Tag Archives: crime

“AgathaChristiethon, anybody?”

“AgathaChristiethon!”

Yesterday,

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

was the first

many followed

few bettered.

Today’s AgathaChristiethon

starts with A Pocketful Of Rye;

while the weather is appalling

It helps the day slip by.

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Releasing Colin Dexter.

Releasing Colin Dexter.

Colin Dexter,

to my knowledge,

was not a great texter

when he went to college

(mostly due to the fact

that mobile phones they lacked)

but he did write a lot

not about Camelot

but crime a lot.

He lived near to Oxford

and had a local fish shop

that he frequently frequented,

near to Summertown.

Anyway,

he

is not the Colin Dexter

that I am talking about.

Colin Dexter (the Mouse)

visited our house late one night

(or early one morning)

courtesy of Rosie the Cat.

We rescued little Colin,

made sure he was well,

treated him as one of the family.

But, a wild creature

should be returned to the wild,

and so, today,

I released Colin Dexter

(and Ellis Peters –

who Rosie the Cat

had brought home for a game of Tag this morning)

back into the wild.

Fate thee well

and enjoy your lives

Colin and Ellis.

Tales from the Whom Household (A Work in Progress)

hash-tag dialogueforaplay

An Episode in the #dialogueforaplay series

Dr. P: Hello! I’m Doctor Proctor, Vector Inspector.

Maud: Really?

Dr. P: Yes. Don’t you believe me?

Maud: Well, it is a bit far-fetched.

Dr. P: I am an imminent physician!

Maud: Don’t you mean ’eminent?’

Dr. P: I might do. In time. Who is asking?

Maud: Whom?

Dr. P: Okay; ‘whom’ is asking?

Maud: No. I am Lady Whom, Lady Maud Whom. The last in a long line of Whoms.

Dr. P: Ah! Just the parsonage that I was looking for!

Maud: If you are looking for the Parsonage, it’s by the church – as is usual in these villages.

Dr. P: Sorry? I think you misunderstand, or misunderstood me. I was looking for Lady Whom.

Maud: You ‘was’ looking for her? Have you stopped looking for her now, young man?

Dr. P: I have. Seeing as how I has now found her whereabouts; which turned out to be hereabouts.

Maud: Or thereabouts!

Dr. P: Precisely! I was misdirected the wrong way by some youths on the traffic islands at the edge of the village.

Maud: Layabouts… on roundabouts.

Dr. P: In-deed!

Maud: And in fact, supposéd doctor.

Dr. P: I must speak with you.

Maud: Then we must stop this conversation immediately.

Dr. P: Or sooner.

Maud: Very well. (There is a short pause) About what would you speak to Lady Whom about?

Dr. P: Do you always speak of yourself in the third person?

Maud: Yes; I used to play cricket.

Dr. P: Ah! I see.

Narr: Though he clearly didn’t.

Dr. P: And who or ‘whom’ are you Sirrah?

Narr: I am the narrator to your conversation; I add a few details here and there to allow the listener (or the reader) to understand what is going on.

Dr. P: Why should they be akin to that knowledge when we so clearly are not?

Narr: It is the way of things in this sort of genre, Dr. Proctor.

Dr. P: Harrumph!

Maud: Yes. I can see that it may be a help to our audience; but, it is a bit unfair on us.

Narr: I have no free will in this, malady; my words have been written for me in advance.

Dr. P: What! Are we predestined to a destined destination?

Narr: Yes.

Maud: And we have to follow a path set out for us.

Narr: Yes.

Dr. P: Without any hope of ultimate salvation?

Narr: Yes.

Maud:

Marple, Jane Marple.

image

Geraldine McEwan

” St. Mary Mead, two-three-five?”
And off Jane goes
Another murder
In another hall
Or library,
Vicarage,
Or the like.

Her mind sorts out
The scarlet fish
From the Scooby-Doos
And we know that
In the end
All will be revealed.

And the Butler…?

Probably not.

Why Adkins Had To Die (extended: because I’ve written more of it)

crime-detective-murder-mystery

Adkins was barely into the first sentence of his novel when he received a stiff blow to the back of his head – he died instantly.
I know because I was that writer.

Howard Richmal Adkins, born 3rd May, 1957, died 3rd May, 2015 – not the best birthday that I’d ever had, but the most memorable from the viewpoint of my now being a ghost.
I think that after due consideration I was held back from the afterlife because there was a serious wrong outstanding that needed me to put it right. The main reason for my requirement being that I was the only one who knew that a serious wrong ‘was’ outstanding.

I had been considering writing my novel for some time now – as a first novel there was little time left to me before my expiry date (how little, even I was surprised at) and so I had set myself the task of sourcing an adventure that could then be written up as a book that took the best-seller lists by storm. As of current count, I have still to sell a copy – due to my unexpected and untimely death.

However, let me stop all this waffling and take you back to the start of my actual ‘real-life’ adventure.

It was on a day in late November back in the year 2012, about eleven-fifteen at night, and I was stranded in deepest, darkest Oxfordshire. The last bus had long gone and I was miles from civilisation.
I had been to one of these ‘raves’ where the music pumps like a jack-hammer into your brain and the lights and smoke dull any clarity in your unfocused mind. There was a lot of drink in evidence and little pills to lift you up – and also some to bring you back down again – both of ‘these’ I avoided, just.

I had been looked upon as an ‘oldie’ by most of the ‘bright-young-things’ there; but, I was accepted without question into the ranks. True, I was grandfather material to a lot of the youngsters, but I was not alone in the ‘wrinkly-brigade.’

My companion on that eventful night was a lady (by ‘our’ standards) who went by the name of Letitia du Worthy (don’t ask) a mid-forties woman from the late-sixties (you do the maths) with a mid to upper class ancestry that made Tottina Toffville from Tottington look like gutter trash (or so she told me).

