Midsomer Maiden |1| The Trials of Midsomer

2. Written In Blood

In the height of the English summertime, the sleepy little village of Midsomer Worthy was blooming with splendid floral displays, with public and private gardens alike blossoming marvellously. And not only was nature thriving, but so were the creative minds of the Midsomer Worthy Writers' Circle who, on such a fine sunny afternoon, were naturally to be found indoors working on their latest creative endeavours.

Gerald Hadleigh was one such writer, sat in front of his vintage typewriter while his elderly cleaning lady, a Mrs. Bundy, bustled around behind him. In his state of concentration, he hardly even heard her call out to him as she left the house.

"Bye, Mr. Hadleigh! Have a nice evening, then!"

Instead, he was lost in his novel. Phoenix turned and fired twice, the thirty-five millimetre bullets spitting through the air, entering the brickwork two inches to the left of the Russian thug's shoulder. A moment later came the reply of the Uzi semi-automatic, and Phoenix twisted round.

At that moment, indeed, so did Hadleigh, realising he was now alone. "Mrs. Bundy?"

***

At the same time, Mrs. Laura Hutton was strolling through the village, working on her own novel in her head as she went. Her lips, searching the sapphire, honey-scented darkness, found his cool, forceful, unresisting. And as the frozen waves crashed down—

"Afternoon, Mrs. Hutton!" Mrs. Bundy called cheerfully.

Laura Hutton jumped. "Oh! Afternoon, Mrs. Bundy."

"Got your meeting, have you?"

"Yes, I'm on my way. Is Gerald—Mr. Hadleigh—is he in?"

Mrs. Bundy smiled knowingly. "Yes. You'll be the first."

Laura smiled, pleased. "Will I? Oh, right." Mrs. Bundy headed into the village shop, and Laura went on, her novel's latest steamy scene gaining ever more momentum in her mind. He pulled her towards him, his powerful, masculine hands tearing at the silk fabric of her Gaultier nightshirt...

***

At his house across the green, a Mr. Brian Clapper was also working on his novel on his word processer. Scum! Scumbag! Scumbag! Scumbag! Scum! The repetitive beat of the inner city drum. Scumbag! Scumbag! Scumbag! Scum!

Clapper smiled to himself. "Yes." Then he saw his wife coming in carrying what looked very much like a children's toy, and his smile turned to a scowl. "What is that?"

"It's Hector," she told him, oblivious to his distemper. "My dragon. I thought I might take him to the writers' group."

"Ye Gods, woman, you're not serious?!"

She ignored him, leaning over to look at his work. "How's it going?"

"It was going very well until you interrupted me," he told her pettily.

"Scum," Sue read aloud. "Scumbag. Scumbag. Scum." She tilted her head. "It's a bit repetitive, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is!" Clapper sighed exasperatedly. "That's the point!"

***

Meanwhile, in the cold stone heights of Gresham Hall, Ms. Honoria Lyddiard was writing her historical memoir. ... Sebastian Lyddiard, great-grandson of Herbert Lyddiard, who'd served under Sir John Jarvis against Napoleon...

She was interrupted by the entrance of her sister-in-law, Amy Lyddiard. "We ought to go, Honoria. We're going to be late."

"They can wait," came the peremptory reply. "I've almost finished the eighteenth century."