The Chessingham Mysteries, a 16 life fanfic

The Chessingham Mysteries

The Chessingham

Mysteries

Hanne Holck

The Chessingham Mysteries

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without permission in writing from the author

ISBN: 9788740937244

Reference p. 7

Quote by Virginia Woolf, Essay in Modern Fiction, 1921

Reference p. 112

Charlotte Andrews limps into her small library, kindled by the thought, lately, of delving into the universe of literature, again. She steps up on a stool, holding on to the corner of the shelf, and reaches as high as she can ... modern fiction ... here we go ...

Two loose sheets descends on the floor. She picks them up and sticks them into the back of the book. She sits herself down in her comfortable easy chair. Virginia Woolf and her contemporaries ... page, page ... here ...

(…) "Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad of im-pressions – trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or en-graved with the sharpness of all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; (…) let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness (…) no method, no experiment, event of the wildest is forbidden (…)".

While reflecting on poetics and artistic perform-ance and the oeuvre of Virginia Woolf she unfolds the two pages. Apparently it's part of the manu-script from her first lecture. The headline says "On modern literature with a specific view to Virginia Woolf's narrative technique" ... Charlotte starts reading.

"Apparently, the term, stream of consciousness, not only applies to a literary current in modern fic-tion, it also applies to the concept of genre, which is to say distinctive narrative elements and techniques characterising or constituting a specific mode of fic-tion, and thirdly it applies to narrative techniques in the separate work. It will probably be illustrative to take a look at the concept of genre, because genre is the 'circuit' through which the separate work is understood and hence connected with the universe of literature. Each new specimen of a literary work changes the nature and the theoretical apprehension of the genre. Hence the separate work must be viewed in relation to other works in a generic per-spective.

-To each literary work are attached attributes, which all literary works share, such as the conven-tional narrative attributes in the verbal, syntactical and thematic aspects of the work, based on similar-ity. The generic attributes ascribed to specifically the stream of consciousness genre will then a priori ap-pear or stand out, distinctively, in comparison with other works. To convey the nature of consciousness to the reader, Woolf's contemporaries applied multi-ple levels of consciousness existing simultaneously in the minds of their characters, coupled with the view of time as a constant flow.

-One could say that the stream of consciousness narration has converted the traditional story of outer action and events into one of the mind. (...) Thank you."

She had started out briskly by pointing out that she found the literary term, stream of consciousness, loose, vague and unclarified. One could hear a pin drop to the floor; the audience of mostly old, beard-ed men was not in favour of a young woman giving lectures on, and introducing, a new research field on modern literature at this illustrious old university. She was never comfortable with the secretive and gloomy atmosphere hovering over the place there. Nevertheless, her lecture had ended in a standing ovation, which would have swept most people off their feet. But back then, as a young wo-man, she had had this lofty, formal air about her, that from time to time made people mistake her for being self-important, even bumptious. She remem-bered a teacher once having said to her. "I wish you'd read a little bit more with your heart". She, however, had had no intention of messing up a rig-orous train of thought with sentiments out of place. Never had ...

She was predicted a brilliant career within the re-search field programme at the faculty of human-ities, but in three years' time, she opted out of a promising academic career being at a complete loss in her life. Though newly divorced from a fellow colleague, she had funds from a small heritage and could provide for herself. She received no alimony from her ex-husband, but being a thrifty woman, she would manage to make both ends meet, and so moved, or fled, to the countryside to start a new life on her own.

She was now living in a traditional town house in the outskirts of the small village, Chessingham. She liked it her, and her house being almost covered in ivy and climbing roses completed the impression of a rural idyll.

Over the years life in the village had become somewhat habitual, but she felt safe here and was perceived as a kind and benevolent lady, not overly concerned with the trifles that would occasionally be brought on by the other villagers in such a small community. But mostly she kept to herself.

Normally, she would go for a walk after her mor-ning tea. She would follow the little stream in the back of the garden along the bend, which eventually led out into a vast lake district area. On these often lengthy walks she allowed herself time to reflect on the big issues of life. Overlooking the major lake area, while resting on the bench, and her crutches placed aside, she felt mentally at ease, watching the waves ... soon passing out of sight ... evanescent as life itself ... She was not a believer as such, but on the other hand without a strong belief, a kind of providence, she feared, nihilism would take control, and why then at all bother to get out of bed in the morning?

This morning her train of thoughts was interrupt-ed, as the shadow of a tiny apparition appeared in front of her.

-Good morning, my friend!

Amanda Freemantle, dressed in a creased coat that had seen better days, greeted her, while taking seat next to her on the bench. Amanda, a vivid woman with an air of intensity about her, was, including herself one of four women, forming part of a study group.

Some months ago, well actually half a year ago, was it? They had all attended a series of lectures on fiction at the municipal library of Morwich, the town adjacent to Chessingham. Subsequently they formed this group, socializing, reading and discussing fiction. The very first time they agreed on crime fiction as the main topic. This, however, had proved a vast field, as different features and characteristics applied to various subcategories of the genre. Additionally, different personal preferen-ces had made it hard to reach an agreement on titles to deal with for a start.

Following idle talk about the weather, gardening and such, Charlotte and Amanda start their way back through the rough terrain. Amanda is seeing Charlotte to the door.

-Please, come in! We'll have tea ...

I believe I have some biscuits in store ...

Amanda, who is expecting clients around noon, must decline the kind offer.

-I'll see you shortly. Amanda is referring to the group meeting in the late afternoon. And I'll bring a few titles: Whatever became of Megan Wong? The Sandman by ETA Hoffmann, The Shadow by Hans Christian Andersen and The Double by Dostojevskij

leaving us more options to deal with. See you later, Amanda says, hurrying back in the opposite direc-tion.

Charlotte places her crutches in the wardrobe, and edges along to put the kettle on the stove.

-Milly! She calls out for her cat. Come, eat your food! Milly, the black and white speckled stray cat, has kept her company, since she first moved here. Not only do they get along, they highly appreciate each other's company.

In her small library, sipping tea, Charlotte allows herself time to further indulge in the reminiscence of past times. Milly is snuggled up in her lap.

Once a renowned lecturer on a par with the fore-most critics in the country she had supplied weighty contributions within the field of literature theory. Though a keen and professional reader the predom-inant part of her life, she hadn't read a book for years now, apart from those introduced during the lectures in Morwich. She has tried, though, to main-tain the self-perception of the resourceful person, she once was, but in her present life she is in want of something. Something of significance. Something to attach importance to, to fill her life. It probably applied to most people here.

Soon after their arrival in the late afternoon the members of the study group are seated around the table in Charlotte's living room, and a lively con-versation is going on between them, though mostly village gossip.

Betty Stark has supplied freshly made buns from the baker's shop. She couldn't resist the smell, as she says, handing the brown paper bag to Charlotte. Charlotte is making tea and walks about making her guests feel comfortable. She returns with the teapot, and while leaning to the back of an armchair, hands a cushion to Mary O'Connor.

-Have you heard the news? The solemn expression on Amanda Freemantle's face puts an end to the otherwise convivial atmosphere.

-The news?

-Vicky Barker ...

Vicky Barker was a student at the School of Library and Information Science, affiliated with the univer-sity in Yonderdale, and was working part-time as an assistant in the municipal library of Morwich. She was a serious young woman and shy, but quick to flash a smile.

Amanda was there, at the library, a few weeks ago, and Vicky, whom they all knew from the lec-tures, had confided in her that she felt lonesome and thought of quitting her studies to move back up north to family and friends. Amanda, feeling oblig-ed to offer the young woman her company, had urged her to occasionally drop in for a tea and a chat. As it happened Vicky was there only once.

While sitting opposite of Vicky, Amanda had taken both her hands in the lap, turning the palm of Vicky's right hand upwards.

-What beautiful slender fingers, you have. Pianist fingers, Amanda smiled. Vicky, completely at ease in Amanda's company, smiled back. A quick glance at the hand lines had revealed a broken life line. The life line being one of the three major lines in palm reading ran from the palm edge between the thumb and forefinger and extended to the base of the thumb. It did not indicate life length, despite the name. Rather what Vicky's broken life line re-presented, or was maybe foreboding, was an un-expected accident, danger or disaster in her life. Shortly after, Vicky was reported missing by her parents. She hadn't turned up at her mother's fif-tieth birthday celebration.

The police had no leads to go by. It was as if she had completely vanished from the face of the earth, and nobody really remembered, when she was last seen. The police had asked the public for assistance, urging people to react on anything peculiar or un-usual, they might have noticed or come across, the sooner the better.

Amanda Freemantle had offered her assistance. She was a practitioner in palm reading, and further-more a renowned psychic with a strong intuition to support her findings.

In spite of her negligent appearance one should not jump to false conclusions. A substantial number of clients were familiar with her strong intuitive capacity, and they knew that her theosophical anal-yses of intricate matters were usually spot on. There was more "between heaven and earth, more than that, which met the eye", she would say. Over the years she had supplied adequate results.

The local police force had consulted her in two cases concerning missing people. First and fore-most, because of her psychic and intuitive gifts, secondly, in her capacity of interpreting horoscopes. She would look into the planetary positions of the zodiac and set up a horoscope to support her intu-itive and clairvoyant capacities, based on the exact place and time a specific question was being posed, for instance where to search for a missing person. This put together would provide her with an overall perception of what might have happened, and in one of the two cases the missing person was found in a bog.

Prior to this the horoscope had suggested to look for the body "some place near a wet area". Surpris-ingly accurate, this had been a key to resolve the mystery and eventually the crime. The police had seen other similar cases, now filed as unresolved crime mysteries, and they expected that more were to come.

The small community was in alarm the following days, and the media were flooded with pictures of the young woman. The presumption was that Vicky Barker had been the victim of an atrocious crime.

