Wednesday, 21 June 2017
Gary was propping up the low wall surrounding the Fargo garden when Cleo drove up.
“There’s no one in,” he said, hugging Cleo briefly.
“That’s not really surprising,” said Cleo. “I expect everyone’s at work. What about the garden?”
“Chris has gone round the back, but nothing seems to have been disturbed recently and judging from the beautifully trimmed lawn edges and tidiness I should think they employ a gardener.”
“So it’s hardly likely that they would dig a large hole somewhere,” Cleo finished.
Thursday, 4th October
If Jane Barker had not joined the Finch Nightingales as provider of refreshments and modest addition to the altos, Louise Keys would have been less worried about the coming rehearsal!
Admittedly, if the issue with Toby Bates’ poisoning had not been a problem requiring urgent attention, the very idea that the soup served by Jane as light refreshment on a cool summer evening was contaminated might never have occurred to anyone.
Monday, 12 June 2017
It was no wonder that Cleo’s trip to Middleton library did not reveal much, since Bertie Browne published anything resembling anything in his twice-weekly Gazette that was long on page-filling, but short on information and entirely independent of accuracy. Hot air was good enough to fill the pages that were not devoted to price-slashing (if you can believe that) offers of cars, cats and cucumbers. The Fargo family did not merit a single mention.
Thursday, 25 May 2017
Cleo decided to find out more about the Fargo family herself before regaling Gary with Dorothy’s advice. It was just possible that the tramp had genuinely been mistaken for the deceased relative. One way into that mystery would be to find out who the tramp really was. Social services might know, but when asked they professed to have nothing to do with wayfarers, old or young, after passing them along to another department, usually the police.
Tuesday, 16 May 2017
Wednesday 3rd October
Edith Parsnip had allowed Robert to leave and was getting was ready for a lonely night when Brass banged the vicarage gargoyle against the solid oak front door, so she answered the door in her negligée, a flimsy garment that revealed more than it hid.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” apologised Brass. “I just need to know what you saw and heard behind the church hall, Mrs Parsnip.”
“It’s Edith and come in,” she said, dragging the surprised sergeant inside. “We don’t want to wake Miss Baker, do we?”
Monday, 1 May 2017
Tuesday 2nd October
Fred Bradley, known to everyone as Brass, was one of a rota of cops who ran the local constabulary in Upper Grumpsfield. It was really only a room with a counter and IT equipment, a coat stand and a tiny back room sporting hygienic facilities, a fridge and a coffee machine.