The Frisby Waterless Murders – 44

Excerpt from the book called The Frisby Waterless Murders

Maudie Trimble’s place was set back from the road in about an acre of land. There was a copse behind the property and the bare, black branches of the trees looked like spider’s legs against the deepening blue sky. A neat, if somewhat forlorn looking front garden greeted Knowles as he walked down the path. A vegetable patch had been freshly tilled and manured to the right of the house and the sun reflected off some of the cloches. The bungalow was white with some plaster patches in various places where repairs had been necessary. A satellite dish pointed skywards tapping into the lifeblood of human existence.


Knowles knocked on the front door and took a step back to see whether any curtains had twitched to see who was knocking on their front door. There was a deep-throated ‘woof woof’ from inside the house and then a harassed-looking middle-aged lady peered through the glass and shouted ‘No Hawkers’ at Knowles.


“It’s the police,” responded Knowles, showing the woman his police badge through the door, “I’ve come to talk to you about your dog and why you missed the murder/mystery yesterday.”


“My dog was ill – he was poisoned by something I think – something thrown into the garden,” shouted the woman.


“Will you please open the door?” pleaded Knowles.


“He’s convalescing in his basket,” explained Maudie Trimble, opening the door so she could step outside, “so I will come out here so as not to disturb him.”


“So how do you know he was poisoned?” said Knowles.


“Because I found him keeled over next to a piece of meat I didn’t recognise in the garden yesterday morning. The vet said it was a piece of meat that had been tampered with and the dog had eaten some of it before collapsing.”


“Which vet was this?” asked Knowles.


“It was Verity and Jones in Scoresby,” replied Maudie Trimble, “they’re quite expensive for what they do really.”


“I have taken my cats there in the past,” said Knowles, “and they were well treated although the journey there was hell; my cats don’t like being in their carriers and they yowled all the way.”


“Well my journey was quieter, because Alma was unconscious,” replied Trimble, “and she only just made it according to the vet.”


“Who would want to harm your doggy?”


Published by Julian Worker

Julian was born in Leicester, attended school in Yorkshire, and university in Liverpool. He has been to 94 countries and territories and intends to make the 100 when travel is easier. He writes travel books, murder / mysteries and absurd fiction. His sense of humour is distilled from The Marx Brothers, Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, and Midsomer Murders. His latest book is about a Buddhist cat who tries to help his squirrel friend fly further from a children's slide.

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