It's the Spook, Spookiest Season of All

 

Seasons greetings to one and all! It's that “most wonderful time of the year” when Andy Williams promises us, among other things, that there will be "scary ghost stories.” Ha! The only ghost story you are likely to encounter this Christmas is that over-roasted chestnut by Charles Dickens, in one of a myriad different adaptations currently streaming and/or running on one of the cable channels. But believe it or not, long before Jim Carey, the Muppets, Mickey Mouse, Mister Magoo, or even Alistair Sim, ghost stories—truly scary ghost stories—were as much a part of Christmas as Hallmark movies are today.

I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It is the darkest time of the year.

I've been trying to revive the Christmas ghost story tradition for almost a decade, having now posted seventeen examples of the genre on this blog. This year I'm happy to report that I'm not the only one who has shown an interest in reviving the tradition. I'm currently reading a brand new collection of contemporary horror stories: Christmas and Other Horrors, edited by Ellen Datlow. It includes a deliciously chilling ghost story by Nadia Bulkin, the climax of which occurs during the traditional “airing of grievances” at a Festivus party.

I wish I could post that story; it's better than the one that follows. This one isn't bad, though, and it has the distinct advantage of being in the public domain. It was written by Hugh Walpole, who had a successful career in the early 20th century as a writer of novels, short stories, and plays. However, soon after his death his writing was considered old-fashioned, and his works have been largely forgotten.

The Snow
by Hugh Walpole (1929)

The second Mrs. Ryder was a young woman not easily frightened, but now she stood in the dusk of the passage leaning back against the wall, her hand on her heart, looking at the grey-faced window beyond which the snow was steadily falling against the lamplight.

The passage where she was led from the study to the dining-room, and the window looked out on to the little paved path that ran at the edge of the Cathedral green. As she stared down the passage she couldn’t be sure whether the woman were there or no. How absurd of her! She knew the woman was not there. But if the woman was not, how was it that she could discern so clearly the old-fashioned grey cloak, the untidy grey hair and the sharp outline of the pale cheek and pointed chin? Yes, and more than that, the long sweep of the grey dress, falling in folds to the ground, the flash of a gold ring on the white hand. No. No. NO. This was madness. There was no one and nothing there. Hallucination …

Very faintly a voice seemed to come to her: ‘I warned you. This is for the last time… .’

The nonsense! How far now was her imagination to carry her? Tiny sounds about the house, the running of a tap somewhere, a faint voice from the kitchen, these and something more had translated themselves into an imagined voice. ‘The last time …’

But her terror was real. She was not normally frightened by anything. She was young and healthy and bold, fond of sport, hunting, shooting, taking any risk. Now she was truly stiffened with terror—she could not move, could not advance down the passage as she wanted to and find light, warmth, safety in the dining-room. All the time the snow fell steadily, stealthily, with its own secret purpose, maliciously, beyond the window in the pale glow of the lamplight.

Then unexpectedly there was noise from the hall, opening of doors, a rush of feet, a pause and then in clear beautiful voices the well-known strains of ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ It was the Cathedral choir boys on their regular Christmas round. This was Christmas Eve. They always came just at this hour on Christmas Eve.

With an intense, almost incredible relief she turned back into the hall. At the same moment her husband came out of the study. They stood together smiling at the little group of mufflered, becoated boys who were singing, heart and soul in the job, so that the old house simply rang with their melody.

Reassured by the warmth and human company, she lost her terror. It had been her imagination. Of late she had been none too well. That was why she had been so irritable. Old Doctor Bernard was no good: he didn’t understand her case at all. After Christmas she would go to London and have the very best advice …

Had she been well she could not, half an hour ago, have shown such miserable temper over nothing. She knew that it was over nothing and yet that knowledge did not make it any easier for her to restrain herself. After every bout of temper she told herself that there should never be another—and then Herbert said something irritating, one of his silly muddle-headed stupidities, and she was off again!

She could see now as she stood beside him at the bottom of the staircase, that he was still feeling it. She had certainly half an hour ago said some abominably rude personal things—things that she had not at all meant—and he had taken them in his meek, quiet way. Were he not so meek and quiet, did he only pay her back in her own coin, she would never lose her temper. Of that she was sure. But who wouldn’t be irritated by that meekness and by the only reproachful thing that he ever said to her: ‘Elinor understood me better, my dear?’ To throw the first wife up against the second! Wasn’t that the most tactless thing that a man could possibly do? And Elinor, that worn elderly woman, the very opposite of her own gay, bright, amusing self? That was why Herbert had loved her, because she was gay and bright and young. It was true that Elinor had been devoted, that she had been so utterly wrapped up in Herbert that she lived only for him. People were always recalling her devotion, which was sufficiently rude and tactless of them.

Well, she could not give anyone that kind of old-fashioned sugary devotion; it wasn’t in her, and Herbert knew it by this time.

Nevertheless she loved Herbert in her own way, as he must know, know it so well that he ought to pay no attention to the bursts of temper. She wasn’t well. She would see a doctor in London …

The little boys finished their carols, were properly rewarded, and tumbled like feathery birds out into the snow again. They went into the study, the two of them, and stood beside the big open log-fire. She put her hand up and stroked his thin beautiful cheek.

‘I’m so sorry to have been cross just now, Bertie. I didn’t mean half I said, you know.’

