The Scarecrow Murder

By Daphne Coleridge

When a corpse disguised as a scarecrow is discovered at the Claresby village allotments, it is up to local sleuth Rupert Latimer of Claresby Manor to find out who is responsible for the murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daphne Coleridge
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201879402

Book preview

The Scarecrow Murder

A Claresby Mystery

By Daphne Coleridge

Copyright © Daphne Coleridge 2021

It promised to be a hot day in Claresby village, with temperatures of up to 30 degrees, so Lucy, who was something of a wilting English rose when it came to sunshine, decided to go out and water her allotment early. She had woken up at five anyway, had a cup of coffee and some stewed plums and yogurt, so by six o’clock she was ready for a morning walk.

Lucy had moved into her little cottage, which was as near to the centre of Claresby village as it was possible to be, about two years previously. Her aunt, Annie Hart, had lived there for very nearly a century, from birth to death, and had done very little to modernise it after her parents had died in the late 1950s. So, when she in turn inherited it, Lucy spent a bit of time and money bringing it up to date. But although it no longer had the clutter of sagging chairs, little tables and crowding of ornaments, it retained its charm, despite a more minimalist style and a very up-to-date kitchen.

As she went out into the already warm early morning, Lucy picked up a straw sun hat from a hook and bent to stroke the black and white cat which had been Annie Hart’s final companion and had been resident before Lucy and had no inclination to move on. The cottage stood by the village green and, after shutting the little front door, Lucy turned in the direction of the old manor house and the church, beyond which the allotments were situated. Both the church, which had a low Saxon tower, and Claresby Manor were mentioned in the Domesday Book, and it was likely that the village allotments had been tended for vegetables by villagers for at least as long as the church and manor had existed. Indeed, many had been handed down through the generations, and although there was a waiting list, and some newcomers from as far away as South Marlesby had taken over plots, Lucy had acquired hers by virtue of the fact it had once belonged to Annie Hart, so when the new incumbent gave it up, she was given first option.

It had been an exceptionally hot and dry year to date, but the Claresby villagers, confined as they had been to their homes by the Covid-19 crisis, had been more than usually attendant on their gardens, so the walk presented to Lucy a glorious display of English country gardens. One or two early birds were already out in their front gardens with watering cans, and Lucy smiled her greeting to them. Roses had put on a particularly good show that year, and she could scent their perfume in the warm early morning air. But there were also colourful greenhouse-grown geraniums on display in pots, as well as borders mingling an eclectic mix of antirrhinums (or bunny-noses, as Lucy thought of them), lupins, pastel and delicate sweet peas, and the thrusting stocks unfolding their vibrant colours.

Had she been going for a longer walk, Lucy would have turned east towards the Claresby and Marlesby woods. She contemplated a walk there later in the day, because it was always so cool and shady in the ancient woods, even on the hottest day. Claresby Wood combined oaks with hawthorn and tangled holly, but the paths were well trodden. Marlesby Wood was predominantly beech and had hosted a fantastic show of bluebells which had drawn out the villagers at the beginning of lockdown as they took their permitted daily walk, carefully greeting each other in the new socially distanced way, without the usual handshakes or embraces.

Truth was that most of those who had allotments had treated their visit to their plot as additional to a daily walk, and Lucy had quite often spent the morning on her allotment and then had an evening walk in the woods. The Claresby villagers collectively had been quite permissive in their interpretation of lockdown regulations, although keeping to the spirit of being careful and taking care of its elderly or vulnerable residents. But if someone had gone for more than a couple of walks a day, or been seen cycling across the village to chat to a friend over the fence, when having also been seen walking to the duck pond earlier the same day, only village shrew Anne Jones would have tutted at them. It was she alone who tutted at the middle-aged lovers, both of whom lived alone but continued to visit between their two homes. Not that they were creating any risk to anyone very much, but their flagrant breaking of the rules for romantic purposes was enough to draw her ire.

If the Claresby villagers had been tolerant of minor breaches of rules amongst themselves, it was less than welcoming to anyone who came from outside by car looking for a pretty walk. They tended to get hard stares, which was about as far as the villagers were prepared to go in an expression of disapproval.

Lucy passed Claresby Manor and the church and then turned down a wide bridle path that led to India Lane’s stables. The allotments were halfway down the path and entered via a locked gate. The fact was that it was possible to get a vehicle down the bridle path and, in the past, there had been those who had driven up and helped themselves to the decent tools, strimmers and mowers out of sheds. These days a few of the allotmenteers did park in the small gravelled area to the front of the allotments, but all members had to use a key, and the last one out had to lock the gate using the chain and padlock.

Lucy unlocked the two wooden gates and pushed them wide open. As she entered, she noticed a freshly replenished manure heap, courtesy of India’s horses. She made a mental note that she would collect a couple of wheelbarrows full for her compost heap before leaving. Manure was like gold dust on the allotments. India was given a couple of buckets full of apples and other produce from the allotment from time to time in recompense for delivering the manure.

Lucy thought how beautiful and tranquil the allotments looked in the early sun. Harvey Watson’s plot by the car park was a work of art with carefully demarcated areas for his onions and potatoes, long poles for his beans, strawberries and herbs in pots, and flowers to attract the insects, with little bug boxes provided. There was even a small pond. Much of the detail had been added by his son, Ned. Bob Keen’s plot was businesslike, with regimented rows of different types of potatoes, plenty of squashes, and ranks of fruit bushes. Her own plot bore the marks of an amateur but was still flourishing, with a good crop of strawberries ready to be picked, as well as enough gooseberries for a batch of jam. Next to hers was Dave Boyle’s plot. He was somewhat lavish in the use of weed killers and slug pellets, which annoyed Lucy, but his plot was well kept enough. The plot on the other side of hers belonged to Bill Smith, and the scarecrow he had recently made caught her eye and made her smile as she walked across her own plot. It was a very jolly one, with blue jeans, a red checked shirt, a somewhat incongruous black bowler hat and a blue handkerchief tied at the neck. But her glance was a cursory one, as she turned to see how many strawberries were ripe that morning.

Lucy had picked a punnet-full of strawberries and enough gooseberries for a crumble and put a couple of dozen cans of water on the plot and was feeling hot. She glanced again at the scarecrow, as if subconsciously she had already realised that there was something amiss with it. She stood up to look across Bill’s plot at it when it struck her. Someone had put a blue surgical mask on the scarecrow! A jokey reference to the current crisis. She wondered if Bill would be amused. But then she was distracted again by the thought that her plum trees would probably benefit from a can or two of water. The trees were full of fruit that year, and she didn’t want them dropping any for lack of water.

Lucy had been at the allotment for nearly forty minutes, and there had been no other early visitors. She thought it was time to go home for a cup of tea. But there was still something niggling at her subconscious. It was that scarecrow. There was something not right about it. Lucy squinted into the sun at the scarecrow and thought it looked bigger and bulkier than she remembered. She walked across the path dividing the plots and onto Bill Smith’s territory, stepping carefully between the rows of lettuces and other seedlings, whilst noticing from some trampling of the plants that someone else had not been as careful. As she approached the scarecrow, she was hit by the smell and saw the concentration of flies buzzing around it. She focused on one dangling hand. It was at that moment that a car pulled into the allotment car park.

LAURA LATIMER, WHOSE family had owned Claresby Manor (give or take a few changes down the female line) since before 1066, answered the knock at the big double doors at the front of the house dressed in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt with streaks of