Ambling back along the way she'd arrived at the Pumice property, the denuded trees around Willowsgate offered a cheval
glass of the bantam-sized Witch's review of village's predicament. Just like the surrounding bleak weald, Peggy Powler's
sweeping surmise was fragmented due to scant facts that would help her determine a logical trail. The sorceress gazed
down at the dried leaves scattered along the path before her and reluctantly arrived at the conclusion her theory was a
flimsy theory to go with -to say the least.
The ensorcelled store-owner had earlier remarked she'd observed a woollen vestment fall onto her lawn during her cursory
night time sighting of what Clementine Holt believed was the miscreant committing these dire crimes. The damaged railing
of Percy Pumice held fibres of the same material and to Peggy, this nebulous link was more vital than just moving the
suspicion away from a Werewolf being active around Willowsgate.
Breathing her annoyance through her nose, the Last Witch of Underhill tried again to negotiate her way around the riddle
of the relevance of sporting a sheep's fleece when prowling around at night? Committing violent acts would ensure any
splash of blood would undoubtedly be absorbed by such bibulous pelage and certainly could be a tell-tale of one's route
when departing from the scene. So why wear it?
Heading vaguely towards Arthur Thurgood's home, Peggy's mind ferreted around in her mind for the answer to all of this.
The first query to ponder on would be if her main line of evidence was a Wulpos had bedevilled someone in the vicinity
and encouraged that unknown to wear a woollen covering, then where did such a lanate garment come from?
Farmer Pumice didn't keep sheep and she hadn't seen any flocks of the animals on her way to Willowsgate. The damp
tufts on Clementine's lawn still held their waxy lanolin and that meant the wool had to come directly from either a ewe
or shrubbery that may have snagged it. But that would need a lot of gathering and the reason for such strange apparel
was still elusive.
Peggy's next puzzler was the order of the killings. Joshua Cutler was the first and then the milkmaid, but if it were a
starving animal as the preacher had stated, it would all be reversed. The oxen would be the obvious initial target as
they would be deemed more accessible and offer less danger of reprisals. Progressive audaciousness was the norm
for a wolf, not this descending advance of victim-choosing.
The twinkling of the lanterns from Willowsgate's square could be seen through the black fingers of the desolate trees
and so the perturbed spell-worker aimed her bare feet away from any opportunity of confronting those who would only
becloud her decipherment. The Gordian knot of the Wulpos awaited up ahead in the gloom of the late-afternoon and
Peggy's need to untangle it was a bewitchment in itself.
So the sequence of murders had to be relevant, the young man died for an unknown reason. Peggy was willing to
believe Agnes Campion's secret liaisons with her employer's son may be a factor in her killing, but the conundrum
of the cattle carnage still waited to solved. Arriving on the road across from Judge Stoddard's cultured mansion, the
brainstorming Half-Fae wondered if the aloof umpire of law could tender a clue. A clue and a hot cup of chicory.
.................................................................
Father Martin swallowed again and dragged his blank gaze from at the half-empty bottle on the little table in his vestry
and peered at the grey sky sitting outside of the only window to his private room. He would resist it again tonight and
maybe a couple more sips of wine would help him avoid the distressing dreams that had been visiting him since the
beginning of Autumn.
To see the fairly-new grave of the Cutler, the priest knew he would have to leave his rickety chair for a better viewing.
But he knew that if he did approach that little round window, his focus would be on the corner where the great elms
turned to parallel Willowsgate main artery and in that shaded junction, the root-encased old mound where he'd found
the jar. The thought begged to expand to the other corner of the cemetery where the milkmaid lay and sucking in a
gout of air, he quickly expelled that hamper of anxiety immediately with another swig of wine.
Defying the need to behold the resting place of his victims, Theodore Martin's bottom lip trembled in his damnation.
How could he continue with this execrable hypocrisy...? How could he maintain this falsehood to his congregation?
