Arthur Thurgood looked down at the woman beside him and cupped his hands to blow warm air onto his chilled fingers.
"I was stood here when Percy Pumice found the pair of dead bullocks" he murmured as he came to the conclusion that
his pockets would be better for his numbed digits. He and Peggy had enjoyed a slightly hurried -but hearty breakfast at
the table of the Thurgood household and this was where Peggy Powler had discovered Arthur's spouse's name.
Elsa Thurgood was a prim-and-proper woman, who was hesitant to have such a strange commoner under her roof as a
guest, but deep down she knew the little female sitting on a chair to big for her was one of her husband's kind. It was
obvious to the once-dark-haired lady in the high-collared dress during the meal and could see this in the manner they
chatted about the latest murders. Arthur would pose a question without his usual emasculated tone -a style that he
had slowly picked-up since coming to Willowsgate, and the dowdy-looking chewing woman would respond without
looking up from her plate of eggs and bacon.
After hearing that Miss Powler would be visiting the site of the cattle killings, her husband had merely mentioned that
he would accompany the little Witch and the strength of character she'd married fifteen summers ago was blatant for
her to see.
At first, Elsa would admit that she felt slightly left out of her husband's macabre interest in the slayings, but her fellow
citizens of Willowsgate had agreed that such terrible -seemingly supernatural crimes, required someone who swam
those types of waters. The ravenous woman scoffing down her breakfast across the table seemed to be that kind as
well as a person with similar breeding to her husband. If the culprit could be found and the village could get back to
normal again, then it was a small price to pay if Arthur consorted with a wandering specimen of the people they'd
left behind.
.................................................................
"I can tell you Miss Powler, I've never seen anything like it my life" Arthur added and watched the little female stoop
under one of the corral fence boards. Peggy hunkered down on the frost-infused blood-dark soil and carefully tugged
her poncho down to save Arthur's blushes. It was an old death scene and the analytical augurer guessed the maladroit
constabulary of Gaynestown had already ransacked the area for clues. Large boot prints abound the setting and here
and there, earth had been disturbed by their investigations.
The Last Witch of Underhill twisted her features in frustration and was about to rise from the wintry site when her eyes
caught sight of the wooden post where her kind host was standing. To even the most inquisitive of humans, it would've
been neglected as mere weathered scratches in the gnarled upright, but for the kneeling spell-binder, she recognised a
signature when she saw one.
"Ah' think yer' got yer'self a Werewolf..." Peggy croaked and looked up at the man who struggled with his social standing,
"...And Ah' think he's a crafty bugger -at that" she continued and stood to her full height. Arthur Thurgood's Adam's-apple
bobbed and as his new-found friend traversed the corral's fence, he began to warily survey the snow-scudded landscape
around him.
.................................................................
A parliament of rooks noisily made their way to whatever feeding grounds they'd agreed upon above the uneven couple
as they walked towards the church on the edge of Willowsgate. The new day was still young, but had matured enough
that the title of 'mid-morning' would be a fair eponym to call it in this neck-of-the-woods. Absently noticing there was
no lychgate to check for twisted sixpences, Witch-bottles or other superstitious trinkets to rebuff supposedly-baneful
wizards and warlocks, the unshod thaumaturge stepped onto the gravel path that lead to her Arthur Thurgood's place
of prayer.
It seemed to be traditional in the new religion to have dead people decorate the premises of where they worshipped
and as Peggy peered about the clipped-grassed area slowly ousting the last of the blizzard's snow, there were only
six grave markers and one of them was recently erected. The stoic sorceress said nothing, but she wondered where
the milkmaid had been buried. Elm trees flanked the open lawn where the deceased slept and the woman under the
big hat could imagine that in warmer weather, it would be a nice place for children to frolic. Of course, adoration to
to a divine being requires sedate huddling and not squealing young scions running around and being happy with their
world.
A round face peeked from the little window of the half-brick-half-wooden building and with past interactions with the
priests of this persuasion, Peggy wagered whoever it was watching their approach was in a room known as a vestry.
Smooth cemented boulders made up the skirt of the church and -though he hadn't mentioned it yet, Arthur Thurgood's
donation of prepared spruce and pine had brought the structure to a reasonable height. Last summer, the congregation
had enthusiastically agreed a spire was required to enhance the chapel and now a wooden tower pointed up to where
the rooks passed over.
Arriving at the tall door of oak, a balding figure suddenly appeared and in black garments decked with a white collar.
With a quick audit of the man's attire, the little Witch waited for the usual acerbic reception she received when she
encountered the Elders of this faith in the past. Father Theodore Martin stopped the couple in their tracks and offered
the smaller of his morning visitors a glare of fairly-composed revulsion. "Here now..." he growled "...we cannot have
the likes of her setting foot into a holy place, Mister Thurgood. This is consecrated ground and such unprincipled folk
sully the very tenets of our religion".
Peggy slowly removed her wide-brimmed hat, smiled up at the vainglorious vicar and replied "Can Ah' ask yer' summit'
Mister Priest, does yer' congregation know about yer' takin' sup of the magic wine yer' keep in yer' vestry?"
