Edith Langford. Longborough’s new schoolteacher, was still getting used to rural life. So far her first country walk had taken her through some beautiful fields and near some rather frightening cows. Mrs. Lundy, chatting away by her side, assured her that cows were harmless, but Edith had her doubts. She could feel them watching her, as she and Mrs. Lundy climbed a hill and entered the woods bordering the village.
“Oh, those bothersome children!” Mrs. Lundy interrupted a long story about a cousin to shake her head at the rubbish on the path.
“The village youth?” Edith smiled.
“Always leaving rubbish about and starting nasty-smelling bonfires, I wonder the council doesn’t do something about it.”
The collection of food wrappers, branches, and cigarette ends was indeed impressive. There was even a button and a shiny buckle glinting on the path, and Edith wondered what on earth had happened to the poor coat they belonged to.
Mrs. Lundy pointed an accusing finger at the undergrowth.
“It’s really too much! This time they’ve left a pair of wellies!”
Edith peered at the green soles just visible under a pile of leaves. Something about them gave her an uneasy feeling. She approached slowly and shifted the leaves with her foot.
“Mrs. Lundy,” she said, “I’m afraid the owner of the wellies is still wearing them…”
The speedy descent of Edith and her friend down the hill and towards the constable’s house startled even the placid Longborough cows, but Edith was too preoccupied to worry about them. Her hands were still shaking when she conducted Constable Horn back to the spot where she’d discovered an undoubtedly dead body.
The constable prodded the leaves with his truncheon, revealing a white face.
“Oh dear,” he muttered. “So he went and done it.”
“Do you know this man?” asked Edith, curiosity overtaking shock.
“That’s Farmer Sutton. Owns the biggest farm in the village. I’d better ring up the detective… ” The constable looked stressed, and Edith tactfully retreated.
She and Mrs. Lundy retired to the village cafe to fortify themselves with tea and wait to be interviewed.
“Fancy a detective coming here, all the way from Woolston,” said Mrs. Lundy excitedly. “Most of the murders Constable Horn just deals with.”
Edith nearly choked on her tea. Country life, she thought.
“Must be that new chap,” continued Mrs. Lundy. “Very keen and up on all the latest methods, from what I hear. I suppose he thinks we can’t cope with things on our own.”
Edith’s mind was still on the dead man.
“Constable Horn said the man was Farmer Sutton,” she said. To her surprise, Mrs. Lundy reacted just like the constable.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe Joe finally did it.”
“Joe?”
“Joe Birch, his neighbour. They’d been feuding these twenty years, but I never thought he’d make good on his threats.”
“What was the feud about?” asked Edith.
“No one knows for sure. It must have been something small to begin with, but Farmer Sutton just kept stoking the quarrel until they couldn’t be in the same room without shouting.”
“Oh dear,” murmured Edith. “Was he like this with everyone?”
Mrs. Lundy prided herself on knowing all that went on in the village — gossip, some might call it — and she launched readily into an account of Sutton’s dealings with the world.
“Oh, he was a bad-tempered soul, he was. Take his son Will, for instance. Such an enterprising lad, always thinking of new ideas for the farm, modern, you know. And what does his father do but ridicule him in front of all the farm hands. Told him he was no good, and he might as well put Lily in charge!”
“Lily?”
“His daughter. She hates the farm. Won’t have a thing to do with it. She lives in the village and works at the pub, and you know I really think one of these days she’ll up and disappear and we’ll hear of her on the music-hall stage.”
Mrs. Lundy nodded sagely. Edith guessed that in the eyes of the village, the music-hall stage represented all the vices of London at once.
“How did Sutton treat his workers?” she asked, although she was beginning to guess.
“He was quite the slave-driver, I hear. Not to mention Daniel Smith. The poor fellow had the temerity to ask Lily to step out with him, and Sutton sacked him on the spot and drove him off the farm! A hard man by all accounts.”
“I see.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead, of course,” Mrs. Lundy added primly. Edith suppressed a smile.
“Miss Langford?”
A tall young man in a grey suit was making his way towards them, followed by Constable Horn.
“I’m Detective-Sergeant Anderson,” he said, shaking hands. Edith noticed the amused twinkle in his blue eyes — he’d clearly caught the end of Mrs. Lundy’s recital. Suddenly she felt indignant in the face of this newcomer. She repeated the story of how they’d found the body, answering the detective’s questions coldly and succinctly.
She’d hardly finished when Mrs. Lundy burst out with:
“Are you going to arrest Joe Birch?”
The detective frowned.
“Ma’am I’m afraid that’s not—” he began, but Constable Horn cut him off.
“Don’t worry about these two, sir, they’re all right,” he muttered. “No Mrs. Lundy, I can’t say as we could arrest Joe.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because Joe Birch has just about the best alibi a man could have,” said the constable. “He was in the pub at the time, having a drink — with me.”
Daria Writes 