Midsomer Maiden |1| The Trials of Midsomer

17. Who Killed Cock Robin?

In the sleepy old village of Newton Magna, Dr. Oliver Burgess was one of the few party-goers remaining at the home of the delightfully Mediterranean Francesca Ward. Most of the others had gone home long ago—only he, Francesca herself, and the infamous Melvyn Stockard remained.

And, in fact, Burgess himself was leaving, or at the very least making moves in that direction, pulling on his coat. "I've outstayed my welcome."

"Not at all, Dr. Burgess," Francesca assured him.

He blushed. "Oh, please... please call me Oliver."

She smiled. "Goodnight, Oliver." She kissed his cheek.

It was a wonder he didn't collapse from that alone. "Senorita Francesca..." He tore his gaze away from her and waved to Melvyn, who hadn't bothered to get up to see him out. "Goodnight, Melvyn."

"Take care, doctor," Melvyn called. He listened as the door closed, then Francesca returned to him.

"Oh, that boring, boring man," she sighed.

He chuckled. "He thinks you're Carmen."

"Carmen, of course!" She smiled, settling on his lap. "And, er... who is my Escarmillo?" They kissed.

***

On his way home along the dark roads, Dr. Burgess was singing to himself, utterly besotted with the lovely Francesca. "O, Senorita Francesca, you're the one for me..."

Something tall and pale flashed before his eyes and he swerved sharply to avoid hitting it, sending his car into a ditch.

***

He staggered into the pub fifteen minutes later, flagging down the landlord. "Bill, Bill, old fellow!"

Bill took one look at him and immediately set about pouring him a large whiskey. "What's happened, doctor?"

"I was up at the riding school with Francesca," Burgess explained, "and I fell under her spell. I finished up in a ditch down by Mary Mohan—by the goat!"

"Do you want a doctor?" Bill asked.

"I am a doctor." Burgess frowned at his drink. "And I shouldn't be drinking this." He downed it instead.

Bill clapped him on the shoulder kindly. "I'll call Frank. He'll tow you out and we'll all be none the wiser."

Burgess sighed, despairing. "No, no, Bill..."

"What?"

"I hit something."

***

Being the public-spirited kind of man that he was, Bill had closed up the pub and taken Burgess back to the scene of the crash. The goat in question trotted up to them as they approached, and he gave it a tickle, chuckling. "Old Billy's intact, thank the Lord. A stag, maybe?"

Frank Lightbourne pulled up in his truck. "Evening, gentlemen."

"This is kind of you, Frank, but I ought to call the police," Burgess worried.

"It's no problem, doctor," Frank assured him. "Look after our own, don't we, Bill?"

"Oh, no, no, I... I hit somebody. I didn't see them until..."

"Was it that new fellow, the Irishman?" Frank asked. "Isn't he renting your cottage, Bill?"

Bill nodded. "Yeah, he is. We'll see if he's at home, shall we?" He steered Burgess up the road, leaving Frank to sort out the wreck of the car.

"Oh, thank you," Burgess sighed. "I'm respected, you see, Bill. I can't just sweep this under the carpet..."

***