Charlotte had been to town shopping groceries, and had on her way back passed the second-hand book-shop in the main street. She stopped and stood for a while gazing at the shop window. Literary essays, a title next to the novel, To the Lighthouse, had caught her attention. A book of hers was on display. Written ages ago. Bizarre to see it in a window display here ... She went inside, took out the only specimen from the shelf and skimmed through a number of pages.

The book was a bulky work encompassing differ-ent literary periods and writers dating back to the Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnets. A quick look on the chapter, Genre and method, began. "What we will observe in the sonnets are formal patterns of metre and rhyme, where general types can be distinguished.

The English sonnet form, practised by Shake-speare, is a fourteen-line iambic pentameter com-posed of three quatrains and a couplet rhyming abab cdcd efef gg.

The English sonnet states a subject matter or a situation, further elaborated during the next two quatrains, and is either summed up or ended epi-grammatically in the couplet. (…)"

She flicked quickly through some pages to the chapter on Modernism and read a few lines. Then put it back on the shelf.

Used to seeing Charlotte's forward-bending pos-ture, as if she was about to tip over any minute, a few pedestrians saw her straighten herself up, while leaving the shop.

Back home Charlotte sits pondering on genres and theory ... once, the study of modern fiction had set her own ambition as a writer of fiction in gets up and grabs three titles from the book-shelf.

"Theory on fantastic literature." "The fantastic di-mension in literature." "Genre methodology."

She starts her reading. "The fantastic element must be sustained throughout the story." (...) A clash between two realities will interfere with the reader's perception, hence the hesitation". How far had she actually come regarding the plot? Thinking for a while, she grabbed her pen.

Preoccupied with planning the outline of a crime story, Charlotte was up all night elaborating on the plot. While arranging yellow post-it notes in order, she had thought of taking outset in the detective novel. Later ... she could rewrite and fill in the ne-cessary clues to establish coherence ... for instance the Conan Doyle fiction made use of reconstruction. The investigation work was performed by his prota-gonist, the brilliant detective, who in retrospect would form hypotheses by means of clues and cir-cumstantial evidence, which would eventually put him on the track to ingeniously resolve the case ... let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and in-coherent in appearance. Technically, the author's com-position and the protagonist's reconstruction of past events were comparable to scientific research and method, she was familiar with. The investigation was usually based on incomplete observations in order to put forward and test hypotheses or pre-sumptions by means of the best information avail-able.

What if she made use of the narrative instrument similar to that of Dr. Watson? The implied reader, personified in Dr. Watson, who during the invest-igation knew as much or as little as the reader at any time during the course of events ..? His diary notes were actually comparable to her own post-it notes. Only ,compared to Dr. Watson's records, hers were just notes hastily jotted down, and barely in-telligible to others in their present form. Well, she wasn't even sure of her plot yet, so ..

Charlotte was not aware of the time span, the hours that went by, turning day into night. It was four o'clock in the morning, when she woke up. Dazed and confused and dotted with mosquito bites, she could tell from her swollen and itchy face. She looked around. Recognised the area, and found herself to be a little up the path behind the willow tree, which occasionally she passed during her mor-ning stroll.

She got on her feet, looked around and wiped the dust off her coat. Had someone knocked on the door the previous evening ..? Her table lamp had been switched on, she knew, and then all of a sudden, pitch-dark ... what had happened?

Back home, having prepared her morning tray, she did her morning toilette. The mirror reflected her face speckled and dotted as if from innumerable mosquito bites. Skin powder! She rummaged the contents of her make up purse ... no skin powder. No chance of covering the red splotches ... how in any wayavoid questioning as to what had happen-ed, should she chance to meet anybody ...

Five minutes later she returned from the kitchen with the morning tray. Relaxing in the armchair she wiped her sweaty face with a handkerchief and poured her tea slowly.

Still a bit shaky, she resumed yesterday's reading and spent the rest of the day submerged in mystery novels and fantastic literature. In the late evening she put the books away and sat fidgeting with her pen to begin with.

A few weeks had gone by. Charlotte went outside to open the mailbox. In the bottom was a cream-col-oured envelope, and in a particularly neat hand-writing the letter was addressed to a Mr Will Jen-kins, Esquire. There was no sender. So, just a matter of misdirected mail. She put the letter in the glass bowl on the low dresser in the hall. She must re-member to return it. The post office might be able to somehow track down the recipient.

She felt a bit uneasy today. The seizures had been going on for long now and had occurred more fre-quently during the last couple of years. She hadn't told anyone about them, had thought of consulting her doctor, but had refrained from doing so, any-how. Her face was still swollen and speckled with red splotches.

Sitting in the armchair with her tea, she grabbed her spectacles. The local papers Chessingham Week-ly, Yonderdale Times and News from the Vale of Winderly were in her lap, and the scissors within reach; she was ready to cut out the latest news from the criminal sections. Only a few ...

She studied her cuttings meticulously and tried to imagine the mindset of a possible villain. The way he or she had plotted the misdeed. Generally, there wasn't much to go by to picture a motive, let alone how the murder had been committed. Generally the police force weren't very generous with details. Of course. She sighed and leaned back in the chair. She had a splitting headache and again this recurrent flicker of the eyes. Two aspirins and a nap ...

Charlotte woke up in due time, half an hour before Betty, Amanda and Mary would be at her doorstep, and hastily she gathered her loose paper sheets.

Peeping out of the window Charlotte watched them making their way up the uneven pavement of the garden path. She went the front door greeting her friends, while taking their coats.

-What a strange weather! Warm, when the sun is out, and in the next instance a strong nasty wind goes to the marrow. Brr! Amanda was happy about her fake fur coat, a present from a client, and Betty was wearing her red fleece jacket underneath her raincoat.

-Brr! Mary exclaimed once more and took off her silk scarf.

They all walked into the living room. The interior and decor in Charlotte's house was a bit worn, but cave-like and cosy, and the fireplace emanated a warm glow.

-Do sit down, I'll be back in a minute, Charlotte said.

She returned a little later to find her visitors form-ing a circle around her small ashtray table, studying her 'puzzle' of yellow post-it notes arranged in an intricate order.

-How far have you come by the way? Mary O'Con-nor addressed the question.

They all knew that Charlotte had taken up writing fiction as a leisurely pastime. Crime fiction, probab-ly, but they didn't know for sure.

-Oh, it's progressing all right, thank you, but to con-struct the plot outline up to now has taken a fair amount of my time, and I don't know yet, if I can set the action of the story in train as I've planned. wither I have to start in medias res, or by introducing the protagonist. I haven't quite made up my mind yet. You see, often a narrative work opens in the midst of action, that is to say that the exposition is by-passed and filled in gradually, wither through dialo-gue, flashbacks or description of past events, or one could start the other way around, developing a character, a protagonist. By doing so, I will have to sort of getting to know this person, to have a thor-ough knowledge of the person's mindset and be-haviour. I have no intention, however, of revealing the plot, and nwither will I show you anything, before I've finished the is after all merely an attempt to improve my fallible intellectual capac-ities, she said, smiling affably, and in a polite, but firm voice now made clear that the subject was closed.

-Any news on Vicky Barker, anybody? No? Well, that was to be expected, I guess ...

-The police will bring out the bloodhounds in a larger area surrounding the grand lake as far as to the water-mill, and I am going to assist them, or will try to, Amanda said. The horoscope I set up the other day isn't very precise on this, but solar and lunar eclipses have always been associated with mystery, magic and dark forces' work, and solar and lunar eclipses occur in a recurrent, half-year, cyclical pattern. The place, where the eclipse falls in the horoscope, marks the areas of life, where one can expect significant events or experiences. We have had a lunar eclipse the other day, and currently old, hidden cases may come to light, and I may have come a little closer on where to start searching for the body, assuming that Vicky Barker is dead. Amanda did not go further into detail, and they all went silent for a moment.

Mary was the first to break the silence.

-Pardon me, Amanda, she said. But this isn't a myst-ery. Dark forces' work? Well, yes, admittedly. But this case is rooted in reality, and as such it's a matter of foul play. Consequently, the investigation work should be conducted by the police authorities, i.e. left entirely in the hands of professionals.

-By all means, Amanda responded. I have no inten-tion of encroaching on police investigations, but you must be aware that your opinion may be biased ... being married as you are to a police constable. From my angle of view other regularities may apply in this world. If reality is ruled or governed strictly by causality, well then, how do miracles or the oppo-site, for that matter, fit in to the concept of cause-effect? Or coincidence?

When coincidence happens, we only have causal explanations to supply. But we fall short, when it comes to explaining the cause, whereas the effect is usually apparent. Cause or motive is a presumption, a probability we cannot be sure of. So, when we nar-row our vision or perspective, we are likely to miss out on the whole picture, if you get my drift. Our apprehension of the outer world, what we see and what we observe, may, with all respect, render false conclusions.

-Well, Charlotte said, clearing her throat. Yes, and generally we face no trouble in constantly inter-preting and decoding, what's going on about us, to sort of getting a grasp on our reality.

I've been preoccupied with the genre and concept of the detective novel, lately, and for instance, the way Conan Doyle has his protagonist, Mr Sherlock Holmes, provide his ingenious solutions, is by means of formulating possible hypotheses. I have a note on it here.

Charlotte grabbed her spectacles. Looking over the rim of her glasses, she said.

-It has to do with modality, linguistically. Possibil-ity versus probability render different meanings. Probability means a larger degree of certainty than possibility. Pushing her spectacles up on the nose, Charlotte continued.

-We must take outset in the hypothesis that is most easily disproved or refuted as false. It is by far preferable that the hypothesis is falsifiable, than likely or probable. Because 'probable' means that it conforms to our preconceptions, which may be wrong or false.

