The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

a cornered cat. Meli couldn’t understand why. She wasn’t asking for details of who was bonking who, whether the vicar was queer.
    “You’d be surprised at what secrets a small community can hold,” Mrs. Barber replied as her outstretched palm crumpled, her usually booming voice reduced to a whisper as her eyes glazed over like walnut shells, lost for a moment, withdrawing into some dark vault deep in her mind. Suddenly, the old Mrs. Barber re-emerged, and Meli found herself speared by a pair of black bitter eyes. “I believe that I’m still waiting for the £2.20,” her resonant voice launched itself again, filling the small shop.
    “Oh yes, how silly of me,” Meli apologised, smiling innocently. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her purse. Holding it in her hands, hands that were slightly shaking under the intensity of the other woman’s gaze, she pressed on. “The boys sometimes mention people they meet.” She thought Mrs. Barber was going to leap across the counter and snatch her purse as she glared at it like a starving vampire at a throbbing jugular. At the same moment her spine began to sizzle as she became aware of sets of fiery eyes burning into the nape of her neck. Had she overrun her two minutes? Deciding that the foreplay had reached its climax, she decided that now might be a good time to get to the point. “For example, they were only telling me yesterday all about someone called the Grim Reaper.”
    Unexpectedly, the colour flooded back into Mrs. Barber’s face as blood jettisoned upwards into her head. “Oh yes, him!” The change was dramatic. The hostility, the frustration and momentary impression of personal pain all vanished as Mrs. Barber exchanged looks with the villagers over Meli’s shoulders.
    “Now there is a character. He’s the gardener-cum-handyman at the church. Laziest so-and-so I know! His real name is Tim Meaker, but he was nicknamed Grim Reaper years go.” Mrs. Barber was grinning now as though she’d won first prize in the Farfield weekly raffle on Variety Night.
    “Why? That’s an unusual name to call someone?” Meli was struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice, sensing that Mrs. Barber’s tongue was like a revving Ferrari, and she didn’t want to do anything to stall the throbbing engine.
    “Oh, even as a new born baby he had a face like sour dough.” Meli glanced over her shoulder and then down at Mrs. Rushmore, who was standing so close, nodding her agreement to every word the Post Mistress was saying, that her breath was hot through her thin blouse. “And smile? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” She opened her mouth and laughed, almost loosing her top row of false teeth. “He was called Grim at school, and then when he began working at the church he soon earned the name of Grim Reaper. But he’s harmless, bit slow but never harmed a thing in his life.”
    That’s what they all seemed to think about Elsa. Meli wondered if they knew about the rifle. “So he’s well known then?”
    “Pure Farfield stock. He was born in Bottom of the Hill Cottage, which is at the top of the hill, where he still lives, right to this very day. Undoubtedly, he’ll be there, until they take him out feet first in a box.” Mrs. Barber commented authoritatively. There were several murmurs of consent from behind her.
    Meli felt all her anguish vaporise. Gone was the image of the perverted drunkard, replaced with the image of a sad and lonely man. Dipping into her purse, she pulled out the exact change.
    Emerging from the gloomy interior of the shop into the bright sunshine, Meli shielded her eyes with her hand, as she glanced over at the church. Untying Quassi she found herself heading down the lane towards the gate. Swinging it open she stepped through, and followed the concrete path to the south facing side of the church. It was pleasant in the graveyard, shaded by the trees, cooled by the breeze which swept up from the valley below. Standing still she flicked her eyes around her, across the tops of lichen covered head stones and crumbling tomb chests. The graveyard was empty, as far as she could see, apart from two Cabbage Butterflies, dancing together playfully beneath the limbs of an ancient elm.
    Quassi had squatted beside her and was regarding her through chocolate drop eyes. “Where is he?” she asked him. As if understanding what she’d said, which was ridiculous because he never understood a word of what anyone said, he