Lucy Vickery

Spectator competition winners: cosy crime with a topical twist

‘…the message “boris go” had been entered by Larry the cat…’ [PA Images / Alamy Stock Photo] 
issue 27 August 2022

In Competition No. 3263, you were invited to submit a short story, written in the style of a cosy mystery novel, with a topical twist.

Subcategories in the wildly popular ‘cosy mystery’ genre include animals, crafts and hobbies, and culinary (Toast Mortem/Butter Off Dead) – all of which elements featured in a top-notch entry. Honourable mentions go to Sylvia Fairley’s Knit-and-Natterers and to Bill Greenwell’s twist on the Wagatha Christie case. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each.

The tranquil Sunday afternoon in Cumberby was disturbed only by cricketing sounds. A huge six narrowly missed Miss Patchworth, cycling to the pillar-box with a poison-pen letter before going to evensong. The ball disappeared into the shrubbery of the Wykeham Arms. Greg Hayley, Uffingham’s long off, was first on the scene, and soon found the ball. And a body. There was a revolver by the man’s side and a piece of paper in his hand.  Cumberby’s umpire bustled up. ‘Blimey! It’s the butler!’ ‘Butler?’ asked Greg. ‘Do they still exist?’ ‘Up at the Manor. It’s owned by one o’ them Russian Gollygarks. Got more chandeliers than I’ve got spuds.’ ‘Is it murder?’ someone said excitedly. There had been no murders in Cumberby since the rector’s untimely bludgeoning three weeks previously. ‘I doubt it,’ said Greg, scanning the paper. ‘Look at this.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘The gas bill.’ Nicholas Hodgson

‘Out you go, Parkin.’ When Ambrose Barnaby entered the shop a plump lady of some sixty summers was shooing a ginger cat from the shelf of home-baked custard tarts. ‘You’ll be Mrs Bloomington, I’ll warrant,’ he said. ‘That I will. And you’ll be that posh snoop from London, I daresay.’ Barnaby smiled. ‘Touché, but the chief constable requested my help.’ ‘Get away. He’s dead.’ ‘It was his dying wish.’ ‘Also the Bishop, and Professor Montgomery, and Lady Fawcett and –‘ ‘Quite. A massacre in Buncombe Parva. And no suspect, not even a surly prole who kept himself to himself.’ ‘Dearie

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