-I agree, Betty said. The implicit hypothesis, we witness may lead to erroneous conclusions in the first place in order to eventually arrive at the right conclusion, that is to say eliminate errors. We look for connections in the vain hope ...

Betty looked around for eye contact ... -in the attempt to establish coherence in a fragmented world of misleading, equivocal signs. So, meaning and coherence is derived from the signs and codes, which, from the smallest semantic part, the mor-pheme, to the world at large, must be constantly translated into reality. And so we patch up the frag-ments, based on our experiences and observations, to a world of entity, in which we believe, we can all navigate.

-And as we know from the Conan Doyle literat-ure, Charlotte smiled, we make mistakes, if we lend an eye only to that which conforms to our presump-tions.

-Furthermore ... Amanda and Betty has just touched on this, I think ... the human endeavour to constantly go to the limits of our knowledge, while simultaneously trying to expand or exceed these limits, is to venture into areas that are inherently counterfactual. Well ... what I'm saying is that I'm afraid, we are about to venture into a world of spe-culation, contrary to that of philosophy and science. What started this whole business initially was to stay alert, observant and unprejudiced ... correct me, if I'm wrong.

-It seems, that we're ready and about to launch our own investigation team, Betty said laughingly to clear the air and to alleviate the tension that apparently had built up in Mary.

-But if I understand you correctly, Mary, you're of the opinion that the police will be far better off without our interfering in their affairs. Bloody amateurs, as we are!

-Oh no! I follow your arguments, at least some of the way, but they're rooted in an abstract world as opposed to reality, and I'm prone to say a naive approach, which is not mine. No offence, it's just that I'm the only one in this company with no academic career. I'm well aware of that. So, let's call a spade a spade. What I'm concerned with is Vicky's fate. I have hardly slept a wink these last days, thin-king of what may have happened to her.

Very unlike her normal attitude - a very sweet woman Mary was under normal circumstances - she seemed quite upset, and hadn't she been a bit under the weather, lately ..?

Aloud Charlotte said. -Let's leave this highbrow kind of discussion in favour of our usual tolerant ways of exchanging views. No one should feel belittled or inferior in this company, it would be quite unprecedented.

-I trust, and I hope that we will soon see a break-through in the police investigation. Let's indeed hope so. But still, we may have other methods to offer, I'm thinking of Amanda's earlier achievements in this field ...

Two dead bodies had been found near the water-mill three weeks on. They were stabbed and mu-tilated beyond recognition, and both were young women. Details in Chessingham Weekly had been scanty. The forensic experts were still working on the identities of the victims.

As the previous meeting in the group had ended somewhat abruptly, following the sad news con-veyed by Amanda Freemantle, they were summon-ed for today at Charlotte's residence.

A selection of books to choose from was soon stacked in front of them. Mary reached for one on the top ready to present hers.

-By the way, I noticed a letter in your glass bowl, Charlotte. From family?

Despite an increasingly close relationship, the group members knew next to nothing about each other's past.

-Oh, no, the letter was misdirected, and I shall bring it to the post office the soonest, that is one of the coming days. But, unfortunately, there is no sender's address on the back.

-Perhaps, you should open it, after all?

-And what would be the purpose?

-Well, the contents of the letter might reveal some-thing about the sender or Will Jenkins, if you open it, that is.

-Don't keep us in suspense! the other women agreed.

-All right, then. Charlotte went to fetch the letter.

-Hand it over to me, Charlotte. Betty reached for the letter.

-The texture or quality of the paper suggests an affluent person. She turned it over. No signature, all right.

-Let's see, what's in it. She opened the envelope with a table knife and took out a thin piece of paper, held it up against the light. No watermark, she said. It's a poem.

In a neat handwriting, similar to that on the envel-ope, a poem was quoted. From a quick glance Char-lotte assumed that it was a Shakespearean sonnet and fetched The Norton Anthology of English Liter-ature to look it up.

-This is sonnet no. 73, she said.

-Let's hear it! Mary's raised voice cut through the conversation.

Betty began reading it aloud

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self that seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That in the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon I must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

-This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

-To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

What was this supposed to mean? It made no immediate sense, they agreed.

... The essence of life? Love and death? Whatever. Apparently the contents rendered various meanings, and she knew that the meaning in Shakespearean sonnets was inexhaustible, though one interpretation might be more plausible than another ... depending of course on the methods applied and the types of discourse, questioned by the reader. Charlotte's train of thoughts was inter-rupted by Mary.

-Surely Will Jenkins must be a learned man and with a preference for quality, but I'm afraid we will not come any closer to the identity of him. Mary offered to hand it over to Mr Simms at the post office on her way home, and put the letter in her bag.

-But couldn't you prepare ... or provide us with an interpretation of the sonnet for our next meeting, Charlotte? Albeit this is another genre than that of crime fiction, a 'mystery sonnet' would be exciting and worth while dealing with. Wouldn't you say? Betty was asking.

... It was usually, when she was feeling mentally exhausted that she tended to drop off the conscious state of mind and to go into a trance-like state, though fully awake.

Shortly after her friends had left the other day, Charlotte had felt the strain again. Ten minutes later she woke up, dazed and was still suffering from anxiety, and now the thought struck her. Was she at risk that her ex-husband had tracked her down after all these years? Could he be the unidentified sender of the letter ... be around?

Charlotte suspected that the absence seizures were triggered by the trauma she had been going through back then.

Her physical impairment was due to an accident, she had explained, when asked. But had anyone conjoined mental impairment with this, the seizures?

She had consulted a considerable amount of specialists concerning her condition, and each had come up with a different diagnosis, from post traumatic stress to other kinds of mental disorder. She couldn't count the number ... and the last specialist had simply decided that it was a harmless condition, somnambulism, which in some rare cases, was the effect of a chromosomal defect.

She had, though, been badly mutilated back then by her spouse and colleague. Nobody had suspected a highly intelligent man and associate professor at the university to perpetrate domestic violence, and neighbours had taken her to hospital ...

She put it out of her mind, cleared the table for used crockery from the other day and went across the room to take a look at the yellow post-it notes. They had been rearranged, and one was missing.

Mr Simms at the post office was left stranded as to the recipient of the letter. Will Jenkins was an ordinary name, and so he couldn't do more about it, sorry. The letter was handed back to Mary O'Con-nor, who, though keen on solving the mysterious identity of Will Jenkins, accepted it.

-Hello-o! ... Sam, are you there? Mary called from downstairs and hurried upstairs. The door leading to chief constable Samuel O'Connor's room was wide open, and almost like a set-piece, Mary could faintly see him behind the tobacco fumes from his pipe. He turned around in his easy chair.

-Hello, darling. How has your day been?

-Busy!

-And the meeting?

Mary put down the groceries and sat back in the opposite chair, exhaling deeply.

-Well ...

She started a long explanation ending with the mysterious letter at Charlotte's place.

-I can't help feeling that something isn't quite right with Charlotte. She seems somewhat detached ... these days ... and snappish! Mary tried to, but couldn't quite conceal her frustration.

-I didn't even come around to present the books, I brought along for mutual discussion, albeit Char-lotte's living room is flooded with books and pa-pers, probably some of which were her contribu-tion. And her place! Her quarters haven't been as untidy ever! Not to mention that her face was quite speckled as if from countless mosquito bites, wherever they may have come from ... and so, it wasn't much of a convivial gathering, as I had hoped for, today, and to top it all, Charlotte had placed numerous post-it notes with unintelligible words on her table, a quick glance could tell. When she saw us next to her 'puzzle', returning with the tea, she turned somewhat crusty. If it wasn't so drab and bothersome, it would be almost hilarious to think of. Well ... maybe I should simply opt out of the whole affair.

Finally Mary's frustration broke through.

-Couldn't you and your investigation team help solving the mystery of the recipient of the letter?

... or the sender? Mary thought for a while of con-tacting Betty or Amanda. What if they concentrated on the sender? Maybe they could crack the mystery that way around..? No need to bother or involve Charlotte this early, was there?She would contact Betty ...

-Let me see the letter, Sam said. He examined the envelope and the letter.

-I will bring it to the lab tomorrow, he said.

Mary called on Betty Stark the following day on her way to town. Betty Stark, a perspicacious wo-man was a straight forward person, whose advice people often sought in personal matters because of her good judgement.

She was in good moods this morning and was about to take her freshly baked scones out of the oven, when someone knocked on the door.

-Hello, Betty, Mary smiled. May I come in? Betty didn't seem very surprised and said:

-Do come in! You're just in time for freshly baked scones. We'll have cream tea to go with it!

-First jam, Betty said, then clotted cream on top, when later they were seated in her living room. Now tell me, what is it that you want to see me about?

Mary hesitated.

-Well ... it's a bit awkward. I'm not one to gossip, you know, but I can't help feeling worried about Charlotte. I brought this letter of hers to the post office, and according to Mr Simms there is no way they can track down nwither the sender, nor the recipient. So, I've persuaded Sam to investigate this, and he would take the letter to the lab, he said. It was quite dusty, you know, both when Mr Simms, and when Sam examined it ... and furthermore, I have come to think ... could Charlotte have actually sent the mysterious letter to herself? In lack of attention ... or something? And then these post-it notes all over her place ... quite unintelligible ...

The words tumbled out of Mary, ... -and her facial skin, didn't you notice? It was quite speckled, as if from an allergic reaction or from countless mos-quito-bites. I actually meant to, but couldn't find a proper opportunity to ask her about it.

-Well, Betty said. I have had the same thought, as to the mysterious letter. I happen to know that Charlotte was in the second-hand bookshop the other day to see, if there was anything to be had on Shakespearean sonnets, and Mrs Wilbur told me, that actually she had one, which Charlotte had flick-ed through the other day, prior to receiving the an-onymous letter.

-I think though that we should keep things to our-selves. "Let us forbear the grievous words, which stir up strife and adds fuel to the flame as well as provokes an angry reply from another".

