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Is there anything more heartwarming than being received into the welcome and open arms of the venerable English village? Ah, the bosom of country life—that perfect entryway into the vestibule of traditional Englishness. That conduit of all things green and pleasant. That gateway into a thatched-roof-and picket-fence-filled Narnia, where the quintessential patch of hallowed grass that makes up the village green reigns supreme and every stranger is a friend waiting to share a pot of tea.
Welcome strangers one and all, for who can resist the allure of some harmlessly enthusiastic village community spirit? The helpful neighbors watching on kindly to ensure we never put a foot wrong … straining their necks across the maze of narrow lanes to pleasantly observe that rules are followed, proffering the friendliest tips on what traditions must be upheld—and at what cost.
Hark, the charm of cottages that compete demurely for picture-perfect superiority. All for the greater good of course, and never for individual gain, for remember, there are no egos here in the countryside, just a gentle persuasion to do better. And who can deny the charm of the window box brimming with geraniums and petunias, the riot of color—but not too colorful, the rusty iron gate—but not too rusty, the feigned autonomy, the faux individuality …
This place that a lucky few can call home. For all is safe and all is quiet when rural beauty is wrapped all around—just a cobbled street to trip you up here and a gaggle of ducks tottering by gently to pierce the silence there. This sleepy village is a place to belong to, a place to return home to, or perhaps even a place to disappear to. Time moves a little slower, everything has its place—and everyone must be kept in theirs …
Welcome. my friends, to Pudding Corner. This bucolic stage of familiar delights where all take comfort in ignoring the little things to focus on the bigger picture—a picture that conveniently never seems to change … if they can help it.
Daphne Brewster: New-ish to Pudding Corner, having relocated from urban south London to rural Norfolk two and a half years ago. The village’s Vintage Lady and amateur sleuth, she is a kind and inquisitive do-gooder who takes the side of the underdog.
James Brewster: Affable husband to Daphne, who is disapproving of her detective predilections.
Imani “Immy” Antoinette Brewster: Daughter and eldest of the Brewster children.
Archie Brewster: Twin son to Daphne and James.
Fynn Brewster: Twin son to Daphne and James.
Byron: The Brewster family pet; a characterful miniature dachshund named after Lord Byron, the 1800s poet.
Aggie: Short for Agnes; Daphne’s vintage beloved car, a 1969 Morris Traveller.
Marianne Forbes: A snobby and entitled ex-Sloane Ranger raging at the supposed injustice of her lack of financial clout and village social status.
Timothy Forbes: Long-suffering husband of Marianne, content with the simple life—unlike his other half.
Tarquin Forbes: Marianne and Timothy’s son.
Augusta Papplewick: Self-appointed guardian of parish social and moral standards.
Minerva Leek: Quiet and unassuming friend of Daphne, outcast from the village.
Silvanus Leek (known to his friends as Silver): Young son of Minerva, best friend to Imani Brewster.
Nancy Warburton: Formidable village gossip and proprietor of the Pepperbridge Convenience Store.
Patsy Warburton: Younger sister of Nancy and fellow gossiper.
Reverend Gerald Duncan: Local vicar.
Mrs. Musgrave: The principal’s secretary.
Inspector Hargreaves: Local police inspector dreaming of exciting cases beyond bucolic village life.
PC Maxine Clarke: Former pupil of Pepperbridge Primary School, now a local PC.
Lord Hugh Darlington: Local gentry, recently returned from Australia after an extended period of estrangement from his now deceased family.
Lord and Lady Darlington: Hugh’s parents, now deceased.
Edward Darlington: Hugh’s older brother, now deceased.
Lady Sarah Kirdale: Edward’s romantic interest.
Helena Carter: Former pupil of Pepperbridge Primary School. Known as the quietest and least troublesome of the five Carter girls, aka the H-Bombs. ‘Significant other’ to Hugh Darlington.
Mrs. Freestone: Editor of the Village Pump parish newsletter.
Early spring, March
Daphne Brewster absent-mindedly pulled on her worn leather driving gloves as she waited patiently for the youngest twin (by thirteen minutes) to slide into the back of the 1969 Morris Traveller van. Byron, her faithful little dog, was safely in the house and snoozing in front of the Aga, having been out for a much-welcomed run and a not-so-welcome digging break before the children had come down for breakfast. Now, with all three children in the car, and surprisingly ten minutes early, she was in no particular hurry this morning. She would rather take in the view and the crisp morning air than hustle the kids along and spoil the peacefulness of the moment. Moving to Norfolk had been all about finding some semblance of peace in an otherwise chaotic world, and bar one blip, she felt that at last she had found it. The Brewster family had settled comfortably into life at Pudding Corner after the rather unfortunate events—the blip—of the previous couple of years. It was as though the murder of Mr. Papplewick, the principal of the local school, and Daphne’s role uncovering who had been responsible for his untimely demise, had accelerated their acceptance into the fabric of village life. Daphne discovering, out-witting and subsequently incapacitating their former neighbor Dr. Ptolemy Oates, the unlikely perpetrator of the murder, led to a generous welcome that other newcomers had not experienced. It was a well-known fact that to become anything close to a “local,” one had to have lived in the county for at least ten years. It was only after a period of at least twenty-five years or so, with bonus points if you had a second generation living within the county perimeters, that you would reach the coveted status of actually “being from Norfolk.” As luck would have it, Daphne’s accidental sleuthing had inflated her currency to that of honorary local.
