Well yes, it was technically a gap in the bushes at the rear of Willowsgate's church premises. But due to infrequent use,
poncho-snarling bramble vines demanded Arthur Thurgood to find something more captivating with his eyes as Peggy
Powler wrestled through the thorny tentacles. "Gerroff yer' blasted bast... yer' buggers!" the writhing spell-worker cursed
to herself as she eventually pulled away from the tangled brier and reset her snagged apparel. "Sorry about that" the Last
Witch of Underhill murmured humbly in her receding fluster and followed the retired saw-mill owner's current undertaking
of surveying their next area of investigation.
The orchard was of course barren of leaves and fruit at this time of the year, yet the little necromancer couldn't help but
immediately think that man-made fruit plantations didn't count as true orchards. Neat rows of stark, pared-down trees
standing in a sheep or goat-grazed grove had always felt contradictory to Peggy as her wanderings would occasionally
allow her to discover hidden wild fruit groves with abundant yields that contained the true taste of nature.
Still, we all have our opinions and so standing beside the only man in Willowsgate the bare-footed outremer believed
was close to her social-caste, she forgo mentioning her pessimistic thoughts of drupe-farming born from involuntarily
showing her lack of underwear and just asked where Joshua Cutler's body had been discovered.
Arthur narrowed his eyelids for a moment and then sighed softly. He hadn't actually seen the young man's torn-up torso
after it was discovered, but later had visited Judge Stoddard and the old man had vaguely pointed to where he and his
dog Banjo had found Cutler's remains. "I think it was over that way" Arthur said into the cold air of noon and copied the
action of the honourable owner of the orchard and indicated the general location of the killing.
Known as the fruit that were fed to the Gods grew old and a remedy to colour the cheeks of the dead when a blossom
is placed in their coffins, the strict rows of apple trees seemed more sentry-like than the affectionate craobhs legends
often painted them as. Peggy's mind idly recalled the titles of the various types of apple that counties would use and to
boost her spirits from her recent encounter with the pompous priest and the barbed octopus of the bushes, the ambling
augurer genially wondered when 'Powler's Pom' would be sold in marketplaces.
One saving grace was Stoddard's design of the orchard and it met the scrutinising sorceress' approval. The old ways of
planting fruit trees involved the quincunx method, where one sapling is planted in the centre of four others. Even though
the retired Judge's orchard looked regimental and in a line, Peggy could see that with every step across the snow-melted
turf, the rows of apple trees seemed to be radiating away from the viewer.
"This Judge-fella knows his apples" the small woman under the wide-brimmed hat quipped to her taller partner and then
noticed the falter in his step. Old-man Stoddard might be able to set the odd-looking trespassers to the correct location
for Wassailing, but Arthur Thurgood wasn't sure of the locale of where the wealthy young rascal had met his end. Luckily
for the man who liked to work with his wood and had backed Peggy earlier at Father Martin's church, the approaching
shambling shape and his dog might hold the answer.
.................................................................
If Peggy Powler's prior mood was still with around from her encounter at Father Martin's domain, the little spellbinder
may have caustically remarked that Miles and Margot Cutler's son endured a style of crucifixion on the lower boughs
of the stunted apple tree. However, she didn't believe her small audience of the old magistrate, his constant-roving,
grass-sniffing hound and her nervous companion would appreciate such dark commentary. Instead, Peggy listened
to the conservative umpire of justice's account of his grisly discovery and eyed the scene of the crime.
"The boys-in-blue from Gaynestown -after examining the whole orchard, initially suggested the culprit was Banjo..." he
said in his thick low monotone and an ambiguous wave towards his restless dog. If the respectable Benjamin Stoddard
had emotions, he kept them deep in his his barrel chest and the thick overcoat he wore. "...They found paw prints almost
everywhere and it wasn't until I reminded them that this orchard belonged to myself and a place where I regularly walked
my trusty-tyke, did they come to their conclusion a hungry wolf had somehow penetrated the environs of Willowsgate"
he appended with a subdued chortle.
Arthur Thurgood peered up into the bare sprigs of the apple tree and the dirty-grey sky. It had been some time since the
murder had taken place and the recent blizzard had taken care of most of the blood-soaked soil. But still, his tower of
solitude felt awful tempting to be at right now than here in this forsaken grove of an atrocity. "Maybe their proposed wolf
has moved on?" Arthur suggested and just before Peggy was to toss her consort a glance of surprised puzzlement, she
realised he was attempting to draw other clues from the old man wiping his nose on his sleeve.
"My boy, I recall from previous judicial cases in my past that a wolf wouldn't dissect a body in such an upright position
and allow itself to be so vulnerable in such an open place..." Stoddard growled with smoky incredulity. The sequestered
referee held a habit of assuming everybody he interacted with were aware of what he believed were facts. "...It became
obvious to me later that the Cutler-boy's arms were jammed between the branches -not because his executioner caught
him in the act of climbing the tree, but because such a gruesome pose would spawn a greater preponderance of fear"
he advised his fellow resident of Willowsgate and the pocket-sized peasant who seemingly couldn't afford shoes.
Peggy peered into the red-rimmed eyes of the orchard-owner with the runny-nose and attempted to pick his brains.