If it hadn't been for the distant caws of the hungry rooks, the graveyard of the elite would've been silent.
"I was stood here when Percy Pumice found the pair of dead bullocks" he murmured as he came to the conclusion that
his pockets would be better for his numbed digits. He and Peggy had enjoyed a slightly hurried -but hearty breakfast at
the table of the Thurgood household and this was where Peggy Powler had discovered Arthur's spouse's name.
Elsa Thurgood was a prim-and-proper woman, who was hesitant to have such a strange commoner under her roof as a
guest, but deep down she knew the little female sitting on a chair to big for her was one of her husband's kind. It was
obvious to the once-dark-haired lady in the high-collared dress during the meal and could see this in the manner they
chatted about the latest murders. Arthur would pose a question without his usual emasculated tone -a style that he
had slowly picked-up since coming to Willowsgate, and the dowdy-looking chewing woman would respond without
looking up from her plate of eggs and bacon.
After hearing that Miss Powler would be visiting the site of the cattle killings, her husband had merely mentioned that
he would accompany the little Witch and the strength of character she'd married fifteen summers ago was blatant for
her to see.
At first, Elsa would admit that she felt slightly left out of her husband's macabre interest in the slayings, but her fellow
citizens of Willowsgate had agreed that such terrible -seemingly supernatural crimes, required someone who swam
those types of waters. The ravenous woman scoffing down her breakfast across the table seemed to be that kind as
well as a person with similar breeding to her husband. If the culprit could be found and the village could get back to
normal again, then it was a small price to pay if Arthur consorted with a wandering specimen of the people they'd
left behind.
.................................................................
"I can tell you Miss Powler, I've never seen anything like it my life" Arthur added and watched the little female stoop
under one of the corral fence boards. Peggy hunkered down on the frost-infused blood-dark soil and carefully tugged
her poncho down to save Arthur's blushes. It was an old death scene and the analytical augurer guessed the maladroit
constabulary of Gaynestown had already ransacked the area for clues. Large boot prints abound the setting and here
and there, earth had been disturbed by their investigations.
The Last Witch of Underhill twisted her features in frustration and was about to rise from the wintry site when her eyes
caught sight of the wooden post where her kind host was standing. To even the most inquisitive of humans, it would've
been neglected as mere weathered scratches in the gnarled upright, but for the kneeling spell-binder, she recognised a
signature when she saw one.
"Ah' think yer' got yer'self a Werewolf..." Peggy croaked and looked up at the man who struggled with his social standing,
"...And Ah' think he's a crafty bugger -at that" she continued and stood to her full height. Arthur Thurgood's Adam's-apple
bobbed and as his new-found friend traversed the corral's fence, he began to warily survey the snow-scudded landscape
around him.
.................................................................
A parliament of rooks noisily made their way to whatever feeding grounds they'd agreed upon above the uneven couple
as they walked towards the church on the edge of Willowsgate. The new day was still young, but had matured enough
that the title of 'mid-morning' would be a fair eponym to call it in this neck-of-the-woods. Absently noticing there was
no lychgate to check for twisted sixpences, Witch-bottles or other superstitious trinkets to rebuff supposedly-baneful
wizards and warlocks, the unshod thaumaturge stepped onto the gravel path that lead to her Arthur Thurgood's place
of prayer.
It seemed to be traditional in the new religion to have dead people decorate the premises of where they worshipped
and as Peggy peered about the clipped-grassed area slowly ousting the last of the blizzard's snow, there were only
six grave markers and one of them was recently erected. The stoic sorceress said nothing, but she wondered where
the milkmaid had been buried. Elm trees flanked the open lawn where the deceased slept and the woman under the
big hat could imagine that in warmer weather, it would be a nice place for children to frolic. Of course, adoration to
to a divine being requires sedate huddling and not squealing young scions running around and being happy with their
world.
A round face peeked from the little window of the half-brick-half-wooden building and with past interactions with the
priests of this persuasion, Peggy wagered whoever it was watching their approach was in a room known as a vestry.
Smooth cemented boulders made up the skirt of the church and -though he hadn't mentioned it yet, Arthur Thurgood's
donation of prepared spruce and pine had brought the structure to a reasonable height. Last summer, the congregation
had enthusiastically agreed a spire was required to enhance the chapel and now a wooden tower pointed up to where
the rooks passed over.
Arriving at the tall door of oak, a balding figure suddenly appeared and in black garments decked with a white collar.
With a quick audit of the man's attire, the little Witch waited for the usual acerbic reception she received when she
encountered the Elders of this faith in the past. Father Theodore Martin stopped the couple in their tracks and offered
the smaller of his morning visitors a glare of fairly-composed revulsion. "Here now..." he growled "...we cannot have
the likes of her setting foot into a holy place, Mister Thurgood. This is consecrated ground and such unprincipled folk
sully the very tenets of our religion".
Peggy slowly removed her wide-brimmed hat, smiled up at the vainglorious vicar and replied "Can Ah' ask yer' summit'
Mister Priest, does yer' congregation know about yer' takin' sup of the magic wine yer' keep in yer' vestry?"
If it hadn't been for the distant caws of the hungry rooks, the graveyard of the elite would've been silent.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.