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Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land
A Write Your Own Christie Novel
By members of the www.AgathaChristie.com community
This work has been officially licensed by Agatha Christie Limited
in respect of the Write Your Own Christie competition only.
Please note that in no way are individuals permitted to write any book based
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Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land Copyright © 2014 Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved. Not to be made available for sale in any format.
A Murder Is Announced Copyright © 1950 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights
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served.
Murder in a Green and Pleasant Land
A collaborative novel by the community of www.AgathaChristie.com
PROLOGUE CHAPTER FIVE
By Margaret Lane A Body is Found
By Anna Killick
OPENING CHAPTER SIX
By Agatha Christie Someone is Missing
By Patricia Furstenberg
CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER SEVEN
A Murder is Announced An Object is Found
By Helene Nowell By Anna Killick
CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER EIGHT
At 6.30pm The Suspects Assemble
By Nia Tunnicliffe By Bryony Rheam
CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER NINE
Enter the Detective Reconstruction of the Crime
By Margaret Lane By Patricia Furstenberg
CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER TEN
A Mysterious Stranger The Truth
By Anne Miller By Roger Hoke
PROLOGUE
By Margaret Lane
The Minister of the War Office was silently fuming as he arrived at the prison. Jobs like this got on
his nerves. They were in the middle of a war, he’d who knew how many issues of importance piling
up on his desk and yet, here he was, expected to investigate the death of a man slated for death
anyway, a man moreover whose actions had caused the untimely deaths of two of his comrades.
Too soft, that’s what they were in England. He very much doubted the Nazis would hold
an investigation if a traitor’d decided to hang himself rather than face up to his actions like a man.
Not, of course, that he thought they should imitate the very regime they were fighting
against. Certainly not! But one could go too far with anything and when you were fighting people
without morals, ensuring you dotted every i and crossed every t put you at a disadvantage. It was
easy for those pen pushers up at Whitehall to talk about “maintaining public confidence” and “not
losing sight of what we’re fighting for”, but the men on the ground, the people who actually had to
do the work didn’t have time for such luxuries.
“I’m terribly sorry about this intrusion,” he told the prison governor. “I’ve no doubt whatsoever
that everything is completely in order here and just between you, me and the wall, I have plenty of
things I’d rather be doing today than plaguing you.”
“Not at all, Sir,” the governor replied. “I realise you have to do your job. Pity that little toe-rag
just created a lot more work for both of us.”
“Ah well.” The Minister sighed. “If he’d any decency, we wouldn’t be in this position, would
we? Can’t bear these traitors myself.” He coughed, realising what a bloody obvious statement that
was.
“I know what you mean, Sir. Bad enough having to deal with the enemy, but these fifth columnists...
If it weren’t for the extra work it was creating...well, I suppose I shouldn’t say anything.”
“I understand completely.” The two men shared a smile. “Come on,” the Minister continued.
“Let’s get this over with.”
OPENING
By Agatha Christie
I
Between 7.30 and 8.30 every morning except Sundays, Johnnie Butt made the round of the village
of Chipping Cleghorn on his bicycle, whistling vociferously through his teeth, and alighting at each
house or cottage to shove through the letterbox such morning papers as had been ordered by the
occupants of the house in question from Mr Totman, stationer, of the High Street. Thus, at Colonel
and Mrs Easterbrook’s he delivered The Times and the Daily Graphic; at Mrs Swettenham’s he left
The Times and the Daily Worker; at Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd’s he left the Daily
Telegraph and the New Chronicle; at Miss Blacklock’s he left the Telegraph, The Times and the
Daily Mail.
At all these houses, and indeed at practically every house in Chipping Cleghorn, he delivered
every Friday a copy of the North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette, known locally
simply as ‘the Gazette’. Thus, on Friday mornings, after a hurried glance at the headlines in the daily
paper
(International situation critical! U.N.O. meets today! Bloodhounds seek blonde typist’s killer!