This was much to the annoyance of Marianne Forbes, who had been living in Pudding Corner for several years longer than the Brewster family yet was destined to remain a “townie newcomer” despite her attempts to propel herself to the forefront of the village pecking order. It didn’t help that these matters of social standing were decided on by a single omnipresent entity—in this case Augusta Papplewick: village doyenne and arbiter of parish rules. Augusta had only temporarily felt her crown of power shift during the confusion surrounding her husband’s death. After a period of time away from the village—including a three-month stint on a luxury cruise ship touring the Caribbean and a “Mozart and The Sound of Music” walking tour of Salzburg, her first proper departure from Pudding Corner since she had arrived as a less-than-trembling bride over forty years ago—she had returned refreshed, reenergized and surprisingly robust considering her newly widowed status.
Daphne sighed as she pulled out of the driveway of Cranberry Farmhouse, listening to the old-fashioned click of Aggie’s indicator and belatedly remembering to push in the choke. James will be listening and tutting, she thought, smiling wryly to herself as she pushed down hard on the accelerator to carefully glide around the curve that formed the “corner” in “Pudding Corner.” It was her favorite part of the drive and the children always giggled with glee as their bottoms slid to the left of the long bench seat despite their seat belts being tightly secured.
The journey to the small village school in nearby Pepperbridge, the parish that was home to the hamlet Pudding Corner, took only a few minutes as they drove past the familiar expanse of countryside populated mostly by fields currently filled with pigs and sheep. The scenery, lit up by the spring sunshine, worked its magic on her senses even though she had passed it so many times before, and she caught her breath as she took in the crescent-shaped row of medieval cottages and marveled at the view that evidently hadn’t changed for several centuries. Before long they had parked on School Lane and the children trotted off in front of her, shouting out to friends and waving small hands covered in mittens to ward off the nip in the air. After two years at the school, they all knew the routine, but Daphne still walked behind them, knowing that if even one of her three-strong brood looked back as they lined up after the bell had been rung, and she wasn’t there to meet their eyes or to match their smile reassuringly, there would be hell to pay at pickup time.
Imani, a rather studious and confident ten-year-old (who had only this week decided—subject to change of course—that her nickname of “Immy” was far too immature for her), had quickly found Silvanus and was showing him her solar system model made of large lumps of plasticine and popsicle sticks. An equally studious although far more serious child, Silvanus was the son of Minerva Leek, Daphne’s closest friend in Norfolk. Minerva was the person originally accused of Mr. Papplewick’s death, and who Daphne had been determined to prove innocent. In a shocking twist of events, it had turned out that Minerva was Mr. Papplewick’s secret daughter. So much for the serenity of the countryside … Meanwhile, the twins, Archie and Fynn, now aged seven and entering a curious stage often involving insects and dirt, had run directly to the pond. They were on the lookout for frog spawn and wondering whether (rather prematurely, according to a matter-of-fact Silvanus, considering the time of year) there were any “fat tadpoles” that they could bring home without Mommy noticing.
All in all, it was a very normal-seeming early spring morning—not too chilly, but certainly not mild enough to remove her gloves as Daphne waved goodbye to the children who walked in crocodile lines toward the classroom wings of the old Victorian school. She turned around quickly before Marianne, who she had just noticed stalking toward the school office, could see her. Even the sight of Augusta Papplewick waving goodbye to Silvanus was beginning to feel vaguely normal … Or at least she no longer felt compelled to shield the little boy from Augusta’s wrath. Daphne had witnessed several incarnations of Augusta. She started out as the disapproving matriarch of Pudding Corner, excluding Silvanus and his mother from the village, and she was now playing grandmother to her late husband’s secret daughter’s child. Not for the first time, Daphne thought that wonders would certainly never cease in this small village.
Having jumped back into her car and quickly sped off, narrowly avoiding Marianne and Augusta, Daphne parked less than half a mile away in front of her own shop which sat in a small row on what was grandly called the “High Street.” Unlocking her seatbelt and twisting around to grab her bag and a tub of homemade Bakewell slices from the back seat, Daphne realized that she’d forgotten to bring milk so she walked toward the Warburtons’ store before opening up. Patsy and Nancy Warburton were purveyors of Pudding Corner’s “finest” (but often out-of-date) goods. Patsy was the younger sister of the formidable village oracle, Nancy, and was now one of Daphne’s favorite people in the village. Getting to know Patsy, with her filthy sense of humor and very kind heart, had been another benefit of solving Mr. Papplewick’s murder.