But he didn’t, as he usually did, kiss her and tell her that it didn’t matter. Looking straight in front of him, he answered:

‘Well, Alice, I do wish you wouldn’t. It hurts, horribly. It upsets me more than you think. And it’s growing on you. You make me miserable. I don’t know what to do about it. And it’s all about nothing.’

Irritated at not receiving the usual commendation for her sweetness in making it up again, she withdrew a little and answered:

‘Oh, all right. I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t do any more.’

‘But tell me,’ he insisted, ‘I want to know. What makes you so angry, so suddenly?—and about nothing at all.’

She was about to let her anger rise, her anger at his obtuseness, obstinacy, when some fear checked her, a strange unanalysed fear, as though someone had whispered to her, ‘Look out! This is the last time!’

‘It’s not altogether my own fault,’ she answered, and left the room.

She stood in the cold hall, wondering where to go. She could feel the snow falling outside the house and shivered. She hated the snow, she hated the winter, this beastly, cold dark English winter that went on and on, only at last to change into a damp, soggy English spring.

It had been snowing all day. In Polchester it was unusual to have so heavy a snowfall. This was the hardest winter that they had known for many years.

When she urged Herbert to winter abroad—which he could quite easily do—he answered her impatiently; he had the strongest affection for this poky dead-and-alive Cathedral town. The Cathedral seemed to be precious to him; he wasn’t happy if he didn’t go and see it every day! She wouldn’t wonder if he didn’t think more of the Cathedral than he did of herself. Elinor had been the same; she had even written a little book about the Cathedral, about the Black Bishop’s Tomb and the stained glass and the rest …

What was the Cathedral after all? Only a building!

She was standing in the drawing-room looking out over the dusky ghostly snow to the great hulk of the Cathedral that Herbert said was like a flying ship, but to herself was more like a crouching beast licking its lips over the miserable sinners that it was for ever devouring.

As she looked and shivered, feeling that in spite of herself her temper and misery were rising so that they threatened to choke her, it seemed to her that her bright and cheerful fire-lit drawing-room was suddenly open to the snow. It was exactly as though cracks had appeared everywhere, in the ceiling, the walls, the windows, and that through these cracks the snow was filtering, dribbling in little tracks of wet down the walls, already perhaps making pools of water on the carpet.

This was of course imagination, but it was a fact that the room was most dreadfully cold although a great fire was burning and it was the cosiest room in the house.

Then, turning, she saw the figure standing by the door. This time there could be no mistake. It was a grey shadow, and yet a shadow with form and outline—the untidy grey hair, the pale face like a moon-lit leaf, the long grey clothes, and something obstinate, vindictive, terribly menacing in its pose.

She moved and the figure was gone; there was nothing there and the room was warm again, quite hot in fact. But young Mrs. Ryder, who had never feared anything in all her life save the vanishing of her youth, was trembling so that she had to sit down, and even then her trembling did not cease. Her hand shook on the arm of her chair.

She had created this thing out of her imagination of Elinor’s hatred of her and her own hatred of Elinor. It was true that they had never met, but who knew but that the spiritualists were right, and Elinor’s spirit, jealous of Herbert’s love for her, had been there driving them apart, forcing her to lose her temper and then hating her for losing it? Such things might be! But she had not much time for speculation. She was preoccupied with her fear. It was a definite, positive fear, the kind of fear that one has just before one goes under an operation. Someone or something was threatening her. She clung to her chair as though to leave it were to plunge into disaster. She looked around her everywhere; all the familiar things, the pictures, the books, the little tables, the piano were different now, isolated, strange, hostile, as though they had been won over by some enemy power.

She longed for Herbert to come and protect her; she felt most kindly to him. She would never lose her temper with him again—and at that same moment some cold voice seemed to whisper in her ear: ‘You had better not. It will be for the last time.’

At length she found courage to rise, cross the room and go up to dress for dinner. In her bedroom courage came to her once more. It was certainly very cold, and the snow, as she could see when she looked between her curtains, was falling more heavily than ever, but she had a warm bath, sat in front of her fire and was sensible again.

For many months this odd sense that she was watched and accompanied by someone hostile to her had been growing. It was the stronger perhaps because of the things that Herbert told her about Elinor; she was the kind of woman, he said, who, once she loved anyone, would never relinquish her grasp; she was utterly faithful. He implied that her tenacious fidelity had been at times a little difficult.

‘She always said,’ he added once, ‘that she would watch over me until I rejoined her in the next world. Poor Elinor!’ he sighed. ‘She had a fine religious faith, stronger than mine, I fear.’

It was always after one of her tantrums that young Mrs. Ryder had been most conscious of this hallucination, this dreadful discomfort of feeling that someone was near you who hated you—but it was only during the last week that she began to fancy that she actually saw anyone, and with every day her sense of this figure had grown stronger.

It was, of course, only nerves, but it was one of those nervous afflictions that became tiresome indeed if you did not rid yourself of it. Mrs. Ryder, secure now in the warmth and intimacy of her bedroom, determined that henceforth everything should be sweetness and light. No more tempers! Those were the things that did her harm.

Even though Herbert were a little trying, was not that the case with every husband in the world? And was it not Christmas time? Peace and Good Will to men! Peace and Good Will to Herbert!

They sat down opposite to one another in the pretty little dining-room hung with Chinese woodcuts, the table gleaming and the amber curtains richly dark in the firelight.