The vessel containing the blue grains whispered from the cupboard it brooded in and the priest felt the urge to visit
once more. "Oh my Saviour..." he breathed "...not again".
glass of the bantam-sized Witch's review of village's predicament. Just like the surrounding bleak weald, Peggy Powler's
sweeping surmise was fragmented due to scant facts that would help her determine a logical trail. The sorceress gazed
down at the dried leaves scattered along the path before her and reluctantly arrived at the conclusion her theory was a
flimsy theory to go with -to say the least.
The ensorcelled store-owner had earlier remarked she'd observed a woollen vestment fall onto her lawn during her cursory
night time sighting of what Clementine Holt believed was the miscreant committing these dire crimes. The damaged railing
of Percy Pumice held fibres of the same material and to Peggy, this nebulous link was more vital than just moving the
suspicion away from a Werewolf being active around Willowsgate.
Breathing her annoyance through her nose, the Last Witch of Underhill tried again to negotiate her way around the riddle
of the relevance of sporting a sheep's fleece when prowling around at night? Committing violent acts would ensure any
splash of blood would undoubtedly be absorbed by such bibulous pelage and certainly could be a tell-tale of one's route
when departing from the scene. So why wear it?
Heading vaguely towards Arthur Thurgood's home, Peggy's mind ferreted around in her mind for the answer to all of this.
The first query to ponder on would be if her main line of evidence was a Wulpos had bedevilled someone in the vicinity
and encouraged that unknown to wear a woollen covering, then where did such a lanate garment come from?
Farmer Pumice didn't keep sheep and she hadn't seen any flocks of the animals on her way to Willowsgate. The damp
tufts on Clementine's lawn still held their waxy lanolin and that meant the wool had to come directly from either a ewe
or shrubbery that may have snagged it. But that would need a lot of gathering and the reason for such strange apparel
was still elusive.
Peggy's next puzzler was the order of the killings. Joshua Cutler was the first and then the milkmaid, but if it were a
starving animal as the preacher had stated, it would all be reversed. The oxen would be the obvious initial target as
they would be deemed more accessible and offer less danger of reprisals. Progressive audaciousness was the norm
for a wolf, not this descending advance of victim-choosing.
The twinkling of the lanterns from Willowsgate's square could be seen through the black fingers of the desolate trees
and so the perturbed spell-worker aimed her bare feet away from any opportunity of confronting those who would only
becloud her decipherment. The Gordian knot of the Wulpos awaited up ahead in the gloom of the late-afternoon and
Peggy's need to untangle it was a bewitchment in itself.
So the sequence of murders had to be relevant, the young man died for an unknown reason. Peggy was willing to
believe Agnes Campion's secret liaisons with her employer's son may be a factor in her killing, but the conundrum
of the cattle carnage still waited to solved. Arriving on the road across from Judge Stoddard's cultured mansion, the
brainstorming Half-Fae wondered if the aloof umpire of law could tender a clue. A clue and a hot cup of chicory.
.................................................................
Father Martin swallowed again and dragged his blank gaze from at the half-empty bottle on the little table in his vestry
and peered at the grey sky sitting outside of the only window to his private room. He would resist it again tonight and
maybe a couple more sips of wine would help him avoid the distressing dreams that had been visiting him since the
beginning of Autumn.
To see the fairly-new grave of the Cutler, the priest knew he would have to leave his rickety chair for a better viewing.
But he knew that if he did approach that little round window, his focus would be on the corner where the great elms
turned to parallel Willowsgate main artery and in that shaded junction, the root-encased old mound where he'd found
the jar. The thought begged to expand to the other corner of the cemetery where the milkmaid lay and sucking in a
gout of air, he quickly expelled that hamper of anxiety immediately with another swig of wine.
Defying the need to behold the resting place of his victims, Theodore Martin's bottom lip trembled in his damnation.
How could he continue with this execrable hypocrisy...? How could he maintain this falsehood to his congregation?
The vessel containing the blue grains whispered from the cupboard it brooded in and the priest felt the urge to visit
once more. "Oh my Saviour..." he breathed "...not again".
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.