-Are you quoting a biblical proverb?

-No. Not that I know of. I was referring to our dis-cussion at the last meeting.

-My late father was a vicar, you see, and I remember him quoting this, proverb 15, I think. Something like "A hot-tempered man stirs up con-flict, but a man slow to anger calms strife"? Any-how ... we must avoid any strife, though it mustn't deprive us the responsibility to be observant, I find.

-We're all very fond of Charlotte, and she may be in trouble, or ... I don't know.

-I think we should leave it be for the time being, Betty said, sipping her tea, till Mary broke the si-lence and got up, while looking at her wrist watch, said,

-Time is flyyying! I must be off ..! I'll be seeing you and thanks for the treat! Lovely!

Betty was left lingering in deep thought. With a slight tremor of the hand she lighted a cheroot, inhaled deeply, then put it out, and started clearing the table.

A person stood waving on the road side ... probably a student hiking for a lift home for the weekend ... She pulled over and pushed the door open.

-Oh, it's you ...

Amanda's sharp-sighted remark the other day echo-ed in Charlotte's ears.

-One must pose the right question to arrive at the right conclusion, Amanda had said. At first Char-lotte had winced ... what a platitude ... but then ... Yes, of paramount importance, she had replied instead.

She had tea at Amanda's place having brought books for Amanda, some of which she had been asked for as a loan, and contrary to her earlier de-cision of keeping the plot of her novel to herself, she had decided to unveil some of her ideas to Amanda. Despite unfaltering analytic capacities, she needed another person's view to approach her ideas from a different perspective. To simply see things from different angles and thus press ahead with the work. She reckoned that Amanda was the person capable of providing this.

An item on her hidden agenda, however, was to make out, who might have, or could have seized the opportunity to remove the missing post-it note the other day, and she had been thinking on how to hint at it, without arousing suspicion to the real purpose.

There was no doubt that strange events were going on in and around Chessingham. The local police had not really gotten anywhere in their investigat-ive work regarding the murders on the two young women, and the letter recently prompted her to speculate.

She had an indefinable feeling that someone in her social circle wasn't clean as a whistle. One with dub-ious intentions.

This morning she had been looking for the note again, and she was now quite sure that she had not misplaced it herself.

To begin with they were discussing the dead bodies found recently and the media coverage, as the identities of the victims were now released. One was Caitlyn O'Rourke. The other victim was Vicky Barker. They had both been students at the campus in Yonderdale. But any connection between them, if any, had not been established.

-I have been reflecting on the genres of crime literature lately with regard to my novel, Charlotte said, and I've come to think of investigation me-thods, such as the reconstruction of incidents through traces and clues. These elements constitute the genre, of course, and are inherent in the detect-ive novel and in crime fiction, generally. It's a puzzle to have it work, especially now, when one of the pieces is missing ...

-How is that? Amanda asked. Are you saying that one of your post-it notes has gone missing?

-Apparently, Charlotte said. It was crucial. You see I was thinking of taking outset in a mystery, to sort of put it into a larger context ...

-Oh! I remember now! The note on the sonnet! I was curious about the sonnet, and when I saw it mentioned on one of the notes, I took it to read, but of course I meant to put it back right away. I couldn't make out, what the meaning was, though ... and I think that I forgot to put it back. Now I just haven't the faintest idea, where I may have put it ... perhaps in my fur coat pocket ..? I'll go look!

On her way out Amanda added that she had found the note quite unintelligible, as if encrypted.

-I know, and it was, Charlotte said. It's a pro-fessional habit of mine. Authors and researchers steal from one another all the time.

-No news in that. And so from the early days of my university career I'm in habit of writing my notes in a code language, sort of. I find that today's easy access via the media calls for a distinction be-tween intertextuality and plagiarism ... here speaks the lecturer, Charlotte smiled. Plagiarism is not a crime as such, but it's wrongful, unethical, and occasionally on the verge of copyright infringement. Well, I better be off now, spurred as I am of delving into my crime story. Goodbye, Amanda, and take care!

-Oh, by the way, Charlotte, I saw you leaving the second-hand bookshop in the main street the other day. Did you find anything interesting?

But Charlotte had shot off on crutches and was already far down the lane. Having decided first to curtail her walk home from Amanda by shortcuts, she now found that a brisk and longer walk would do her good, and so went by the old water-mill instead of walking straight home.

When passing the mill, she noticed a little red gizmo to pull the zipper of a jacket up or down. She took a closer look. It was special ... similar to one, which she had seen recently ... Charlotte picked it up and put it in her pocket.

No. 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self that seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That in the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon I must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

The table was laid for tea and scones. Charlotte had tried to conceive of a way to put the delicate question without giving herself away. Soon Mary, Amanda and Betty would arrive for today's group meeting. She herself had been working on the interpretation of the sonnet.

Betty took off her red fleece. It was unzipped.

-Let me take it, Charlotte said, while the others put theirs on the rack. Charlotte produced a red giz-mo.

-Could it be yours, she asked Betty with a fixed glance. I found it the other day.

-Oh! Yes, it's mine, all right, Betty said. She avoided the eye contact with Charlotte; just accept-ed the gizmo that Charlotte handed her.

They all went into the living room.

-Please, help yourselves. The tea and everything is ready, Charlotte said.

-I've been working my head off with this inter-pretation.

-Here's a handout of the sonnet for all of you, before we begin.

-Well, the principal and recurring theme is im-permanence, mortality. As you may know the poem or the sonnet is composed of three rhymed quat-rains, ending in, or summed up, in the couplet. Often a situation is stated in the first quatrain and then further elaborated in the next two quatrains.

-At first, I thought, I wouldn't drag you through it all, and that a short paraphrase of the meaning would do, but the rhyme scheme and metre sup-ports the meaning, as you will see.

-The contents renders various interpretations. The meaning in the Shakespearean sonnet is inexhaust-ible, though one interpretation may be more plaus-ible than another, depending of course on the me-thods applied and the types of discourse, quest-ioned by the reader. Charlotte paused, then went on.

-The quatrains are clearly marked by end-stopping last lines in each, respectively, separating them and emphasizing the parallelism of the three quatrains in the repetitious reference to the speaker, for instance "In me", lines 1, 5 and 9. The first line sets out with a temporal marker, which refers to the situation: I tell you that if you look around "this time of year (...) when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, lines 2-4, you will notice that "bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang, line 4. This you "may'st in me behold", line 1.

-Noticeably, the logical structure that appears from the commutation test, renders meaning more clearly than that of the syntactical structure. Also the stylistic effects or rhetorical effects, such as alliteration reinforce the meaning by linking the related words and their meanings. For instance the clause, "time may'st in me be ()", links the intangible "time" with the tangible of a person, referred to as "me". Similarly, behold, bare and birds are linked together by the consonances, i.e. the repetition of a sequence of two or more consonants, but with a change in the intervening vowel, live-love. Logic-ally, lines 2-3 would be left out without any change of the meaning that time is creeping in on the speaker, but then the versification would not stand.

-The comparison of the speaker: "me" with the last clause starting: "Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang", line 4, renders the contextual perception that the speaker has no more to say.

-This linked with "shake against the cold", line 3, may be seen as a metaphor for death. Multiple patterning is the term applied to the complexity of Shakespeare's stylistic effects by means of rhetorical figures and tropes.

-In the succeeding quatrain the speaker is com-pared to "such (a) day" by means of a trope (simile): "as after sunset fadeth in the west, line 6, which is not distinctively different to the parallel twilight time. This is however linked with the conjunction "as" and the alliteration in seest such sunset west.

-The actual, or rather should I say, logical, comparison to "me" is the metaphorical meaning of line 7, in which "day" is the tenor, and "which by and by black night doth take away", line 5, is the vehicle of the metaphorical meaning: life fading away like daylight. Eventually, the clause "Death's second self (...) seals up all in rest, line 8, may mean a peaceful death. The third quatrain continues the death-image and gives the reader a notion of cremation related to the picture of dying embers, ashes. The time metaphor in the poem is then that of having reached the last day, line 11.

-This now, as the couplet sums up from the situa-tion in the former quatrains, "thou perceiv'st", line 13, by means of chiasmus and the consonance of love-leave, amongst others, the couplet contextually suggests that what you must leave before long, you love the more strongly, a loved person or life itself.

-The sonnet, dating back to the Renaissance, ap-plies a language, we're not familiar with nowadays. Or the culture for that matter, but the meaning reverberate through history and literature to our presence, and the subject matter is as relevant as ever, that of impertinence, love and death, and I'd like to add, of being a human.

Mary complimented Charlotte for her exposition. A small applause was heard, but very soon died out. And while Betty ... her eyes suffused with tears ..? dab-bed her eyelashes discreetly with her handkerchief, Amanda got up and went to the window facing the garden, turning her back to the others.

Her body language insinuating that she withdrew herself from the company of the others for a mo-ment to work things over in her mind.

-If we revert to the anonymous letter, for a mo-ment, thematic aspects in the Shakespearean son-nets are clearly dealing with homoerotic elements, implicitly. Some may find - explicitly. And I'd say that unless the sender in the text is a woman, a clue might be that the relationship between the sender and the recipient, in casu, mr Jenkins, is a homo-sexual one. Charlotte paused for a while and said, -well, this will be all for now, I believe ...

A strong wind from south-east was ravaging the area around Chessingham. The outdoor lamp was turned on automatically, when her cat was passing by. The sensor she had mounted last year responded to movements. Charlotte went outside to check that everything was in order. The shadows cast from the tall trees came alive.

She called for her cat. -Milly! ... No one ... -Oh! It's you!? At this time of night ... Come on in! Terrible weather! Thought I best be checking 'the estate' for fallen trunks and branches, you know, Charlotte smiled.