But Herbert was not himself. He was still brooding, she supposed, over their quarrel of the afternoon. Weren’t men children? Incredible the children that they were!

So when the maid was out of the room she went over to him, bent down and kissed his forehead.

‘Darling … you’re still cross, I can see you are. You mustn’t be. Really you mustn’t. It’s Christmas time and, if I forgive you, you must forgive me.’

‘You forgive me?’ he asked, looking at her in his most aggravating way. ‘What have you to forgive me for?’

Well, that was really too much. When she had taken all the steps, humbled her pride.

She went back to her seat, but for a while could not answer him because the maid was there. When they were alone again she said, summoning all her patience:

‘Bertie dear, do you really think that there’s anything to be gained by sulking like this? It isn’t worthy of you. It isn’t really.’

He answered her quietly.

‘Sulking? No, that’s not the right word. But I’ve got to keep quiet. If I don’t I shall say something I’m sorry for.’ Then, after a pause, in a low voice, as though to himself: ‘These constant rows are awful.’

Her temper was rising again; another self that had nothing to do with her real self, a stranger to her and yet a very old familiar friend.

‘Don’t be so self-righteous,’ she answered, her voice trembling a little. ‘These quarrels are entirely my own fault, aren’t they?’

‘Elinor and I never quarrelled,’ he said, so softly that she scarcely heard him.

‘No! Because Elinor thought you perfect. She adored you. You’ve often told me. I don’t think you perfect. I’m not perfect either. But we’ve both got faults. I’m not the only one to blame.’

‘We’d better separate,’ he said, suddenly looking up. ‘We don’t get on now. We used to. I don’t know what’s changed everything. But, as things are, we’d better separate.’

She looked at him and knew that she loved him more than ever, but because she loved him so much she wanted to hurt him, and because he had said that he thought he could get on without her she was so angry that she forgot all caution. Her love and her anger helped one another. The more angry she became the more she loved him.

‘I know why you want to separate,’ she said. ‘It’s because you’re in love with someone else. (‘How funny,’ something inside her said. ‘You don’t mean a word of this.’) You’ve treated me as you have, and then you leave me.’

‘I’m not in love with anyone else,’ he answered her steadily, ‘and you know it. But we are so unhappy together that it’s silly to go on … silly… . The whole thing has failed.’

There was so much unhappiness, so much bitterness, in his voice that she realised that at last she had truly gone too far. She had lost him.

She had not meant this. She was frightened and her fear made her so angry that she went across to him.

‘Very well then … I’ll tell everyone … what you’ve been. How you’ve treated me.’

‘Not another scene,’ he answered wearily. ‘I can’t stand any more. Let’s wait. Tomorrow is Christmas Day …’

He was so unhappy that her anger with herself maddened her. She couldn’t bear his sad, hopeless disappointment with herself, their life together, everything.

In a fury of blind temper she struck him; it was as though she were striking herself. He got up and without a word left the room. There was a pause, and then she heard the hall door close. He had left the house.

She stood there, slowly coming to her control again. When she lost her temper it was as though she sank under water. When it was all over she came once more to the surface of life, wondering where she’d been and what she had been doing. Now she stood there, bewildered, and then at once she was aware of two things, one that the room was bitterly cold and the other that someone was in the room with her.

This time she did not need to look around her. She did not turn at all, but only stared straight at the curtained windows, seeing them very carefully, as though she were summing them up for some future analysis, with their thick amber folds, gold rod, white lines—and beyond them the snow was falling.

She did not need to turn, but, with a shiver of terror, she was aware that that grey figure who had, all these last weeks, been approaching ever more closely, was almost at her very elbow. She heard quite clearly: ‘I warned you. That was the last time.’

At the same moment Onslow the butler came in. Onslow was broad, fat and rubicund—a good faithful butler with a passion for church music. He was a bachelor and, it was said, disappointed of women. He had an old mother in Liverpool to whom he was greatly attached.

In a flash of consciousness she thought of all these things when he came in. She expected him also to see the grey figure at her side. But he was undisturbed, his ceremonial complacency clothed him securely.

‘Mr. Fairfax has gone out,’ she said firmly. Oh, surely he must see something, feel something.

‘Yes, Madam!’ Then, smiling rather grandly: ‘It’s snowing hard. Never seen it harder here. Shall I build up the fire in the drawing-room, Madam?’

‘No, thank you. But Mr. Fairfax’s study …’

‘Yes, Madam. I only thought that as this room was so warm you might find it chilly in the drawing-room.’

This room warm, when she was shivering from head to foot; but holding herself lest he should see … She longed to keep him there, to implore him to remain; but in a moment he was gone, softly closing the door behind him.

Then a mad longing for flight seized her, and she could not move. She was rooted there to the floor, and even as, wildly trying to cry, to scream, to shriek the house down, she found that only a little whisper would come, she felt the cold touch of a hand on hers.

She did not turn her head: her whole personality, all her past life, her poor little courage, her miserable fortitude were summoned to meet this sense of approaching death which was as unmistakable as a certain smell, or the familiar ringing of a gong. She had dreamt in nightmares of approaching death and it had always been like this, a fearful constriction of the heart, a paralysis of the limbs, a choking sense of disaster like an anaesthetic.

‘You were warned,’ something said to her again.

