Murder in Marwick (standard:mystery, 3051 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Mar 13 2004	Views/Reads: 3691/2492	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A traditional English village whodunnit, feturing eight unnatural deaths.

MURDER IN MARWICK 

“Good Lord!” Cried Sir Reginald MacSwede, CBE, having stepped timidly
onto the road, and been forced back by a reckless driver. 

“Young ruffian!” He shouted, waving his cane in rage at the disappearing
car.  Really, he thought, what was the younger generation coming to? 
And just as he thought that the influence of popular music, fast food 
and television had been firmly stamped out in Marwick, along came this 
picture of hooliganism and youth, driving at at least 50mph.  Something 
told him he was going to see more of that car, and would come to hate 
it. 

Coming directly from London, Detective Chief Inspector Tree had almost
instinctively raised his middle finger at the old man he had been 
passing.  He had been proud at himself for lowering his speed to 50mph. 
It was not good coming straight from a busy city where he had an 
interesting homicide every week to Marwick, a very English village, 
where his work would consist of finding out who had swapped their 
second-rate begonias for Mrs. Hopkins's prize-winning orchards, and 
where front-page news on the local gazette was “Rude Man Drops Litter!” 
No, it was not going to be the restless excitement of his previous job. 


They had to all be on drugs, especially that man he had passed with the
bow tie, tuxedo and neatly trimmed moustache.  Had he never seen a car 
before? 

But it was true that Tree had not seen more than three cars since he had
entered the village.   He arrived at the station where he was met with 
the entire force for Marwick – Sergeant Fish and WPC Gowning, who 
explained that the previous Inspector had been brutally murdered.  In 
London, of course, working on a drugs operation. 

“A drugs operation?” 

“Oh, don't worry, Inspector Tree.  We won't put you onto that.  Don't
worry, here at Marwick we can guarantee you peace and quiet for your 
first day.  In fact, we haven't had a murder since 1816, and there 
hasn't been a real robbery here for two years.  Isn't that right, 
Sergeant Fish?” 

Fish gleefully nodded.  Tree had been afraid of that. 

Just as Tree opened his mouth to enquire about the location of the
coffee, the telephone rang.  He picked it up, said “Detective Chief 
Inspector Tree,” and listened. 

“Is that the new Inspector?  Oh, thank God.  You've got to come quickly.
It's Mrs. Wilkins, my housekeeper.  I think something's happened to 
her.  Her head's been bashed in or something.  She's dead!” 

Mrs. Wilkins lay sprawled at the foot of her staircase.  Shards of a big
blue china vase, which had clearly caused death, the assassin having 
smashed it over the housekeeper's head, lay scattered up to about a 
metre radius from the body. 

“Who found the body?” Asked Inspector Tree of WPC Gowning. 

“A Miss Eileen Jarrod.  She's about forty.” 

“And...?” 

“And what, Sir?” 

“And how did she find the corpse?” 

“Hadn't she better tell you, Sir?” 

“Perhaps not in London.  Next of kin?” 

“For Miss Jarrod, Sir?  Why?” 

“Not for Miss Jarrod, for Mrs. Wilson, or whatever her name is.” 



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