Three collieries idle. Twenty-three die of food poisoning in Seaside Hotel, etc.)
most of the inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn eagerly opened the Gazette and plunged into the
local news. After a cursory glance at Correspondence (in which the passionate hates and feuds of
rural life found full play) nine out of ten subscribers then turned to the PERSONAL column. Here
were grouped together higgledy-piggledy articles for Sale or Wanted, frenzied appeals for Domestic Help,
innumerable insertions regarding dogs, announcements concerning poultry and garden equipment;
and various other items of an interesting nature to those living in the small community of Chipping
Cleghorn. This particular Friday, October 29th – was no exception to the rule –
II
Mrs Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her forehead, opened The Times,
looked with a lacklustre eye at the left-hand centre page, decided that, as usual, if there was any
exciting news The Times had succeeded in camouflaging it in an impeccable manner; took a look
at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularly the latter; then, her duty done, she put aside The
Times and eagerly seized the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette.
When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she was already deep in the
Personal Column.
‘Good morning, dear,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘The Smedleys are selling their Daimler. 1935
– that’s rather a long time ago, isn’t it?’
Her son grunted, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers,
sat down at the table and opened the Daily Worker which he propped up against the toast rack.
‘Bull mastiff puppies,’ read out Mrs Swettenham. ‘I really don’t know how people manage
to feed big dogs nowadays – I really don’t... H’m, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again.
I could tell her it’s just a waste of time advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only a
box number – that’s quite fatal – I could have told her so – servants simply insist on knowing where
they are going. They like a good address... False teeth – I can’t think why false teeth are so popular.
Best prices paid... Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap... Here’s a girl
wants an “Interesting post – Would travel.” I dare say! Who wouldn’t?... Dachshunds... I’ve never
really cared for dachshunds myself – I don’t mean because they’re German, because we’ve got over
all that – I just don’t care for them, that’s all. – Yes, Mrs Finch?’
The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged velvet
beret.
‘Good morning, Mum,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Can I clear?’
‘Not yet. We haven’t finished,’ said Mrs Swettenham.
‘Not quite finished,’ she added ingratiatingly.
Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs Finch sniffed, and withdrew.
‘I’ve only just begun,’ said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:
‘I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs Finch doesn’t like it at all.’
‘I don’t see what my political views have to do with Mrs Finch.’
‘And it isn’t,’ pursued Mrs Swettenham, ‘as though you were a worker. You don’t do any
work at all.’
‘That’s not in the least true,’ said Edmund indignantly. ‘I’m writing a book.’
‘I meant real work,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘And Mrs Finch does matter. If she takes a dislike
to us and won’t come, who else could we get?’
‘Advertise in the Gazette,’ said Edmund, grinning.
‘I’ve just told you that’s no use. Oh dear me, nowadays unless one has an old Nannie in the
family, who will go into the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.’
‘Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to have provided me with one.
What were you thinking about?’
‘You had an ayah, dear.’
‘No foresight,’ murmured Edmund.
Mrs Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.
‘Second hand Motor Mower for sale. Now I wonder... Goodness, what a price!... More
dachshunds... “Do write or communicate desperate Woggles.” What silly nicknames people have...
Cocker Spaniels... Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood
every word you said to her... Sheraton sideboard for sale. Genuine family antique. Mrs Lucas,
Dayas Hall... What a liar that woman is! Sheraton indeed...!’
Mrs Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading:
‘All a mistake, darling. Undying love. Friday as usual. – J... I suppose they’ve had a lovers’
quarrel – or do you think it’s a code for burglars?... More dachshunds! Really, I do think people
have gone a little crazy about breeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon
used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do like dogs with legs... Lady going
abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting... no measurements or price given...
A marriage is announced – no, a murder. What? Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to
this...’
CHAPTER ONE
A Murder is Announced
By Helene Nowell
“A murder is announced to all in Chipping Cleghorn. A public example will be made of an offender
against the new Jerusalem on Friday October 29th at 6.30 p.m. Wait for the chiming of the church
clock.”
“Whatever can it mean?’’ repeated Mrs Swettenham.
“Probably some religious nut,” Edmund said, not looking up from his copy of the Daily Worker.
“Edmund, do stop reading that horrid rag and pay attention!”