She knew that if she turned she would see Elinor’s face, set, white, remorseless. The woman had always hated her, been vilely jealous of her, protecting her wretched Herbert.

A certain vindictiveness seemed to release her. She found that she could move, her limbs were free.

She passed to the door, ran down the passage, into the hall. Where would she be safe? She thought of the Cathedral, where to-night there was a carol service. She opened the hall door and just as she was, meeting the thick, involving, muffling snow, she ran out.

She started across the green towards the Cathedral door. Her thin black slippers sank in the snow. Snow was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth, on her bare neck, between her breasts.

‘Help! Help! Help!’ she wanted to cry, but the snow choked her. Lights whirled about her. The Cathedral rose like a huge black eagle and flew towards her.

She fell forward, and even as she fell a hand, far colder than the snow, caught her neck. She lay struggling in the snow and as she struggled there two hands of an icy fleshless chill closed about her throat.

Her last knowledge was of the hard outline of a ring pressing into her neck. Then she lay still, her face in the snow, and the flakes eagerly, savagely, covered her.

AI Image Generated by Google Gemini

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love AI

Several years ago I submitted an entry for a one-act play competition which called for “a comedic take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery.” I never heard back from the organizers of the competition, and my script just sat gathering dust (figuratively speaking, of course—a computer file can’t literally gather dust), with no hope of ever being staged.

About a year ago, I decided I would try to convert the script to a short story, which I could at least publish here on my blog. This is not nearly as easy as it sounds. You have to add quotation marks and scores of ‘he said’s, ‘she said’s, and so forth—not to mention all the descriptions and interpretations that, in a play, are generally left up to the director and actors. After a few paragraphs, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Then, after a Windows update, a new icon appeared on my computer taskbar, with the mysterious label “Copilot.” When I clicked on it, I discovered it was Microsoft’s new “AI companion.” I had heard of AI, of course, but I had never tried it. Might my script conversion be something it could help me with?

I asked Copilot, and it replied that indeed this was something it could do, and that it was delighted to help. The script was too big for it to swallow in one chunk, but I was able to feed it in in bites. The result blew me away. Oh, it wasn’t perfect, by any means. It was certainly not written in my style—Copilot used a bit too much elegant variation for my taste (“Patricia observed,” “Patricia ordered,” “Patricia snapped,” “Patricia mused,” etc.). But all of my dialogue and stage directions were there, converted into narrative form. With a little editing, I was quite happy with the result, which I’ve included below.

(Note: For comparison I also tried ChatGPT and Gemini, but they came up short—literally. Both offered much briefer stories that omitted much of my dialogue and plot elements. I did, however, use Gemini to generate the illustration.)

The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling
By John R. Logue

Lizzie Brown bopped into the sitting room from the kitchen, singing off-key as she listened through bright orange headphones to the tape player she always carried on her belt. The year was 1984, and the song that was playing was the latest hit from her favorite group, Wham!

“Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo. Wake me up before you go-go. I don’t want to miss it when you hit that high…”

She pictured George Michael’s luscious bum as she placed a plate of almond biscuits on the tea table and, with a final shimmy, disappeared back into the kitchen.

A few moments later, Patricia Townsend, self-appointed matriarch of the village of Little Piddling, entered from the front hall. She surveyed the tea table critically. Picking up the teapot with one hand, she tested its weight, then gingerly touched it to check the temperature.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered under her breath. She picked up a small bell and rang it. No response. She rang again—still nothing. Impatiently, she called towards the kitchen, “Lizzie!” No reply. “Lizzie!” she called again, more loudly this time. Still no answer.

She took a deep breath and, at the top of her lungs, bellowed, “Elizabeth Ann Brown!”

Finally, the girl emerged from the kitchen, looking perplexed. “Did you call me, ma’am?”

“Yes, I called you,” Patricia snapped. “I called you repeatedly. I shouted loudly enough to be heard in the next parish. I also—” She shook the bell in Lizzie’s face. “Rang the bell. Are you deaf, girl?”

“Sorry,” Lizzie mumbled, “I was wearing my headphones.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “Lizzie, how many times have I told you not to listen to your music while you’re working?”

Lizzie thought for a moment. “Two. Three if you count this.”

“It was a rhetorical question, Lizzie. I didn’t need an actual number. Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, turning to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie,” Patricia called out, stopping Lizzie in her tracks. “Don’t you wonder why I called you?”

Lizzie turned around. “Oh. Sorry. Why did you call me?”

“When did you make the tea?” Patricia asked.

“About half an hour ago?”

“No wonder the pot is cold. You should have waited until the guests arrived.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Should I make a fresh pot?”

“Obviously,” Patricia replied, handing Lizzie the teapot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But not until the guests arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doorbell rang. “And here they are,” Patricia said.

“Then I should make the tea now?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course, you stupid girl!” Patricia snapped.

Lizzie turned and headed towards the kitchen.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“Answer the door first,” Patricia ordered.

Lizzie turned and headed for the front door.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“The teapot,” Patricia said impatiently, holding out her hand.

Lizzie looked at the teapot in her hand. “Oh,” she said. She returned and handed it to Patricia.

“Well? Answer the door!” Patricia commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, finally exiting to the hall.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

Patricia put the teapot down, adjusted the table setting, and turned just as a tall, stylish redhead swept into the room, followed by Lizzie.

