always does, I do not know!’ For answer, Maude called again. ‘Dotty! Where is that dratted dog?’ ‘Ssh, Maude,’ said Mortimer, ‘You’ll scare those old Pentelow sisters to death, screeching outside their cottage in the dark.’ ‘But are they at home?’ mused Celia. ‘There’s no light showing anywhere. Look, the curtains aren’t closed and the door’s wide open!’ ‘Rum old girls, those two,’ remarked Maude. ‘Both half dippy if you ask me. Pushing eighty now and they always were a bit weird.’ ‘Aunt, do be quiet!’ said Celia crossly. ‘They’ll hear you. They must be in there, where else would they be at half past seven in the evening?’ The Colonel sounded thoughtful. ‘Must be hard for ‘em out here with no neighbours. Better make sure they’re OK I suppose.’ ‘Give them a knock, then, Mortimer – see what’s going on,’ suggested Celia. Maude was restless. ‘I can’t hang about, got to find that dratted hound of mine. Maybe I’ll go home - Dotty might have turned up by now. Cheerio.’ Maude’s stocky form disappeared through the trees. Her stentorian calls to her dog gradually faded away. Mortimer knocked on the worn plank door. Silence. An owl hooted, apparently only yards away. Celia jumped, shivered violently, and grabbed her husband’s sleeve. ‘Try again, Mortimer! They’re both deaf as posts, I believe!’ A second knock had no effect and the two stood uncertain, waiting and listening. ‘Do you think we should go in, Mortimer?’ asked Celia doubtfully. ‘Why not? After all, we’re not being nosey, just neighbourly,’ came the gruff reply. ‘We’d better check they’re all right. Funny the door’s open.’ Celia put her head through the low doorway. ‘Hello! Elfrida! Gladys! May we come in?’ No answer. Celia ventured a few steps into the shadowy interior of the one-up, one-down cottage, dragging her husband behind her. He coughed loudly to announce their presence. The silhouettes of the two elderly sisters, sitting either end of a table, were just visible in the twilight. An oil lamp in the centre of the table seemed to have burned out. The odour of cheap paraffin lingered in the air. ‘Good evening, ladies, forgive the intrusion. You know us – Colonel Blunkett and the wife. We were just passing and we noticed your door was open …..’ A sudden scuffling and clucking caused Celia to grab nervously at her husband’s arm, as two bedraggled hens scuttled out from under the table and made their escape through the open doorway, disappearing into the twilight. Tentatively, the Colonel touched the shoulder of the nearest sister, who was slouched awkwardly in an ancient chair of rough-hewn wood. Her head in its raggedy cloth bonnet was tipped strangely sideways against the high-backed chair. As he withdrew his hand, to his horror the wizened little body slithered sideways, then slid down onto the brick floor. Celia leaped back towards the door emitting a piercing scream. ‘Mortimer! You clumsy brute! You’ve knocked her off her chair!’ ‘Jeepers! Well blow me down!’ exclaimed her husband, staring in bewilderment at the huddled bundle of clothes at his feet. He nudged the body with his foot, recoiling as he felt the total lack of response. ‘Nonsense, Celia, I only just touched her, light as a feather, and down she went! Come on, you were in the Red Cross, check her over! Let’s see what’s up with the other old girl.’ Gingerly, he stepped through the gloom to peer into the face of the other sister, which was difficult as her head and shoulders were slumped on the table. ‘Hello m’dear…. Gladys, isn’t it? Bit pale about the gills, eh? Off colour today?’ Celia gently rolled old Elfrida’s body over on the cold brick floor. She did not like what she saw. Celia seemed to have lost the power of speech and could only swallow nervously as she moved to join her husband, full of apprehension. Summoning her failing courage, she lifted the strands of unkempt dry hair that hid the face of the second sister, whose shoulders were slumped on the table. She prodded the unyielding grey flesh. There was just enough light to distinguish a pair of blank staring eyes and a gaping toothless mouth. Celia stood as if frozen beside her horrified husband, finally articulating what they were both thinking, her usually strident voice emerging as the merest bat-squeak. ‘Not off colour, Mortimer, but dead! They’re both stone dead! Poor old things!’ She glanced around the cluttered room. A blackened pot stood on a trivet beside the mean little grate, which held only cold ashes. The unappetising remains of a meal were in bowls on the table, with a crust or two, and mugs in which tea leaves reposed. One mug lay sideways in a small pool of tea. A strange stale smell hung in the air, mingling with the odour of various bunches of drying herbs, tied round with string, which dangled from the beams above. As the Colonel moved around the low room – little more than a hovel – the herbs brushed against his face and head, increasing his feelings of panic as he tried to make sense of the scene. What a pitiful end to the unremarkable, joyless lives of two helpless old women. He turned to his wife, his face full of helpless pity. ‘What a way to die. Of course, you’re right, old gal, they’ve both snuffed it! Bit of a coincidence, both dying together, though, in the middle of a meal…. smells a bit like fish, I’d say. They don’t seem to be injured at all. Wonder what happened?’ Celia had pulled herself together and was regaining her usual business-like command of every situation. ‘Goodness knows! Whatever happened here is a mystery for a doctor to solve, and for the police. So come on, Mortimer, it’s back home for us to phone for help.’ She marched purposefully towards the open door. ‘Hoi, wait for me, old gel! The legs are a bit wobbly, we should stick together,’ said Mortimer, stumbling after his wife. It was his turn to grab her by the arm now. Glad to leave the desolate scene, they quickened their steps, the Colonel using his trusty Malacca cane to swipe at trailing brambles encroaching on the narrow pathway. Full of trepidation they hurried home through the gathering darkness to raise the alarm.