Late in the afternoon the following day Charlotte was found unconscious on the floor in her home with a manuscript clutched in her hands. It was Mary O'Connor, who found her. She had for a long time suspected that something wasn't quite right with Charlotte and so would stop by on her way to town.

As Mary later would explain, she had tried to move Charlotte from an awkward position by drag-ging her across the floor to a half upright position up against the wall and supported by a number of pillows. But because of the dead weight she had to give it up, and instead she wiped the blood from the back of Charlotte's head and removed the blood-stains on the floor before calling an ambulance.

Within a week's time Charlotte would regain consciousness. She had suffered a severe blow, which could have been fatal, but the only injury she'd suffered was a concussion of the brain. The doctor had told them that unconsciousness with short-term memory loss about the event itself was normal, but despite her suffering a concussion and a brief unconsciousness she might well remember it all. She might though up to several weeks after con-tinue to be plagued by headache and difficulty in concentrating, unusual fatigue, visual disturbances and dizziness.

Amanda, Betty and Mary met at the entrance of the hospital. They brought flowers and chocolate. Mary opened the door to the hospital room, quietly, and they went in. It was chilly inside, and she look-ed frail. Charlotte. In bed, with a bandage around the head and eyes closed. Mary tapped gently on Charlotte's arm. No reaction.

They stayed for a quarter of an hour. Then left for Mary's place to have tea.

Comfy sofas and tidy. Amanda looked around. The living room made a pleasant impression. The colours were bright and perfectly suited the room's decor with designer furniture in light wood ...

In the beginning, faith in each other's reliability had prevailed, but slowly an atmosphere of mistrust had pro-liferated among them secretly ... They were all summoned for interrogation at the police station the following days. Mary would be the first to go. Little Mary, who seemed so utterly confused, as if she had it all mixed up in her head ... The mysterious letter, the post-it notes, the murders, and now the manuscript. Her suspicion to-wards Charlotte, who no doubt Mary fancied as the cul-prit, as she constantly aired this suspicion of hers, wasn't only ludicrous, it was dangerous ...

-And then these absence seizures that made her wander almost unconsciously about late in the night or early-early in the morning with no knowledge of it. As if she had been sleep-walking ... Mary's bright voice was heard.

... How would she know, Amanda thought to herself. As far as she knew Mary had no business that early in the morning. She wasn't an early riser ...

Aloud, Amanda said

-I didn't know ... Are you referring to a kind of somnambulism? That Charlotte may be in state of unconsciousness not knowing what she's doing? Or are you saying that she's fully aware of where she's been, what she's been up to? Or is it a completely different message you are trying to convey?Aman-da's eyes shone with a dangerous glint.

-But, well, no-o! What can I say? I've been worri-ed sick about Charlotte's condition, as Betty will testify? Mary cast a quick glance at Betty and con-tinued ...

-I usually go searching for medicinal herbs, when the dew falls, all year around, which is early in the morning.

-Let me tell you ... during the spring and the summer season till autumn you will find English Marigold with the Latin name Calendula officinalis just about everywhere. It's one of my favourites with its pale green leaves and bright orange flowers, but it has a few more benefits than just looking pretty. Herbal healers have used the flowers for centuries as a remedy to a multitude of skin pro-blems. For example, a dried Marigold flower can be rubbed onto an insect bite or sting to help reduce the pain and swelling, and then there's Elder flowers, ambucus nigra in Latin.You've probably tried elder flower in a tasty summer cordial, but these flowers can be used for much more. The flowers have both anti-septic and anti-inflammatory effects, so country folk have been using them in home-remedies for centuries. A mix of elderflower and water can be used to alleviate symptoms of almost anything from the common cold to some forms of arthritis.

-Lastly, oh I could go on endlessly ... Then there is Stinging Nettle. Urtica dioica in Latin. Most people are put off by their nasty sting, and most people overlook the health benefits of it, despite the fact that it has less side effects than prescribed med-ications. Historically, the aerial parts of the plant were used as natural anti-histamine to combat al-lergy. However, the nettle has been increasingly studied and potential new uses include treating Alzheimer's disease. But the nettle would actually alleviate the allergic reaction, Charlotte's suffering from ... and so would Elderly flower and Aloe Vera, if I gave her a potion ...

-There are many many more that I collect during the season. It's become a hobby of mine ...

-I've always wanted to be able to distinguish different herbs by the smell. It's a pleasure. It makes a walk even more enjoyable, I find. You were once employed as a pharmacy assistant, isn't that so? Betty asked.

-Well, yes, but it dates back to another century, Mary said laughingly. I would be pleased to share my knowledge on plants and how to identify them. Just let me know when it would suit you, leaving me time to plan and arrange for it in advance.

Charlotte Andrew's manuscript circulated among the employees at the police station. Mary O'Connor had left it in police custody, as she had brought it home to her husband.

-Look! See, what I mean? she'd said, referring to the unintelligible signs and letters.

-It's shorthand, Sam O'Connor said.

In the police station Mary started out relating how the mysteries had taken over the agenda during their meetings in the study group. They never came around to discussing literature as was the purpose, but had in stead focused on and exchanged ideas as to what might have happened to Vicky Barker. At that point they didn't know anything about Caitlyn O'Rourke. In the course of these horrendous events, one couldn't help thinking about motives. Mary's suspicion towards a group member had been aroused, but of course she had been giving the person the benefit of doubt. She never listened to rumours, was no gossip, but ...

Detective Laughland interrupted her tirade. -Well, now, Mrs O'Connor, we wouldn't be barking up the wrong tree, would we? Mary, who wasn't one to beat about the bush, said in a shrill and high-pitch-ed tone of voice.

-But how can there be any doubt at all? About who is the true villain?

-Thank you, Mrs O'Connor, but we will have to end the interrogation here for now. Expect to be summoned for another in the course of the coming week. Thank you for answering questions readily. Good day to you.

The following day Betty Stark was summoned. She concentrated her explanation on the mysterious letter.

-Concerning the enigmatic letter, I for my part, early on, suspected that it was a smoke screen to divert our suspicion, but then I came to think of the other. She already had our attention, and thereby she sort of moulded our perception, as already one mystery was at hand, that of Vicky Barker's disappearance. And then if she could twist the focus from, what was actually going on, she would be capable of implicitly establishing a connection be-tween the murders of both Caitlyn and Vicki, and subtly pin it on one of us. And I must say that I'm baffled that the three of us were so easily deceived.

Amanda Freemantle, the third to give her testimony, was urged to go on by detective Laughland. But confronted with the other women's earlier tes-timonies, apart from Charlotte's, Amanda was sure he must play a trick on her.

-Well ... I agree that Charlotte may be a cunning lady or, sadly, in a pathogenic mental condition. She may even have been able to contemplate and carry out the horrendous misdeeds. But I ask myself, how and why? I find that such an assumption needs to be demonstrated. Mary has told us about the letter having been sent to the lab.

And as we're talking, this minute, no evidence from the lab concerning the letter has been pro-duced, and till that happens, what we shall need are unprejudiced assumptions contradictory to wild guesses. Amanda stated her point of view in a firm voice.

Amanda Freemantle had further information to supply to support her assumptions.

She, Amanda, had had Vicky for tea one of the days imminent to her disappearance, and apart from reading her palm, they had been talking about her studies and life in general. In a relaxed atmo-sphere Vicky had told her that she had met another young woman at the campus, whom she had coffee with from time to time.

They met at the local coffee house, and one day she had seen Betty Stark, the lecturer in Semiotics, drinking coffee with Caitlyn, and they were holding hands underneath the table. She had been some-what chocked, but hadn't revealed, what she'd seen to anyone, nwither to Caitlyn. It was none of her business after all, and she liked to be with Caitlyn, whom she saw as a breath of fresh air in her loneliness.

They had agreed to meet just before Easter, but Caitlyn never showed up, and she couldn't get hold of her. So, one day, when passing Betty Stark on the staircase leading to the students' residence, she had summoned all her courage and had asked, if Betty Stark knew anything about Caitlyn's whereabouts? Hastily she had added.

-As one of her teachers, I thought perhaps, that you might know? Vicky herself found it a bit strange that she had felt it necessary to explain her-self. The only reason, she could think of, was that she was anxious and shrank under the scrutinizing gaze, Betty Stark had sent her.

Amanda sighed.

-I'm afraid that one way or another Vicky may have given herself away trying to hide, what she knew. Amanda paused and then said.

-It's obvious to me that Vicky must have aroused Betty's suspicion, and that thereby she was deemed to be the next victim following the murder on Cait-lyn. I must say, though, that the first of these horri-ble atrocities has to have been a passion crime. I know that Betty Stark was deeply in love with Cait-lyn. She sacrificed her career and everything, I mean ... no pain, no gain! This idiom pretty much covers Betty's life experience, I find, and so the second murder, committed almost simultaneously with the first one, must have been in sheer panic.

Amanda drank the last sip of the coffee, she had been offered, and promised to turn up for the next interrogation during which Charlotte would be pre-sent.

A fortnight later the investigation had taken a new turn. Chief constable Samuel O'Connor had receiv-ed the result of the lab test. Allegedly, the dust in the envelope was from building material.

Having consulted Building Technology Ltd, the lab came up with evidence that the material pro-perties according to material specifications were a compound of concrete and aggregate that was being used in refurbishment projects concerning building settlements in this area, specifically, to avoid shrink-age in the masonry. The contents were a specific high quality limestone aggregate, which in the form of plaster, was applied to remedy cracks in outer walls. Back in time it was applied only to the kind of structures, of which Betty Stark's was the only one left, and so it left no doubt.

The police investigation team found that they were closing in on the mystery concerning the letter, but could it really be that Betty Stark in order to divert suspicion from herself was one to set up a hoax? And for what purpose?