“Natalie, dear!” Patricia said, greeting her guest warmly.

“Hello, Pats!” Natalie replied.

“Mrs. Whitlow, ma’am,” Lizzie announced.

“Yes, yes. I can see it’s Mrs. Whitlow,” Patricia said impatiently. “And what is it you’re supposed to do when the guests arrive?”

“Make the tea, ma’am?”

“Well? Go and do it!” Patricia snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lizzie turned to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Patricia asked.

“Ma’am?”

“The teapot, you fool! The teapot!”

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am.” As Lizzie picked up the teapot, the doorbell rang. Once again, she set off for the front hall with teapot in hand.

“Lizzie!” Patricia called.

Lizzie returned. Patricia spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Take the teapot back to the kitchen. Then answer the door. Then go and make the tea.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, exiting to the kitchen.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

“Honestly, Pats,” Natalie said, “I don’t know how you put up with her. The girl would try the patience of Job. I’d have given her the sack long ago.”

“Believe me, Nat, I know. She’s utterly hopeless. But after her parents—well, you know. It’s the least I can do.”

“You are a good person.”

“I try to be,” Patricia replied with a faint smile.

Patricia picked up the plate of almond biscuits and offered it to Natalie. “Here, have one of these biscuits. I’m trying out a new recipe.”

Natalie took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it. “Yummy! Aren’t these the same sort of almond biscuits Louisa makes? The ones she refuses to give out the recipe for?”

Patricia grinned. “I’ve been trying to duplicate the recipe for years.”

“Well, congratulations, darling. You’ve succeeded. These are better than Louisa’s. She’ll be livid.”

“Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Parsons, ma’am,” Lizzie announced, ushering in two more guests.

“Thank you, Lizzie. You may make the tea now,” Patricia said.

As Lizzie returned to the kitchen, Patricia greeted the newcomers: plump, good-natured Helen Barnes, and slender, grey-haired Louisa Parsons, the senior member of their little group. “Helen, Louisa, welcome!” Patricia gestured to the plate held by the latter. “Louisa, dear, what’s this?”

Louisa offered her gift proudly. “I’ve brought you some of my famous almond biscuits.”

“How nice! But really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Louisa assured.

“No, I mean you shouldn’t have,” Patricia said firmly, gesturing to the plate of biscuits on the table. “I have biscuits, as you can see.”

“Yes, but these are homemade,” Louisa insisted.

“So are mine. And as you can see, mine aren’t burnt.”

“Mine aren’t burnt,” Louisa said with a hurt tone. “Perhaps a bit overdone, but definitely not burnt.”

“Well, we’ll let the public decide, shall we?” Patricia said, uncovering Louisa’s plate and placing it beside her own on the tea table. “Come and sit down, everyone. Tea will be ready shortly. In the meantime, there are sandwiches: the white are egg, the brown are chicken.”

Patricia handed out plates and napkins, and the sandwiches were passed around. Holding up one of each, Helen queried, “Which came first?”

“I beg your pardon?” Patricia asked, puzzled.

“You know. The old joke?” Helen prodded.

“What old joke?”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Helen laughed, though the others did not.

“That’s not a joke, dear. It’s a riddle,” Louisa corrected.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose it is,” Helen said, deflated.

“What’s the answer?” Patricia asked.

“Eh?” replied Louisa.

“What’s the answer to the riddle?” Patricia repeated.

Helen sighed. “Oh. Um. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Lizzie re-entered with the teapot. “Ah, here’s the tea,” Patricia announced, as Lizzie put the teapot on the table and returned to the kitchen.

“Have all of you met the new vicar?” Patricia asked, as she began pouring tea.

Natalie grinned lasciviously. “You mean Little Piddling’s most eligible bachelor? Rowr!”

Helen took one of Patricia’s biscuits. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” She took a bite and smiled. “Mmm! Louisa, you must try these. I believe they’re as good as yours.”

Louisa, visibly annoyed, tried one of Patricia’s biscuits. “Not quite the same as mine, but not a bad effort,” she conceded grudgingly, then changed the subject back to the new vicar. “As a matter of fact, I introduced myself to Mr. Ambrose after last Sunday’s sermon. He told me he’d be calling on me this week to discuss one or two concerns he has regarding our community.”

“What a coincidence,” Patricia remarked casually. “Dear Edward told me he wanted to discuss one or two concerns with me as well. As a matter of fact, he’ll be dropping by this afternoon. A charming man—it will be a pleasure to introduce all of you.”

“No need,” Louisa said curtly. “As I just told you, I’ve met him.”

Patricia clapped her hands. “Shall we begin the meeting?” There were murmurs of assent. “Very well, then. The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling is hereby called to order. I believe at our last meeting we were still discussing poisons?”

Louisa made a face. “Ugh! I’m tired of poisons. When are we going to talk about guns?”

Helen chimed in, “What about blunt weapons? If you do it right, it looks just like an accident.”

Natalie shuddered. “Oh, but my dear! The blood!”

Helen shrugged. “No problem at all if you do it in the bath. If there’s any blood, it just washes away down the drain. Did you know that one of the most common causes of death is falling in the bathtub?”

“Yes, dear. You’ve told us that before,” Patricia said with a sigh.

“On several occasions,” Louisa added dryly.

