Murder Fantastical

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IT WAS A beautiful September evening, warm and golden, with a rich promise of more fine weather to come. In the garden of Cregwell Manor, in the county of Fenshire, the apple trees were bent low under their burden of fragrant fruit, and the bees buzzed lazily among the russet chrysanthemums or made their way heavily and erratically across close-cut green lawns. Serenity reigned, and in all the three acres within the garden walls there was no object more serene than the lord of the manor himself, Sir John Adamson, Chief Constable of Fenshire. He had finished mowing the grass, and was now relaxing in a swing on the terrace, feeling that he had more than earned his pipe and his tankard of beer.

It was with no pleasure at all, therefore, that he became aware of the insistent shrilling of the telephone through the open window of his study. However, a Chief Constable is never off duty. Conscientiously, but with bad grace, Sir John heaved himself out of the comfortable seat and plodded in through the French windows.

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