Detective Laughland and the rest of the police staff had difficulties in what to believe. Betty Stark might be the person behind the enigmatic letter, but how, if at all, was it connected to the murder events? In her manuscript Charlotte Andrews had implied a connection between the enigmatic letter and the murders, and so the police officers had to bide their time for Charlotte Andrews to provide her explana-tion at the second round of interrogations.

For the last interrogation Charlotte turned up fit as a fiddle, ready to explain her view on the events.

Her first suspicion, she said, arose in connection with the letter. She had always had a feeling that Betty was a lesbian. Betty would always bring books by women writers. Well that alone would not indic-ate any sexual preferences, but her book case was loaded with women's literature and other stuff from the women's lib movement, and behind the books in the front row she had once noticed a title Lesbian love, which apparently no one was expected to see.

But it wasn't that which hit the nail on the head. Of course not. What had happened was, when she had been visiting Amanda bringing books for her, and furthermore on her way back had picked up the red gizmo near the place, where the bodies were found. She knew instantly then that it was Betty's.

-I became dead sure, pardon the inappropriate pun, when Betty turned up at my place in her red fleece without the gizmo in her zipper, that she must be the culprit. That she'd been around the old water-mill lately, and she has no business there ...

-When I presented her with the red gizmo at our last group meeting I could see from the look on her face that she was ill at ease.

-Oh, about the yellow post-it note that went miss-ing, and the order, in which I had placed them, having been rearranged, I know was Amanda, as we talked it over the other day, when I was visiting.

-We talked all things over. I know that I was - or am - under strong suspicion from Mary because of my seizures, and especially the one, where I found myself up the path close to the willow tree.

-I must have been sleep-walking ... and I have ... thus ... agreed with my doctor to have a thorough health examination.

Charlotte addressing the police detectives sitting in front of her now said

-Today I am too tired to tell you about this con-dition and the possible background for it, but will after the doctor's examination.

-As you will all know by now I wrote down all possible traces to provide an end to these horrible events. What is left now is to wrap it up ... the rest of the story, 'ending a tale of truths and lies', so to speak, and believe me, there's a whole pack of them ... Charlotte said quietly.

-I am sorry, I have to leave now, but I need a rest, and I trust that you will fill me in, should any new evidence turn up, Charlotte said with a nod in the direction of the police officer.

-Oh, and, needless to say, it wasn't Betty, who turned up in that dreadful weather the other night and knocked me down. It was Mary O'Connor ... and she's been quite another experience on vice and virtue to me ...

-But whoever was knocking on my door the night, when the lights went out, I don't know. I tend to be-lieve it must have been one of my seizures. Al-though the doctors apply another term for it. Somn-ambulism.

While placing her hat on top of her curly blond hair, Charlotte went out of the door waving one hand, while holding on to a crutch with the other.

No one spoke a word. Sam O'Connor was seem-ingly paralysed, while Detective Laughland, head in hands, was pondering ...

... Oh yes, it was all in there - in the manuscript ... but did it match up with the testimonies? He was inclined to believe Charlotte Andrews ... But was it true? Could they rely on her interpretation?

Was she covering 'the whole story', or only parts of it? She might have left out or overlooked important details, certain aspects ...

The phone rang, and Charlotte picked up the re-ceiver.

-Hello ..?

-Hello, this is Will Jenkins ...

Pause.

-Who are you?

-I was never present, admittedly. The voice was distorted.

-I know a lot about you, Charlotte. Let me tell you this. We were born on the exact same day and time, 14 November 1954 14.40 pm ... and ...

-Who are you? This is monstrous.

It was now five years' ago. The murder cases had never been solved. No one was charged, and the police authorities had decided not to proceed with the case. The case was shelved. In the community suspicion, as to whether the culprit might still be around, lurked, but the small community turned a blind eye to the fact that the four women still re-sided in Chessingham.

Back then Betty Stark had been under strong sus-picion of having committed murder on both the two young women.

-If the police authorities press charges against me, then what am I guilty of? Of being a lesbian, and of having an affair, or let's call it a fling, with a student?

-True, I dropped my gizmo on a lengthy walk near the scene of crime, but that doesn't make me guilty in a murder charge. I could never, ever have com-mitted such terrible atrocities.

The town was almost back to normal, when another event took place. Betty Stark, who lived her life in solitude, following the murders, and had isolated herself from the rest of the society, was found dead. Few people passed her residence, located in the outskirts of the town. She had been dead for a fortnight, when she was found. Sad story, the gossip Mrs Wilbur said subsequently at the funeral. A real lady, she said. I liked her.

Among the villagers the word had spread that the police suspected Betty Stark to be yet another victim of foul play rather than having committed suicide. The investigation concerning Betty Stark's death was continued with renewed strength. Amanda, who was on friendly terms with both the remaining members of the study group, associated with both Charlotte and Mary, whereas the latter two didn't see much of each other.

Mary had withdrawn herself from people around her. Currently there were rumours that her hus-band, police constable Sam O'Connor, had attracted a disease, which might turn out to be a fatal con-dition. No one knew for sure, what it was, but his greyish complexion suggested cancer.

Charlotte contemplated on paying Amanda a visit. Her equilibrium had been shaken by the telephone call three weeks ago, and she wanted to talk matters over with Amanda.

-How could such an incident happen? she asked Amanda on their way into the conservatory. The conservatory was an extension attached to Aman-da's stone house, and through the glass roof and the walls was an eerie kind of green light. Amanda had green fingers and a knack for cultivating exotic plants. They would grow as high as to reaching the ceiling, and no one could peep in from outside.

-Well. I laid out your birth horoscope before you arrived, though normally I urge friends and family to consult other astrologers, with whom they may be more remotely acquainted. Unbiased, I'd say, but as it is ... at the time of your birth the zodiacal sign of Aries was ascending in the horizon. Its ruler Mars is located in your twelfth house and given the time of your question it may imply that obscure persons are acting in the shadows.

-There may be dangers of violence surging from disguised enemies that act in the dark. However, that being said, Saturn was found in your seventh house at the time of birth, and in your dealings with others, you are going to present a very cautious personality, and you will work slowly and cautiously towards the achievement of security.

-In another sense, your strive for social and economic security, and as from the Moon in your fourth house, you have already received a small inheritance on your mother's side.

-Now, let's have coffee, and talk things over. You need to relax, and we need to get to the bottom of this ... what shall I call it? This mystery?

The zodiac, adhered to a round-shaped disc, was placed on a round table.

-Take a seat, Charlotte. Amanda poured the coffee in teacups. I hope you don't mind? All the crockery is in the dishwasher ...

-Now, looking into future aspects of your horoscope, Pluto is transiting in opposition to your Moon for the next one and a half years, and this influence may signify a period of deep inner tur-moil.

-Your unconscious mind may play tricks on you that are quite upsetting, for you become the 'victim' of inner compulsions that make no sense in terms of your current experience. They don't make sense, because they represent the reactivation of elements from your past that you have never really dealt with. Amanda looked at Charlotte for consent. Did she agree? But Charlotte showed no sign of mental presence, but then after a while she said.

-What you just said about 'reactivation of elements from the past' etcetera ... that really is what arouses my concern. I'm not in any way superstitious or naive or prone to believe in fate determination, but what you say is shocking.

-It's as if my novel, which incorporates fantastic elements constituting that kind of fiction, is be-coming increasingly more 'real'. As if a fantastic dimension of a kind is forcing its way into my life, insisting on my recognition of its presence. How can I explain ..?

Amanda listened with great care and attention, and said.

-It's making perfect sense to me ... what you must do, I believe, is to reach an understanding of what these patterns represent in your life. If you recog-nise them and give them a place in your life, you may find that these energies can be creatively har-nessed.

-They appear to be 'horrible' only because you are afraid, and that will distort your perception of what's going on, is at stake.

-I'm not sure that I fully understand, what is at stake ... what patterns ..? Charlotte said.

-Could it be that Will Jenkins is a 'real' person, or am I going mad? And if the latter, is he representing an alter ego hidden in the deeper layers of my mind? I don't know what to believe ..!

Amanda was in deep thought.

-Perhaps it's about time we talked about the past. I know next to nothing about your life prior to our friendship. Tearful, but smiling, Charlotte said.

-But that will take forever, and you're expecting clients soon, I know. So maybe we could arrange another time. For instance at my place next week, let's say Wednesday at 2 pm?

-Fine with me, and try not to upset yourself. See you then, and take care, Amanda said, seeing Char-lotte to the front door and closing it pensively behind her.

Mary walked hurriedly down the main street and went into the drugstore. Charlotte on the opposite side watched her. Terrible, what she must be going through ... Charlotte made up her mind and decided to seize the opportunity to ask, how she was doing, and perhaps invite her for tea and a chat, when convenient.

Charlotte went inside just in time. Mary was about to leave the store.

-Anything else, Mrs O'Connor? The assistant handed a bag over the counter.

-Thank you, but no, this will do for today, Mary replied, put the merchandise in her shopping bag and turned around.

-Oops! Hello, Charlotte ..! Mary was about to knock over and hung on to Charlotte, who was just behind her.

-Hello, Mary. I just happened to see you walk in here ... it's been a long time since last, and so I thought that maybe you would appreciate tea and a chat at my place one of the days ...

-It's sad news, I've learned about Sam. So, if you can spare the time, when would it suit you?

-Thank you, Charlotte, how very thoughtful of you. But as you know, Sam is ill ... I've just picked up some tranquillizers to relieve his back pain and to better his night's sleep. He is sometimes sleepless most of the night, and it takes its toll. He's terribly tired during the day. He's thinking of applying for sick leave. So, you can imagine how bad it is, when a man like Sam, as conscientious as he is, is contem-plating that sort of thing.