Daphne’s shop, A Fine Vintage, was just a few doors down from the Warburtons’, which gave them the excuse to share a cup of tea and a homemade cookie most mornings. A Fine Vintage was one of her proudest achievements. A vintage furniture shop where she upcycled, restored and painted antique pieces, it was not only a long-held dream of hers but had gone from strength to strength and the business showed no signs of slowing down. Daphne was even being contacted by locals for interior decoration advice as well as simply sourcing and selling furniture.
Today though, Patsy was nowhere to be seen. Through the glass window, Daphne saw Nancy’s ankles, clad in wrinkled stockings, as the older woman stood sturdily on the wooden shop ladder stacking boxes of cereal on one of the highest shelves. Daphne wondered if Nancy knew how she looked from the other side of the window. Nancy’s stockinged knees were a familiar sight through the distorted ripples of the Warburtons’ glass, but for anyone passing through the village, it was a rather interesting spectacle. For non-Pepperbridge residents who entered the shop, their curious encounter continued when Nancy greeted them, revealing the deeply tobaccoed timbre of her surprisingly gruff voice. The most infamous East End gangster had nothing on Nancy Warburton’s reverberating tenor.
“Good morning, Nancy,” Daphne chirped cheerfully as she entered the shop, the bell tinkling loudly and announcing her arrival as the door swung itself shut behind her.
“Morning, Daphne,” Nancy responded after a few seconds’ pause.
She had a habit of doing that: tutting at the sound of the bell and leaving one wondering whether she was going to respond or not. It was always slightly unnerving. Luckily, Daphne was used to Nancy’s little idiosyncrasies, and knew that most of them were intended to throw people off guard. For Nancy and Patsy, acting as though customers weren’t in fact welcome was a sport. A bit of harmless fun. It kept the villagers on their toes. They didn’t want anyone to get too comfortable—unless it was of their choosing—and if you were lucky enough to be welcomed into Nancy and Patsy’s inner circle, then you had a loyal friend for life.
Pint of milk in hand, homemade Bakewell slices in the other, Daphne was just leaving the money on the counter when another customer entered the shop. It was Helena Carter, a hesitant woman of about thirty years of age, dressed in jeans, old riding boots and a tweed hacking jacket that looked about as old as she was. She wore her shoulder-length, mousy blond hair back from her face with a velvet headband and had a rather timid countenance as her eyes darted around the store.
“Good morning,” she eventually aimed at Daphne shyly.
“Good morning—Helena, isn’t it?” Daphne replied. She had seen her around the village before, mistaking her for one of the young mothers at the village school before Minerva had corrected her otherwise.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m Helena Carter—from the Old Hall.”
“Hmrpphhh.” Nancy snorted and then muttered something indistinguishable under her breath.
Helena’s cheeks flushed. “I, I saw you through the window,” she said to Daphne. “I was wondering whether I could ask you something—about your shop?”
“Of course, I’m just paying for this. Shall I see you outside my shop in just a second? It’s not open yet but I won’t be long.”
Helena gave a nod and took that as her sign to exit. “Brilliant!” she said breathily while simultaneously backing out of the shop at speed. “I’ll see you there. Thank you.”
Nancy peered down from the ladder as the bell rang to indicate the shop door closing. She “harrumphed” again. This time Daphne couldn’t help but laugh.
“Nancy! What’s the matter? And please be careful coming down, your tights are down past your slippers.”
“Lady Helena of the manor, my ass!” Nancy said abruptly. “She’s one of the Carter girls—I remember her as a child and back then she was just plain Helen with shifty eyes. Started off as a cleaner, went off to college for two minutes and now look at her. Lady La Di Da at Old Hall. I’d like to know what position secured her that position!”
Daphne was slightly shocked; it was the most that Nancy had said to her in months. Not since the time she had poured her heart out about her long-standing feelings for Mr. Papplewick, and her unsubstantiated fears for her sister Patsy, had Nancy revealed so much. She was normally a woman of few, and intimidating, words.
However, Daphne had heard this rhetoric before, unprompted from both Augusta and Marianne. Climbing above one’s station was not-so-subtly frowned upon by certain stalwart members of the village. It seemed that Helena—who had started out as plain old Helen Carter and was now, due to her recent engagement, Helena Carter of Darlington Hall—had done just that when she’d returned to Pepperbridge with an “a” at the end of her first name and a BA (Hons) at the end of her second.
An innate desire to keep people in their supposed place was one of the few things that Augusta, Nancy and Marianne had in common, albeit for different reasons. Marianne wanted to climb to the so-called top, Augusta wanted to stay on top and Nancy, being one of the longest standing members of the community and having seen many people come and go, taking their secrets with them and occasionally leaving a few behind, just liked to cause mischief.
The interesting thing about being a total newcomer was that you wouldn’t necessarily be judged immediately—especially as a Black woman from south London who had ended up in the English countryside. As such, Daphne was slightly uncompartmentalizable. She had often seen people trying to figure her out, attempting to place her on the social scale. She was well-spoken and proud to say she was born in Croydon—although few could figure that one out, and Marianne certainly hadn’t been . . .
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