Patricia continued, quoting their literary idol, “Well, we all know Dame Agatha’s opinion on the subject: ‘Poison has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon.’”

Natalie nodded in agreement. “But poison is so much more difficult now than it was back in Dame Agatha’s day. Back then, you could walk into any chemist’s, slap down a fiver, and walk out with enough strychnine to poison the entire village, no questions asked. Now you can’t even buy cold medicine without a prescription. Not to mention the advances in forensic pathology that make it easier to trace.”

Louisa sighed again. “Yes, and thanks to mystery writers, everyone knows the properties of all the popular ones. For instance, how are you ever supposed to use cyanide when everyone in the world knows that it smells like burnt almonds?”

Patricia picked up one of Louisa’s biscuits and sniffed it. “You could put it in your biscuits, Louisa. They’re the perfect camouflage. They already smell of burnt almonds.” Everyone laughed except Louisa, who was clearly offended.

“They are not burnt,” she insisted.

Helen spoke up. “Arsenic has no taste or smell. Have any of you tried it?”

The others reacted with shock and disbelief. “You can’t be serious!” Patricia exclaimed. Louisa and Natalie chimed in with their disapproval.

Helen continued, undeterred. “Remember the Dorothy L. Sayers story where the murderer eats the same poisoned food as the victim, but it doesn’t kill him because he’s been taking arsenic over time to build up a resistance to it?”

Natalie nodded. “Strong Poison. The first Harriet Vane story.”

Helen smiled. “Yes. Well, I had some rat poison on hand…”

Natalie interrupted with a laugh. “Don’t we all?” The group chuckled in agreement.

Helen resumed, “Anyway, I thought I’d try a bit of it in an omelet, just as the murderer served it in the story, to see what it’s like.”

Louisa looked horrified. “That was rather reckless of you.”

Helen shrugged. “I suppose so, but it didn’t do me any harm. Although it did numb my tongue for a time.”

“I just read a recent book by an American author where the murderer used a common plant, something that’s found everywhere in California,” said Louisa. “What was it called? Coriander, I think.”

“Coriander isn’t poisonous, dear. It’s a spice. I use it all the time,” Patricia corrected.

“Well, it was something like coriander,” Louisa insisted. “Anyway, she substituted it for something that was in the victim’s allergy capsules. She was miles away when he took them, so she had the perfect alibi.”

Patricia nodded. “There is much to be said for making use of something from one’s own garden. There is no paper trail, as there is when you purchase it from the chemist. And depending on the botanical, it can be difficult to trace. For instance, did you know that the foxglove in my garden contains a chemical that is commonly used in heart medications? It slows the heartbeat; taken in a sufficient quantity, it will stop the heart entirely. Cardiac arrest: death by natural causes.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Ah, that will be the vicar,” Patricia said.

Louisa’s face lit up with a sudden recollection. “Orlando!”

“What’s that, dear?” Patricia asked.

“That’s what she used. Not coriander. Orlando,” Louisa explained.

Helen was confused. “Isn’t Orlando a city in California?”

“Florida,” Natalie corrected.

“Are you sure? I thought Disneyland was there,” Helen persisted.

“Disney World, dear,” Natalie clarified.

“Oh,” Helen said, still puzzled.

Lizzie entered with Edward. The ladies stood as she announced, “Mr. Ambrose, ma’am.”

Patricia stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome, dear Vicar. Delighted to see you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Townsend,” Edward replied.

“Please, call me Patricia,” she insisted.

“Thank you, Patricia. I fear I’ve come at a bad time. I see you have guests,” Edward observed.

“Not at all. Just the monthly meeting of the ACASLP—the Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling. Allow me to introduce the other members of our group: Natalie Whitlow...”

Natalie stepped forward and offered her hand, a twinkle in her eye. “How do you do, Vicar.”

“Mrs. Whitlow,” Edward greeted formally.

“My friends call me Natalie, and I do hope we shall be friends,” she said flirtatiously.

Edward looked flustered. “Yes. Well. ‘Natalie’ it is, then.”

“And I shall call you ‘Edward.’ Tell us, Edward, are you a fan of Agatha Christie?” Natalie asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Edward responded.

“Which book is your favorite?” she pressed.

Edward thought for a moment. “Well, I love all the Miss Marple stories, but I suppose if I had to narrow it down to one, it would be—“

Natalie couldn’t resist. “Let me guess. Murder at the Vicarage?”

Edward chuckled. “Why, yes!”

Helen laughed, then abruptly stopped, embarrassed. “Natalie, how on earth did you—? Oh! Because he’s a vicar!”

“Vicar, may I introduce Helen Barnes,” said Patricia.

Helen, nervously stepping forward to shake his hand, stammered, “How do you do, Mr. Handsome—I mean, Mr. Vicar—I mean...”

“Let’s just make it ‘Edward,’ shall we?” said Edward.

Helen giggled girlishly. “Very well—Edward.”

Patricia continued, “And I understand you’ve already met our Louisa.”

Louisa stepped forward, offering her hand. Edward took it, looking slightly puzzled. “Have I?”

“Surely you remember. Last Sunday? After church?” Louisa prompted.

“Oh, yes! Mrs.—er—“

“Parsons. But please, call me Louisa.”

“Of course! Delighted to see you again, Louise.”

“Louisa,” she corrected firmly.

Edward smiled apologetically. “Louisa. Sorry.”

