A Sumptuous Feast [A Sam Puckett Novel]

Darker Than Midnight

In a quaint little cottage nestled amidst rolling hills, lived Agatha, a woman with an air of mystery about her. Her eyes, a shade darker than midnight, seemed to hold secrets untold. And her husband, Henry, was known to all as a cheerful fellow, often seen strolling through the village with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips.

Yet, beneath the facade of marital bliss, a sinister plot brewed. Agatha's mind, twisted and devious, had concocted a plan so wicked that even the trees shivered when she whispered it to herself. The poison, a vile brew of moonlit mushrooms and venomous violets, found its way into Henry's supper that fateful night.

As the clock struck midnight, the village constable, a stout man with a monocle perpetually perched on his eye, arrived at the cottage's doorstep. He had received a tip from a gossiping sparrow, who had overheard Agatha's dark murmurs in the wind. The constable's mustache twitched with suspicion as he interrogated her, the moonlight casting eerie shadows upon her face.

"Dear constable," Agatha purred, her voice as smooth as silk, "I have no idea what you're talking about. My Henry and I were enjoying a quiet meal just hours ago."

But the constable's monocle glinted as if it could see through her ruse. He sniffed the air and exclaimed, "Aha! The scent of something sinister hangs in the room. Fess up, Agatha!"

With a dramatic sigh, Agatha confessed to the crime, describing the deadly brew she had prepared. The constable's monocle nearly popped out in shock. "You wicked woman!" he exclaimed, summoning the village constables to arrest her.

The trial was a spectacle that brought the villagers out in droves, whispering and gasping as they heard Agatha's chilling testimony. The judge, a stern figure with a beard that seemed to have a life of its own, listened intently before pronouncing, "Agatha, for your heinous crime of poisoning your husband, Henry, you shall be sentenced to a lifetime in the darkest dungeon of Dreadmoor Castle."

As the heavy dungeon door clanged shut behind her, Agatha's eyes gleamed with a strange mixture of defiance and satisfaction. She may have been imprisoned physically, but her wicked spirit remained unbroken. And so, the legend of Agatha, the poisoner of husbands, was whispered around campfires for generations to come, a cautionary tale of the darkness that can lurk beneath a seemingly innocent smile.