“Mother, you don’t understand. The only way I can make a go of this is to understand what the
other men are thinking. If they all read the Daily Worker, then so must I, particularly if there are
strikes this winter. I can’t afford to find myself without fuel.”
Mrs Swettenham was instantly contrite. “Oh, I do see.” Since the war, there had been so few
jobs for all the men coming home, and not enough houses for anyone. Despite all the building of
”Homes for Heroes”, London was in a sad muddle, and Edmund’s old flat in Pimlico was still a hole
in the ground. It was lucky, in many ways, that he had been in charge of transport for his regiment,
and had learned to drive lorries and all kinds of other things. When he came home from France, he
had started driving for a local firm of hauliers, but he wanted to set up in business for himself.
“I’m in it for the long haul,” he said, repeating his favourite joke.
“Yes, dear,” his mother said, as he buttered another slice of toast. So lucky to have butter again,
and plenty of it. “It does worry me, though.” She turned to the back page, hoping that the unpleasant
advertisement would go away.
“Don’t worry, Ma, you know what villages are like.” “I do. That’s what worries me.”
Edmund finally put his paper down, in part to dip his toast soldier into his soft-boiled egg, but
in part to reassure his mother.
“There’s always someone falling out with someone else. Farmer Jones has upset the Tweedy
Ladies horribly by refusing to let them walk their dogs past his barn. Now the stout one - I can never
remember which is which - wants me to stop driving for him. She had the brass neck to ask me not
to.”
“Oh dear, don’t upset Miss Hinchcliffe, or Miss Murgatroyd. We do rely on them for the eggs.”
“Don’t get in a flap, I was very polite. I know the TL’s looked after you while I was away. Now
put that paper on the fire-lighting pile, and try to think of something cheerful. I’ll be home by five.”
***
The Tweedy Ladies, otherwise known as Miss Hannah Hinchcliffe and Miss Amy Murgatroyd,
both leaned over the Gazette, Miss Hinchcliffe’s work-worn hand resting companionably on Miss
Murgatroyd’s shoulder.
“It does look rather dramatic,” said Miss Murgatroyd doubtfully. “Well, someone’s got a shock
coming to them.”
“But in such a public way?” pleaded Miss Murgatroyd.
“There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,” her friend quoted. “It’ll give people something to talk
about, and that’s the main thing. Whatever happens, I shan’t be out there in the dark, waiting. We
shall only just have settled the animals for the night.”
At this last comment, there was a loud quack from Wackford Squeers, the duck with half a bill,
who was in his cardboard box by the kitchen fire. The one-legged guinea fowl who shared the box
had already gone out to search for grubs, so Wackford was free to stretch his long neck over the edge
of the box and protest about the lateness of his breakfast.
“Shush, Wacky,” Miss Murgatroyd munnured. “I’ll take you down to the pond in a minute.”
The other birds ganged up on him if he was left alone, so he could only swim if escorted by either
a human or Bonnie, the epileptic sheepdog. Bonnie herded the other birds and animals away from
him, and ensured that Maggie, the blind Yorkshire terrier, did not fall into the pond.
Maggie was sitting on a kitchen chair, her head tilted to one side, listening to every word her
mistresses uttered. Despite her disability, she could still jump onto chairs, and if she sensed any sign
of distress in her people, she would launch herself onto them.
“Down, Mags,” said Miss Hinchcliffe firmly. “I can’t stand about chatting all day. I’ve got eggs
to collect, eggs to grade, and the deliveries to make. Are you ready with that bran mash yet?”
Miss Murgatroyd gave a guilty start. “Oh dear. I hope it isn’t burning.” She stood up, but Miss
Hinchcliffe was already tilting the contents ofthe pan into a clean bucket, before disappearing out in
her plus fours and brown leather boots, ready for a hard day’s work.
Miss Murgatroyd stole a last glance at the Gazette. “Wait for the chiming of the church clock.”
She shuddered.
***
Miss Blacklock surveyed the crumb-laden breakfast table with disfavour. “Do any of you young
people use a plate nowadays? Or are you hoping a flock of pigeons will descend to pick the table
clean?”
“Sorry,” Patrick said, holding a fourth slice of toast in his palm as he buttered it, with