Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit #1

By Vivienne Fagan

Nobody suspects little old ladies of doing bad things... like sedating their house guests and strangling them with a machine knitted garrotte! Hilda Hopkins hits the road and outwits the police and everyone chasing her, but no one can run forever, especially not at her age and in those stockings!

Hilda can't help knitting a lifelike effigy of each of her 'Gentlemen' and it could be her passion for wool brings her undone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StreetWise Publications
• Release date: Jul 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9780980634686

Vivienne Fagan

Vivienne Fagan lives in London and is a retired Civil Servant and former serving member of the Intelligence Corps. She is an award winning machine knitter and mother of three who knows just how to do away with Hilda's next victims!

Book preview

Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit

Vivienne Fagan

StreetWise Publications

Published by StreetWise Publications

Suite 1/22 Waikanda Cres, Whalan, NSW 2770 Australia

All Rights Reserved.

http://streetwiseworldpublications.info

‘Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit’ first published 2011

Copyright Vivienne Fagan 2011

Fagan, Vivienne 1948-

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional. The publisher, author and their officers and assigns assume no responsibility for the misuse of wool or knitting machines. No yarn was harmed in the writing of this story.

Dedication

With grateful thanks to Kevin and Jamie-Lee for their advice regarding Police Procedure.

Prologue

There’s three of the things in here, Sir called out Police Constable Clive Barcroft, opening the door of a display cabinet in the corner of the sitting room. He glanced at a paper in his hand and compared the photographs shown there with the finely detailed faces of three knitted dolls who stood smartly to attention, held in place by doll stands.

Looks like Morris, Johnson and Bartlett, Sir. You know what, she’s bloody good.

The elderly woman sitting in the kitchen looked up as she heard the young constable’s comments. She smiled serenely and nodded.

There are another two in the front parlour, added DS Claire Naylor, either side of the mantelpiece.

That will be Mr Abbott and Mr Tompkins, murmured the old lady, and you’ll find Mr Smith in my bedroom, on top of the bookcase, next to Abigail. Of course I didn’t make Abigail, she continued vaguely, men are much easier, they are craggier in the face and there’s not so much shaping, perhaps the odd beer belly but one doesn’t have to worry about the size of the bra cups.

The police woman who was standing behind the old lady’s chair looked baffled. Was the old dear senile, and wandering in her mind?

Detective Inspector John Brent however had no such illusions.

So where have you hidden them all, Mrs Hopkins? he asked gently, we’ve found two in the coal cellar, and the one in the lock, where did you put the others?

Barcroft had appeared holding the three dolls in his arms. They were each about eighteen inches high, beautifully crafted with startlingly life like faces.

Oh, my little gentlemen, crooned Hilda Hopkins, you mustn’t take them away, they belong here. She stood up. I need to go to the toilet, she announced, making for the door. You’ll find Mr Abbott and Mr Tompkins behind the shed in the garden. They are not very deep, I just can’t handle a spade now like I used to.

She smiled benignly and headed towards the downstairs cloakroom as Brent moved towards the back door.

Leave those things on the table, Constable he told Barcroft, and come with me.

Claire Naylor hurried through from the front parlour and dropped two more dolls onto the table before following the men outside. The remaining officer, Barbara Grey examined the dolls as she watched the door of the cloakroom. They were all roughly the same height, but there the similarity ended. Each one had his own face and hair style. Barbara picked up the sheet of photographs of missing persons which Barcroft had laid on the table. The faces were very easy to identify. How had she done it? Some of the features had been formed by knitting in a contrast yarn, other details had been highlighted by the use of a fine permanent maker and fabric paints. Two of the dolls wore glasses, tiny little doll spectacles in perfect proportion to their faces. The clothes too were carefully crafted to suit each character, and fitted each doll perfectly.

Barbara glanced towards the cloakroom door. The old lady had been in there some time, she hoped she hadn’t passed out or anything. Eventually she crossed over and rapped on the door panels.

Are you all right Mrs Hopkins, she called.

There was no answer. Barbara stood there, unsure what to do. She rattled the doorknob but the door was locked. Concerned now, she decided to go round the house and try to look in through the window. To think was to act, and she let herself out of the front door. The cloakroom window was opened to its fullest extent, the cloakroom itself was empty. How on earth had a woman of that age climbed out of the window? And more importantly, where was she now?

PC Grey ran to the front gate and looked up and down Merrydown Crescent, nothing. Surely she couldn’t have gone through the back garden, not with all those police officers swarming all over it. She’d have to tell DI Brent that she had lost her. She’d lost the suspect, a woman who was alleged to have done away with six elderly men. He was not going to be best pleased.

Chapter 1

Hilda Hopkins sat in the corner of a café in Midchester and pensively stirred her cup of tea. She’d been lucky when she had left the house after scrambling through the window. She’d slipped down Merrydown Crescent and turned the corner just as the Midchester bus trundled along the main road. She’d had her bus pass in her cardigan pocket along with a small wallet of credit cards. Once arrived in Midchester, the neighbouring town to her own small village, Hilda had quickly cleared the dead men’s accounts of all their remaining money. Serves them right, she had thought, if