“Sit down, Vicar,” Patricia invited. “Have a biscuit. I’m afraid mine are all gone, but there are plenty of Louisa’s left. How do you take your tea?”

Edward shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay long. Lots of calls to make, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re all here together. It will save me some time, as the four of you were at the top of my list.”

“Oh? What list is that?” Patricia asked.

“A list of Little Piddling’s most marriageable widows, perhaps?” Natalie chimed in.

Edward managed a smile. “Not exactly. Look, perhaps I should start at the beginning. My predecessor, Mr. Bledsoe, left behind a notebook.”

Patricia’s curiosity was piqued. “Did he? What sort of notebook?”

“It contains notes regarding an investigation with which he was assisting Constable Brown. The two of them had become curious about some of the deaths that have occurred lately in this parish.”

“Oh? And what was so curious about these deaths?” Patricia asked.

“Well, to begin with, there have been an unusual number of them,” Edward replied.

Patricia frowned. “Surely not more than the national average?”

Edward’s tone turned serious. “As a matter of fact, quite a bit more than the national average. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, considering the fact that all four of you lost your husbands within the span of a few months.”

“It was a very bad flu season last year, if you will recall,” Patricia said defensively.

“I was given to understand that Mr. Barnes died from a fall in the bath,” Edward pointed out.

“I’m sure the poor dear wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been so weakened by a terrible bout of flu,” Helen said.

Edward continued, “Yes, well, there was also the shopkeeper, Mr. Thomas...”

Louisa interrupted, “Ugh! I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, Vicar, but Mr. Thomas was not a nice man.”

“And your neighbor, Miss Watson...”

“Very sad, but she was quite elderly,” Patricia commented.

Edward nodded. “And most recently, the deaths of Constable and Mrs. Brown—and Mr. Bledsoe.”

“A tragic accident involving a faulty gas cooker, I believe,” Patricia said, shaking her head.

Helen added, “Gas can be so dangerous, can’t it? That’s why I only use an electric cooker.”

Patricia was getting impatient. “But what has all of this to do with us?”

“Apart from the unfortunate loss of our husbands, of course,” Natalie pointed out.

“Yes. Apart from that,” Patricia agreed.

“I was getting to that,” Edward said. “The last entry in Mr. Bledsoe’s notebook was a list of your names, followed by the letters ‘ACASLP’ and a question mark. You answered my first question already, which was what those letters stand for. My second question is, can any of you think what might have drawn Mr. Bledsoe’s attention to your organization?”

The four ladies exchanged nervous glances.

“Shall I tell you what I think?” Edward asked.

“Please do,” Patricia said apprehensively.

“Well, it seems to me that it would be natural for Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown to think of the ACASLP in these circumstances,” Edward began.

“And why is that?” Patricia pressed.

Edward looked around the room. “Come, Mrs. Townsend...”

“Patricia,” she corrected.

“Come, Patricia! Don’t be coy. The reason should be obvious, especially to you four ladies.”

“Should it?” Patricia asked.

“But don’t you see? Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown were planning to enlist your aid in their investigation!” Edward exclaimed.

“Ah! I see what you mean,” said Patricia. “No doubt you are right.”

“Of course I am! Ladies, I intend to carry on Mr. Bledsoe’s work. I have a meeting with the new constable tomorrow. I was going to show him the notebook, but I wanted to talk to you first. I wanted to be able to tell him that you will assist us in our investigation. Please say you will.”

Patricia hesitated. “We will take it under consideration.”

“Please do—and remember Dame Agatha’s words in Murder at the Vicarage: ‘There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.’ Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon, Vicar,” Patricia replied.

“Not very bright, is he?” Louisa remarked, once they had heard the front door close behind him.

“‘Spinster lady of uncertain age’ indeed!” Natalie huffed. “I'm barely thirty-nine!”

“You’ve been ‘barely thirty-nine’ since the Queen’s Silver Jubilee,” muttered Louisa.

Patricia interrupted before Natalie could respond. “Ladies, it seems Little Piddling will soon be in need of a new vicar.”

“We can’t very well have another gas cooker accident, can we? People will get suspicious,” Louisa said.

“What about an accident in the bath?” Helen suggested.

“Not a bad idea, that. I wouldn’t mind seeing him in the bath. Rowr!” Natalie added.

“Don’t be vulgar, Nat,” Patricia chided. “No, I have just the thing for our nosy new vicar. It’s a new recipe I’ve been perfecting.” She picked up the bell and rang it.

“It’s a shame, you know. He is—was—handsome,” Helen said, staggering a little. “Oh my. I feel a bit woozy.”

“Come, dear. Let’s all sit down,” Louisa urged, guiding Helen back to her seat. She too felt a bit unsteady.

“It’s the emotional strain. We could all do with another cup of tea,” Patricia said, pouring out the remaining tea. Lizzie entered from the kitchen.

“You rang, ma’am?” she asked.

“Now listen to me very carefully, Lizzie,” Patricia said, patiently. “On the top shelf of the pantry you’ll find a tin of my special biscuits. I want you to go and get them and run them out to the vicar with our compliments. He can’t have got far. If you hurry, you should be able to catch him.”

Lizzie looked puzzled. “The special biscuits?”

“Yes. Now, go. Go, go, go!” Patricia said, making shooing motions towards the door.