If Benjamin Stoddard knew that whatever had performed these slayings had the acumen to propagate dread from the
herd it was preying on, he must be aware that such a verdict would severely limit what that 'whatever' might be. It was
at that moment when the ex-Judge leaned over to the presumed-provincial in the shoddy poncho and acrimoniously
whispered "You've got yourself a monster, my dear-girl".
poncho-snarling bramble vines demanded Arthur Thurgood to find something more captivating with his eyes as Peggy
Powler wrestled through the thorny tentacles. "Gerroff yer' blasted bast... yer' buggers!" the writhing spell-worker cursed
to herself as she eventually pulled away from the tangled brier and reset her snagged apparel. "Sorry about that" the Last
Witch of Underhill murmured humbly in her receding fluster and followed the retired saw-mill owner's current undertaking
of surveying their next area of investigation.
The orchard was of course barren of leaves and fruit at this time of the year, yet the little necromancer couldn't help but
immediately think that man-made fruit plantations didn't count as true orchards. Neat rows of stark, pared-down trees
standing in a sheep or goat-grazed grove had always felt contradictory to Peggy as her wanderings would occasionally
allow her to discover hidden wild fruit groves with abundant yields that contained the true taste of nature.
Still, we all have our opinions and so standing beside the only man in Willowsgate the bare-footed outremer believed
was close to her social-caste, she forgo mentioning her pessimistic thoughts of drupe-farming born from involuntarily
showing her lack of underwear and just asked where Joshua Cutler's body had been discovered.
Arthur narrowed his eyelids for a moment and then sighed softly. He hadn't actually seen the young man's torn-up torso
after it was discovered, but later had visited Judge Stoddard and the old man had vaguely pointed to where he and his
dog Banjo had found Cutler's remains. "I think it was over that way" Arthur said into the cold air of noon and copied the
action of the honourable owner of the orchard and indicated the general location of the killing.
Known as the fruit that were fed to the Gods grew old and a remedy to colour the cheeks of the dead when a blossom
is placed in their coffins, the strict rows of apple trees seemed more sentry-like than the affectionate craobhs legends
often painted them as. Peggy's mind idly recalled the titles of the various types of apple that counties would use and to
boost her spirits from her recent encounter with the pompous priest and the barbed octopus of the bushes, the ambling
augurer genially wondered when 'Powler's Pom' would be sold in marketplaces.
One saving grace was Stoddard's design of the orchard and it met the scrutinising sorceress' approval. The old ways of
planting fruit trees involved the quincunx method, where one sapling is planted in the centre of four others. Even though
the retired Judge's orchard looked regimental and in a line, Peggy could see that with every step across the snow-melted
turf, the rows of apple trees seemed to be radiating away from the viewer.
"This Judge-fella knows his apples" the small woman under the wide-brimmed hat quipped to her taller partner and then
noticed the falter in his step. Old-man Stoddard might be able to set the odd-looking trespassers to the correct location
for Wassailing, but Arthur Thurgood wasn't sure of the locale of where the wealthy young rascal had met his end. Luckily
for the man who liked to work with his wood and had backed Peggy earlier at Father Martin's church, the approaching
shambling shape and his dog might hold the answer.
.................................................................
If Peggy Powler's prior mood was still with around from her encounter at Father Martin's domain, the little spellbinder
may have caustically remarked that Miles and Margot Cutler's son endured a style of crucifixion on the lower boughs
of the stunted apple tree. However, she didn't believe her small audience of the old magistrate, his constant-roving,
grass-sniffing hound and her nervous companion would appreciate such dark commentary. Instead, Peggy listened
to the conservative umpire of justice's account of his grisly discovery and eyed the scene of the crime.
"The boys-in-blue from Gaynestown -after examining the whole orchard, initially suggested the culprit was Banjo..." he
said in his thick low monotone and an ambiguous wave towards his restless dog. If the respectable Benjamin Stoddard
had emotions, he kept them deep in his his barrel chest and the thick overcoat he wore. "...They found paw prints almost
everywhere and it wasn't until I reminded them that this orchard belonged to myself and a place where I regularly walked
my trusty-tyke, did they come to their conclusion a hungry wolf had somehow penetrated the environs of Willowsgate"
he appended with a subdued chortle.
Arthur Thurgood peered up into the bare sprigs of the apple tree and the dirty-grey sky. It had been some time since the
murder had taken place and the recent blizzard had taken care of most of the blood-soaked soil. But still, his tower of
solitude felt awful tempting to be at right now than here in this forsaken grove of an atrocity. "Maybe their proposed wolf
has moved on?" Arthur suggested and just before Peggy was to toss her consort a glance of surprised puzzlement, she
realised he was attempting to draw other clues from the old man wiping his nose on his sleeve.
"My boy, I recall from previous judicial cases in my past that a wolf wouldn't dissect a body in such an upright position
and allow itself to be so vulnerable in such an open place..." Stoddard growled with smoky incredulity. The sequestered
referee held a habit of assuming everybody he interacted with were aware of what he believed were facts. "...It became
obvious to me later that the Cutler-boy's arms were jammed between the branches -not because his executioner caught
him in the act of climbing the tree, but because such a gruesome pose would spawn a greater preponderance of fear"
he advised his fellow resident of Willowsgate and the pocket-sized peasant who seemingly couldn't afford shoes.
Peggy peered into the red-rimmed eyes of the orchard-owner with the runny-nose and attempted to pick his brains.
If Benjamin Stoddard knew that whatever had performed these slayings had the acumen to propagate dread from the
herd it was preying on, he must be aware that such a verdict would severely limit what that 'whatever' might be. It was
at that moment when the ex-Judge leaned over to the presumed-provincial in the shoddy poncho and acrimoniously
whispered "You've got yourself a monster, my dear-girl".
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.