Lettie (my rave name for her) and I (called by her ‘How?’ Yes, always as a question) had been gyrating our moves on the dance floor amongst the fit young things as though we didn’t care, and as though no-one was looking (though they were – and laughing). We stopped after a seasonable amount of sweat and toil and removed ourselves to the makeshift bar for a light refreshment – which turned out to consist of bottled alcohol, with tart, sugary flavourings that could only be described as… well, tart!

“Getting on a bit!” I called to Lettie above the noise.
“Speak for yourself!” She mouthed back.
“No – the time!” I explained; feeling that she knew that anyway.
“It’s nine-fifty-five!” She mimed exasperation at my lack of staying power. “I’m staying for more – off you go to Beddie-byes!”
I realised that it was much too early to leave; another half-an-hour, perhaps.
And that was when I mistakenly drank from the wrong bottle of tartness (although I didn’t immediately realise) and soon keeled over in the midst of ‘Radalalaboomthang’ or the like.
They pulled me off the floor and propped me up to the side near an air flap (so I was unreliably informed later) so that I could recover. They initially thought that I was having a heart attack (but, that was before I keeled, and was just my antiquated dance moves).

I never saw Lettie again. Nor my wallet and its contents.

When I recovered enough to leave (and after a futile search for Lettie) I left. Finding myself in the aforesaid bleak Oxfordshire countryside at 11:15pm with just my clothing and empty pockets.

Except, that is, for a folded piece of paper that I discovered with a phone number on it – one of those ‘mobile’ ones.

‘How?’ I asked myself. This was quickly replaced by the more interesting ‘Who?’ And if I had been a Douglas Adams’ creation, I would have then asked ‘Where do I go for the best breakfast this side of the Apocalypse?’ But, I wasn’t, and so I didn’t. Shame.

I pushed that number deeply back into my pocket for later; and got on with the job in hand of finding my way home.

I recalled the address where I lived rather well; though how to get there was a little less forthcoming. I decided to keep walking along this road and see where it led (which is the story of my life really). Off I went, dimly thinking that the sun would rise in the East, and I would be able to reach London by Christmas. The fact that I lived in Oxford, and wanted to reach there by breakfast being a later update to my thinking.

#dialogueforaplay (Tweets 106-111)

hash-tag dialogueforaplay 106-111

106

PC Leaves (it’s his name) leaves.

Lady W: Do you think he suspects?

Syd: He hasn’t a clue!

Stiff: He’s not alone.

Tbc

107

Syd: Are you still alive?

Stiff: I’m ‘invincible!’

Lady W: I can see you!

Stiff: Really?

Lady W: As plain as this!

Tbc

108

The dagger gets the stiff ‘really’ dead.

Lady W: Now that ‘we’ have cleared the field, the Whom fortune is mine!

Tbc

109

Syd: Yours?

Lady W: Yes, mine, take this!

Syd: A bottle with ‘Poison!’ writ on it!

Lady W: I’m all out of knives.

Tbc

110

Syd: Do you really think I’m going to drink this?

Lady W: Not at all – that’s why I coated the bottle in poison.

Tbc

111

Syd: You…

Syd dies

Lady W: …win?

PC Leaves returns.

PC: I’m going to need a bigger notebook!

PC Leaves leaves

Tbc

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#dialogueforaplay (Tweets 91-105) The Ending is Nigh!

hash-tag dialogueforaplay 91-105

91

The PC chases doctors off stage. DCI looks bemused.

DCI: I look confused. Ergo: I am confused. I do follow. Leaves.

Tbc

92

Lady Whom, DC Acey and Laura/Laurence Protocol are left along with the stiff.

DC Acey: I don’t know about you lot.

Tbc

93

Lady W: Really!

DC Acey: I hadn’t finished – I was going to add ‘but, I’m confused!’

Laura: Well, you’re not alone!

Tbc

94

Lady W: Is he dead yet?

Laur: I’ll kick him.

DC Acey: Ouch!

Laur: He’s alive.

Lady W: I meant ‘him!’ (points)

Tbc

95

Laur kicks the stiff.

Stiff: Ouch!

Laur: He is ‘also’ alive.

Lady W launches a knife into the stiff.

Stiff: Really!

Tbc

96

Lady W: I had to do that; he’s been asking for it.

Laur: I didn’t hear him.

DC Acey: ‘And’ he ‘was’ already ‘dead!’

Tbc

97

Lady W: I just need to remove a couple of witnesses.

DC Acey: I pity them. More throwing daggers?

Lady W: Oh, yes!

Tbc

98

Laur: I think she means ‘us!’

DC Acey: Really?

Laur: I wish we’d all stop saying ‘really!’

Lady W: Your wish is…!

Tbc

99

Lady W throws 2 knives and DC Acey gets the point, Laura gets a 6-inch blade neatly between the eyes!

Lady W: Bye!

Tbc

100

Lady W: Being in the circus was excellent training for life… or for death… situations; I’m so glad I ran away!

Tbc

101

The Policemen Return.

DCI: Hello three times; what’s been going on here, then?

Lady W: Are you talking to me?

Tbc

102

DCI: Seems like you are the ‘last man standing!’

Lady W: Really!

DCI: it’s just a phrase!

PC: He’s going through!

Tbc

103

Lady W: I saw it all!

PC: You look like you’ve been around a bit!

Lady W: A masked man ran into the room and slew!

Tbc

104

DCI: Slew?

Lady W: Yes ‘slew!’ And having slewed, he ran off into the night!

PC: It’s 3:30!

Lady W: The afternoon!

Tbc

105

DCI: Constable, we are going to need some more ‘chalk’ outlines. If you can just mosey off, good lad. Don’t rush.

Tbc

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