-On the other hand, I need to see other people, too, or it'll wear me down. I need to think of some-thing else, lead my thoughts in another more cheerful direction ... oh, Charlotte, I feel so sorry for Sam. She was about to weep ...

-But what really is his ailment? Charlotte asked.

-We don't know for sure, but the doctors will run some tests on him ...

-I'm sorry on behalf of you both. But, just drop by, if you feel for it, or if there's anything, I can do. Let's find a time, when you're more up to it. And give my regards to Sam, will you? Wish him well and a speedy recovery. Charlotte gave Mary a squeeze and went off.

What to do ..? Wouldn't it be better to simply have it done with? She would drop by Charlotte in near future ... Mary walked her way home in a slower pace, while checking her shopping bag to ensure that she had, what she would be needing.

Samuel O'Connor had applied for, and had been granted sick leave for three months. His bad condition had further deteriorated, and he had severe stomach pain from time to time.

He heard the key in the door. Mary ... She stood in the doorway.

-Hello, darling, she smiled. How about lunch? Would you fancy freshly made scrambled eggs and kippers?

-I don't know ... It's as if my stomach pain gets worse, when I eat ...

-But you must eat! Let's see now, if you can eat just a bit.

She went into the kitchen. Sam heard noise from pots and pans, and then for a long period it was quiet. How long, now, would it take her to beat the eggs, and to arrange the lunch?

Half an hour later Mary returned and pushed the door open to the bedroom. She placed the lunch tray on the table next to the bed. Sam O'Connor was asleep.

-Good appetite, my friend, she said quietly, and left the room.

Sam O'Connor heard Mary leave, and opened his eyes. ... Sadly, he knew by now that although he had a good appetite, the food wouldn't do him any good. So, when Mary went off to visit Charlotte, as she'd said she would, he would grab a bite. He had made porridge for lunch the previous days, when Mary was out shopping, and he took and would still take the pains to remove any trace, whatsoever.

Mary made sure that no animal would gain access to the garbage by tying proper knots on the waste bags. She took out her bike. She would go by bike today to pick some more ramson leaves, as she'd told Sam yesterday. They were tasty in the pesto she usually made. Only at this time of year, before they blossomed, immense care had to be taken not to confuse the one species with the other, e.g. that of the lilly in the valley. The latter was deadly poisoning, if used for consumption.

Close to Charlotte's garden gate Mary pressed the bicycle bell. Charlotte, who was outside doing some gardening, looked up in surprise.

-Well, hello! Why, so early?

She peeped into Mary's handlebar basket, referring to lumps of green leaves in there.

-I was contemplating on making ramson pesto, a favourite of Sam's. He likes it on his pasta dishes ... and so I thought I would stop by you. If you could provide me with a plastic bag, while I'm here, I can store them in your fridge, Mary said. Only I must not forget to bring them with me back home.

-Sure! I'll go make the tea. Come along, we better take it inside. A bit chilly around here in the after-noon ...

During the next couple of hours Mary and Char-lotte were far and wide during their conversation. One thing lead to another. From Sam's condition, then back in time to the days of her engagement, and even earlier. It turned out that they had mutual acquaintances from adolescence, whom nwither of them saw. Originally Mary was from Hollingham, but she grew up in the western part of the country, in Everton. Whereas Charlotte grew up in the lake district area up north in a town called, Barley. As young women they had both frequented the busi-ness college in Tinkerton for a couple of years, and additionally had frequented the same Volley-ball team.

They had a fine time in each other's company this afternoon with much laughter, till finally Mary had to leave. Charlotte waved her goodbye, and urged her to come back another day.

They completely forgot about the ramson in the fridge, and as later Charlotte would take out left-overs for her supper, she saw the plastic bag with ramson leaves. There were drops of condensation water in the bag, so she'd better put them in a dry one.

A small strip from a larger piece of paper adhered to the wet bag. Unintelligible and blurred a name was still readable. Marietta Jenkins, it said.

Sam O'Connor regained his health, although slow-ly, and had continued eating his porridge for lunch, till there was no more oat meal left. Of course Mary would notice sooner or later.

During this period of time, he had not been eating any other kind of food. It hadn't been hard to ima-gine the reason for his stomach pain. He had begun suspecting his wife of having something to do with it, well, even before he became ill ... It started many years ago ...

He had called off his sick leave and was supposed to start working in a week. Betty Stark. He was convinced that it wasn't suicide, though one might find it understandable, had she chosen that way out. No. She was murdered, yet he hadn't been able to prove it. Motive. Opportunity. Culprit. In that order.

Tobacco fumes of his favourite pipe tobacco, Red Orlik, filled the air. He fetched a file of papers and placed it on his desk. What he was about to read was discharge summaries from a psychiatric hospital and the Chief Physician's notes when in the past Mary had been diagnosed with DID.

Sam O'Connor was reading the psychiatrist's pa-pers. Mary had been hospitalized a couple of times, even before they were acquainted.

"Dissociative Identity Disorder reflects a failure to integrate various aspects of identity, memory, and consciousness into a single multi-dimensional self. Usually, a primary identity carries the individual's given name. When in control, each personality state, or alter, may be experienced as if it has a distinct history, self-image and identity.

The alters' characteristics, including name, re-ported age and gender, vocabulary, general know-ledge, and predominant mood, contrast with those of the primary identity. Certain circumstances or stressors ..." Sam continued reading ...

"Certain circumstances or stressors can cause a particular alter to emerge. The various identities may deny knowledge of one another, be critical of one another or appear to be in open conflict."

Sam, as he was gazing out of the window, saw Mary walk up to the front door. Just before she put the key in the door, he hurriedly put the papers away. He would read them at the first given op-portunity. He had already spent three quarters of an hour thinking on Mary's condition.

-I called on Charlotte to fetch the leaves, I forgot the other day. But she wasn't in ... Mary said in the doorway to Sam's study. So, I thought of going out to get some new ones. There are loads of them along the green hedges on the road leading to Morwich.

-Go on, my dear! See you later, Sam said. Mary was already on her way.

... Particular identities would emerge in specific circumstances, he already knew, and transitions from one identity to another were often triggered by psychosocial stress. In some cases of the disorder, alternate identities were visible and obvious to people around, whereas in other cases the patient did not overtly display his or hers change in identity for long periods of time ...

Confusion about personal identity or assumption of a new identity was part of it. Clinically it caused significant distress or impairment in social, occup-ational, or other important areas of functioning.

The length of a fugue might range from hours to weeks or months, occasionally longer.

During the fugue, the person would appear normal and attract no attention ... Sam was in deep thought.

Sam O'Connor decided that the only way to help his wife was to have her hospitalized. For one thing, he did not dare eat the food she served; the ramson pesto. How could he be certain that she would add the right herb, whether it be on purpose or not? He could hardly believe that she purposely pondered on poisoning him, but then ramson differed from the lily of the valley. His wife knew all about this from her great knowledge of plant distinction, and the latter was deadly, if it was consumed.

What he couldn't risk was more terror. More murders. The symptoms of Mary's disease being reactivated might prove to be only a mild con-fusion. But he knew, what he had to expect in case her identity, or the one she had presently assumed, was being challenged.

He was immensely worried about Charlotte An-drew's welfare ... and so once he had his wife put in a mental hospital, he could fully concentrate on the investigation of the three murders. He had to act promptly.

Amanda was expected for tea at Charlotte's res-idence Wednesday at 2 pm, but as it happened, it wasn't till three weeks after that they had the opportunity to meet.

Chessingham was a whirlpool of mixed feelings. Disbelief and horror mingled with faith in justice. Practically everybody knew that Mary O'Connor, that sweet lady, was in a mental hospital for an indefinite period of time. The word had spread that she was sick and probably was involved one way or another in the atrocities, the town had seen. But how could that be?

Amanda's conservatory was heated by the sun, which shone brightly today and favoured the optimistic mood Charlotte found herself to be in. Also Amanda was in a pleasant mood. Charlotte visited to pick up the thread concerning her astrological aspects.

Charlotte came to discuss the aspects and referred to Amanda's conclusions.

-I made some notes last time, to be sure to re-member, Charlotte said.

-"Your unconscious mind may play tricks on you that are quite upsetting, for you become the 'victim' of inner compulsions that make no sense in terms of your current experience. They don't make sense, be-cause they represent the reactivation of elements in the past that you have never really dealt with".

Charlotte took off her spectacles.

-Mary, she said. You mentioned Mary in the light of the current events, "the tricks that are quite upsetting", is that I'm victimized because of another person's, Mary that is, inner compulsions. She staged the mysterious letter, we know by now. Of course it made no sense in my current experience. I hadn't the slightest idea of what was going on, and remember it was purely incidental that I came across the paper slip with the name of one Marietta Jenkins.

-I don't know any person to the best of my know-ledge and have never known or been acquainted with a person by that name.

-This leads me to "the reactivation of elements from my past that I have never really dealt with ..." and this is where I'm stuck! Also, referring to patterns that you said were represented in my life, and which should be recognised, and which I should or must make room for in my life. I believe you meant something in the line of an outlet for energies that would hence be creatively harnessed. You must mean my book?

-Yes, Amanda smiled.

Charlotte left without having posed the question to the answer she came for. She forgot to ask about the connection, or any possible connection, between Will Jenkins, Marietta Jenkins and herself.

What positively could have caused the murders on two young women in their prime and a respected woman, before and after, as it turned out that she had nothing to do with the atrocities?

An event in the past emerging in the present? There was no explanation that the police could think of in Charlotte Andrew's unfinished manu-script. And having turned every stone and having considered every bit they could possibly think of to the smallest part of meaning in the manuscript, the only possible explanation, they could think of was who might have crossed each other's paths at a much earlier stage and with this fatal outcome. In spite of the fact that Mary O'Connor suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder and earlier in life had assumed an alter ego with the name of Marietta Jenkins, she couldn't possibly have anything to do with it. She was nowhere near the crime scene, when the murders were committed. Her husband could vouch for her, and most important of all, she had no motive. It was, however, established that she had staged the enigmatic letter and that she had knocked down Charlotte Andrews, as in her con-fused mental state of mind she had been thoroughly convinced that Charlotte Andrews was the culprit.