Lizzie didn’t move. “You mean these biscuits, ma’am?” she asked, pointing to the empty plate on the tea table.

“No, you fool. I mean the special biscuits,” Patricia snapped. “The ones on the top shelf of the pantry.”

“But these are the special biscuits, ma’am—or rather, they were. It looks as though you’ve eaten them all.”

Patricia’s face paled as realization dawned. “What do you mean? Oh, you stupid girl. What have you done?”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Louisa demanded.

Patricia’s voice trembled. “Ladies, I—I’m afraid there’s been a mixup with the biscuits.”

Natalie cursed under her breath. “Oh, bugger. It’s the foxglove, isn’t it?”

Patricia nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Ah! So this is what cardiac arrest feels like,” Helen said, her speech beginning to slur. “My tongue dothn’t theem to be working right.”

“I’m so sorry. But don’t worry. There should still be time. I’ll call for an ambulance.” Patricia struggled to get up but was unable to. “Oh, dear. I can’t seem to move. Lizzie, call for an ambulance at once.”

“Better make it two ambulances,” Louisa added. “I don’t think we’ll all fit in one.”

“Lizzie, call for two ambulances,” Patricia ordered.

“No,” Lizzie replied firmly.

“What?” Patricia’s voice was incredulous.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be calling for any number of ambulances,” Lizzie said.

Natalie’s voice was faint. “What has gotten into the girl? Lizzie, do you honestly want to be responsible for four deaths?”

Lizzie’s voice turned cold. “And how many deaths have you lot been responsible for, including my parents? More than twice that, I’ll wager.”

Patricia sighed. “I see. That’s what this is about.”

“Yes, that’s what this is about. So who’s the stupid girl now?” Lizzie retorted.

Patricia tried a different approach. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I misjudged you. How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions from the start. That’s why I took this job. And when you wear headphones and pretend to be stupid, it's amazing the things you can learn—such as how to sabotage a gas cooker, or where the poisoned biscuits are kept.”

Patricia’s tone turned conciliatory. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. Your father’s and Mr. Bledsoe’s deaths were unfortunate, but necessary. It was self-preservation; they were on to us, you see. Your mother’s death, on the other hand, was regrettable.”

“‘Collateral damage,’ I suppose,” Lizzie said bitterly.

“You could call it that. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Patricia admitted.

“As I would have been, had I been home. What about all the others?” Lizzie demanded.

Patricia’s tone hardened. “The others all deserved what they got. They’re the sort we’re really after. Our husbands, for instance. That’s how it all started. They were making our lives miserable, with their lies and philandering...”

“Drinking and gambling...” Louisa added.

“Moshunal an’ phythical abuth...” Helen murmured.

“To be fair, mine was just mind-numbingly boring,” said Natalie.

“And as for Mr. Thomas—well, surely you remember how horrible he was,” Patricia continued.

Lizzie shuddered. “Ugh! He was horrible. Every time we went into his shop, he made the most disgusting comments. It got so we had to do our shopping in the next village.”

“And Miss Watson was a terrible gossip,” Patricia added.

“You should have heard some of the things she said about you, Lizzie,” Natalie remarked.

“The point is, Little Piddling is a much nicer place without them. If you think about it, we’ve been providing a public service,” Patricia declared.

“Weeding the garden, so to speak,” Louisa said.

“Lully methafor, Louitha,” Helen mumbled.

“Thank you, Helen. I thought it was apt,” Louisa replied.

“Vurry apth intheed,” Helen agreed.

Patricia interrupted sharply. “Ladies, there isn’t time!” She turned to Lizzie, her tone pleading. “Lizzie, we deeply regret what happened to your mother and father—and to you. Losing both your parents like that—it must have been terrible.”

Lizzie’s voice was icy. “To return from an evening out and find your home in ruins and your family dead? To lose everything in the blink of an eye? You can’t imagine—or maybe you can, now. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Not at all well. I can’t seem to feel my legs,” Patricia admitted.

“Tongue numb, like wi’ arsnic,” Helen mumbled.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” Louisa murmured.

“Cold. So cold,” Natalie whispered.

“Good! They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” Lizzie said with satisfaction.

Patricia’s tone turned curious. “And how do you feel, Lizzie?”

Lizzie considered for a moment. “Empowered.”

“It is a good feeling, isn’t it? Meting out justice?” Patricia asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is,” Lizzie agreed.

“How would you like to feel that way all the time?” Patricia offered.

Lizzie was wary. “What do you mean?”

“Join us, Lizzie!” Patricia urged.

“Join you?” Lizzie asked, skeptical.

“Join the ACASLP. Help us make Little Piddling a better place,” Patricia explained.

“Help us weed the garden, so to speak,” Louisa added.

“We could use a clever girl like you,” said Natalie.

“Cawfawah awmahlawth,” said Helen.

“What did you say?” Lizzie asked.

Helen tried again. “Caw faw ah awm ah lawth.”

“I believe she said, ‘Call for an ambulance,’” Louisa interpreted. “I wholeheartedly second the motion. All in favor?”

The four women feebly raised their hands.

“Think about our offer, Lizzie. But don’t take long. I fear our time is running out,” Patricia urged.

Lizzie watched as, one by one, the women lost consciousness. She crossed to the telephone table, singing softly to herself, “Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo...”

She picked up the receiver. She hesitated...