Anne of Gruesome Gables
The body was found in the grounds, away from the house, over amongst the broad, ancient oak trees. A startled cry heralded the discovery, on that chilly, wet, April evening. The authorities were called, arrived and busied themselves, making a lot of noise, it seemed to old Mrs. Hardacre, and a lot of mess. She ruefully considered an old adage, as she hunched in the rain, watching the activity as so many uniforms rattled around the copse, concentrating on their own small tasks and not a single one gaining any notion at all of what had happened.
Death, it was, that had happened. A young life completed, far too early, perhaps. Despite the time passing, despite the tape, the tent, the photographs, the notes (the endless notes), still no-one had any idea whose soul had owned and used that body. Almost no-one, thought Mrs. Hardacre, as she heard yet another car approach along the long, drive, a gently rolling crunch building in a familiar, gentle way, culminating with a louder, final sound as the vehicle came to an uncertain stop.
But this car was different. No sirens, no markings, small, grey, indistinct. Out stepped a woman, a woman of medium height, with hair that was neither long, nor short, and a beige mac that had surely (one would hope) seen better days.
Mrs. Hardacre gave her little thought, journalist maybe, or just a ghoulish passer-by. Mrs. Hardacre should maybe have paid more mind to the driver of the grey two-door, for this was her nemesis. How could Mrs. Hardacre have known this was the principal authority, the sharpest (if troubled) mind for many miles around. This was Anne. And she was here to solve.
Today I wrote between 23:27 and 23:37. I was prompted by an idea here.
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