She would be charged with this, once she was out of hospital. While in the end she had been con-templating murder on Charlotte Andrews, and a mild poisoning of her husband to incapacitate his involvement in the investigation. This, however, wouldn't be included in the indictment.

The staff at the police station would now turn to Amanda Freemantle for a lead in their detection.

There was no sign of life. Detective Laughland peeped in through the windows of the conservat-ory. He went around the house and used the door knocker. Nobody answered.

He left Amanda Freemantle's residence empty-handed and drove off to see Charlotte Andrews at her place. Seeing him walk up the entrance from the garden, Charlotte pulled off her garden gloves and went to meet him with hands stretched out to greet this polite and yet shrewd man, who had been working tirelessly to solve the heavy cases, and whom she had come to respect.

-Mrs Andrews ..! He saluted her, squeezed her hand and continued.

-Would you by any chance know, if Mrs Free-mantle is on vacation, or otherwise away from home?

-No, I have no knowledge of her whereabouts, I'm afraid. I saw her just the other day. May I ask why?

-Oh, it's just that we want to avail ourselves of her services, he said, smiling politely.

In three months time there was still no trace of Amanda Freemantle.

A compilation of personal data in police custody gave no further information than that of civil status and birth date. Unmarried and born on 14 Novem-ber 1954.

Charlotte stood in front of the window. Outside the temperatures were becoming increasingly lower, the weather windy, wet and greyish today, reflecting her mood. ... She would postpone her regular walk to the water-mill and back, turned around and went across the room. A book of etchings by the Spanish painter Francisco Goya lay on the table, the spine of the book turning upwards. "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was the caption of the front cover illustration. Speculating on crime motives and on the human character in general, she recalled the early days, when they, four fairly ordinary village women, had formed the study group as a leisurely pastime in - as it had appeared to be - a mutually rewarding company.

She could never have worked out a plot to match, what had happened since. In real life. She would never have dreamt of the sinister ways of the human mind as for instance Mary's.

On research she'd found out that Mary O'Connor was an acquaintance from her youth, she already knew. But that Mary the then Marietta Jenkins had been the one of twocandidates, she herself being the other, for a position at the university, she didn't recall. Marietta Jenkins, despite her illness, had once been a promising re-searcher and was offered a part-time position at the faculty of humanities, and she, herself, another in exchange of the full-time employment, she had applied for. She had declined the offer.

She, herself, had, admittedly, been quite un-scrupulous and manipulative at that time, and she ended up with the full-time position, whereas no one in the academic world heard anything about Marietta Jenkins ever since. Her research on Mari-etta had revealed a frail person with a record of mental illness, but there were no records on any-body of that name within the branch of chemistry.

Mary's voice from an earlier group meeting echo-ed in Charlotte's ears.

"-No offence, it's just that I'm the only one in this company with no academic career. I'm well aware of that" ... Smoke-screen ...Charlotte needed a break and went outside to fetch the daily newspaper.

Coincidence, she thought. The dust and the red gizmo turned out to be pure coincidence, presumptions, without a shred of evidence of a serial killer's iniquities ...

What was it, Amanda had put forward this regarding during one of their meetings ..?

"-When coincidence happens, we only have causal explanations to supply. But we fall short, when it comes to explaining the cause, whereas the effect is usually apparent. Cause or motive is a presumption, a probability we cannot be sure of. So, when we narrow our vision or perspective, we are likely to miss out on the whole picture, if you get my drift. Our apprehension of the outer world, what we see and what we observe, may, with all respect, render false conclusions."

She was shrewd. Betty had been the one to notice, Charlotte recalled, in that Detective Laughland had been filling her in on Betty's testimony.

She'd said -

"-But then I came to think of the other. She already had our attention, and thereby she sort of moulded our perception of Vicky Barker's mysterious dis-appearance. And then if she could twist the focus from, what was actually going on, she would be capable of implicitly establishing a connection be-tween the murders of both Caitlyn and Vicky, and subtly pin it on one of us. And I must say that I'm baffled that the three of us were so easily deceived."

Charlotte thought of Amanda ... Was it pure coincid-ence that Vicky Barker was last seen after having visited her ..? Allegedly Vicky had been completely at ease in Amanda's company, according to Amanda's testimony.

Charlotte went inside again, and put the daily newspaper on the table absent-mindedly.. Indeed ... Charlotte thought to herself, recalling some of the conversation she'd had with Amanda regarding the mysterious telephone call.

"-It's as if my novel, which incorporates fantastic elements constituting that kind of fiction, is becom-ing increasingly more 'real'. As if a fantastic dimen-sion of a kind is forcing its way into my life, insist-ing on my recognition of its presence. How can I ex-plain ..?"

Amanda had listened to her with great care and attention, and had said.

"-It's making perfect sense to me ... what you must do, I believe, is to reach an understanding of what these patterns represent in your life. If you recog-nise them and give them a place in your life, you may find that these energies can be creatively har-nessed.

-They appear to be 'horrible' only because you are afraid, and that will distort your perception of what is going on, is at stake."

And she herself had replied.

"-I'm not sure that I fully understand, what is at stake ... what patterns ..?

And this was still the case. Or was it? Concerning the patterns reactivated from the past, she had had an in-definable feeling that someone in her social circles wasn't clean as a whistle. One with dubious or even evil inten-tions ...

She would make a cup of tea and fetched the newspaper on her way to the kitchen. The front page said 14 November ... It was her birthday! How could she forget ..? And how could she have known?

The telephone rang. She turned around and went back to pick up the receiver, paused for a while and then responded.

-Hello, Charlotte Andrews speaking ..?

-Hello, this is Will Jenkins ...

One is Mary O'Connor. A practical woman, educated as a pharmacy assistant, though she'd had given up her position as such, when she married her husband-to-be. Her parents had been thrilled to bits, and had already on the day of the engagement implied that this was the best thing that could ever happen to her. Mary, married chief constable Samuel O'Connor with whom, she led a happy though ordinary life. She liked puzzles. Actually, she fancied practically everything out of the ordinary to fill her drab everyday life with some excitement.

Betty Stark, a tall elegant woman, was the last one to join in, as she'd moved to Chessingham recently. Betty was a former lecturer in Semiotics at the university in Yonderdale. She was popular among the students. When presenting the field of semiotics to her first-year students she generally took outset in her book "Semiotics", raising her voice to a pitch audible to the rear of the auditorium she lectured on semiotic science in a down to earth man-ner from a student's perspective, which is to say the experience and perception of reality from a young person's point of view

-Semiotics is an investigation into how meaning is created and how meaning is communicated. Its origins lie in the academic study of how signs and symbols, visual and linguistic create meaning. It's a way of seeing the world, and of understanding how the landscape and culture in which we live has a massive impact on all of us unconsciously. Our actions and thoughts, what we do automatically, are often governed by a complex set of cultural mess-ages and conventions, and dependent upon our ability to interpret them instinctively and instantly.

-For instance, when we see the different colours of a traffic light, we automatically know how to react to them. We know this without even thinking about it. But this is a sign which has been established by cultural convention over a long period of time and which we learn as children, and it requires a great deal of unconscious cultural knowledge to under-stand its meaning. Viewing and interpreting, or de-coding, this sign enables us to navigate the land-scape of our streets and society.

-So, everyone is a semiotician, because everyone is constantly unconsciously interpreting the meaning of signs from traffic lights to colours of flags, to the shapes of cars, the architecture of buildings, and the design of cereal packaging. And signs do not need to be only visual. They can be aural or sonic too, such as the sound of a police siren, usually heard before the vehicle is seen. We know for instance, in our part of the world, that the thumbs up-sign means that everything is okay. This, however, can be dated back to its alleged use by Roman emperors to signal whether a gladiator would live, hence be okay, or its reverse, thumbs down, which signified death.

-But in scuba diving the thumbs up-sign means go up to the surface, whereas by the side of the road thumbs up means you want to hitch a ride ...

Especially Caitlyn O'Rourke was a keen student and had shown a fresh and vigorous attitude during the first semester. Seemingly at random she and Betty came upon one another each and every day, as apparently Caitlyn had a lot to ask regarding her studies.

They soon became acquainted, and within a year they developed a close relationship. They became lovers. In the beginning they met on and off at the local coffee house and then more intimately at home, and whenever possible to seize the chance of going away on a weekend trip they would do so. They would go to a seaside resort, breathing the fresh air on strolls along the beach ... eating shellfish ... reading love poems in a close embrace in front of the heated fireplace. Caitlyn was the love of her life, Betty knew. The one she wanted to spend her entire life with.

A year later Betty had to resign from her post, as intimate relationships between students and staff were quite unacceptable.

Now that Betty was no longer an esteemed per-son, the attraction had faded, and Caitlyn had ended their relationship at a party, having disowned her in front of mutual friends and acquaintances, leaving Betty dev-astated.

Betty had urged herself to move on, and it wasn't long till she had packed up her old life in boxes. Ready to leave. She was on her way to a little town called Ches-singham, her new home.

She'd bought a house for a small sum of money. It certainly needed some refurbishment, she'd thought, as last summer had seen dry weather and high temp-eratures given the local area, which normally had a relatively high humidity. Betty suspected that the dry weather might be the cause of shrinkage in the masonry, and that later it would probably cause settlement and more cracks in the outer wall. She feared that she would face damage beyond repair, if she did not take action now. Hence she contacted and hired Carrow Builders Ltd. to perform the re-furbishment project.

- 113 -