Tea? Coffee? Murder! - Tiny Trail of Trouble

Chapter Two, in which the little people cause great unrest

Nathalie and Jean-Louis looked at each other in astonishment, while the older woman dashed off with surprising agility and immediately disappeared behind the dense greenery that separated Hartman's property from that of the neighbours. Pittlewood was a strange village, as each house stood on its own and, apart from the cottage directly opposite, nothing could be seen of the other houses - at least not in summer when the trees and bushes were in leaf. It seemed as if a wavy track had been cut into the forest a long time ago, forming a circle when viewed from above. This lane was lined on both sides by recesses in which the houses that made up the unusual village had been built. Here, apart from a single neighbour, it would feel like living all alone in the forest. Narrow paths connected all the properties in a star shape to a central square, as a glance at the satnav had revealed to Nathalie on the journey there.

"What was that all about?" asked the coroner, puzzled. "The 'little people' killed Barry?"

Nathalie's mouth twisted. "That's how I understood it, even though I have no idea who these little people are supposed to be." She bent down, placed the car key on the ground to emphasise the proportions and began to photograph the tiny shoe prints. "I've never heard of them, anyway."

"Me neither, but I reckon my dear nephew will be able to fill us in on what the 'little people' are all about," Talradja said. "Apart from conspiracy theories, he's also keen on all kinds of mysterious creatures, legends and fairy tales."

"If this Mrs Mason doesn't reappear," she said, "we'll just go from house to house until we find someone who can tell us about the tiny ones." She stepped to the kitchen window. "By the way, the string that was used to pull the window shut is still dangling there. I'm just surprised that there aren't a few strings hanging down to the ground like there are on the sink. The little people would have had to get back down into the garden somehow." She shook her head in confusion. "That disproves Mrs Mason's theory even before we know the details."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you," the coroner countered, pointing to the ground directly below the window. "If you look closely, you can see that the first marks, the ones near the house, are much deeper than the ones leading away from the cottage. That could mean that the little people jumped out of the window and landed there."

Nathalie rolled her eyes. "When was the last time you saw people that small?"

"Never in real life," he admitted, adding light-heartedly: "But there's a first time for everything."

Nathalie was still wondering what to say when she heard excited voices that seemed to be approaching them. She turned round and discovered Mrs Mason, accompanied by three women and two men, hurrying towards Hartman's cottage.

"If I do tell you ."

" .not possible at all! You must have ."

"What did they do to him?"

" .drank too much or ."

Nathalie could only pick up a few snippets in the hectic babble of voices, but there was a hint of uncertainty or even fear in all of them. Even those who seemed to be making fun of Mrs Mason, judging by their choice of words, had this feeling, as if they were trying to cover up what was really going on inside them with their remarks.

"Now it's going to be fun," Talradja muttered, although his expression rather suggested the opposite.

"There, look at it!" Mrs Mason called out to the others. "You can see the tracks quite clearly."

Her companions were just about to swarm over when Nathalie and Talradja stood in their way.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let any of you come any closer," Nathalie explained loudly enough to drown out the people who were still talking to each other. They stopped in astonishment when they noticed the two strangers.

"Who are you?" asked a bald man with a bushy moustache, wearing a yellow and red Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals.

"Police," she replied, holding out the ID card that the constable had issued for Louise and her. It wasn't an official document, but it identified her as a police assistant, which was far better than being able to claim something like that without being able to prove it. "My name is Nathalie Ames, I'm here on behalf of the constable in charge, Mr Strutner. My companion is the coroner, Jean-Louis Talradja. And you are?"

"Ricky Carlton, future district administrator," the man said, smiling confidently at Nathalie. "Why can't we go through, Mrs Ames? We want to see if what Melissa says is true."

"You can't go through because it is a crime scene," she explained calmly. "All the evidence has to be secured here first. If we let you walk around the property, you'll only end up arousing suspicion yourself, because we might then recover your fingerprints, and you won't be able to prove that you only left them today."

"But the little people ." interjected a younger woman who looked familiar to Nathalie.

"We want to know if Melissa is telling the truth," said the other man, who towered over his companions by almost a head. He had the physique of a bodybuilder and wore a vest and tight shorts that showed off his muscles. "Maybe she's just had one too many bottles of wine for breakfast again. You never know."

"Oh, Steve, you're only being cheeky because you know I can't defend myself against you," Mrs Mason replied. "I can't have too much wine for breakfast because I don't drink wine for breakfast at all!"

"Let him talk, Melissa," interjected another woman, who was in her mid-fifties with the kind of tousled hair that was fashionable in the sixties. "Steve always has to provoke everyone because he assumes he's superior to them. At least physically," she added, grinning mockingly.

"Can we concentrate on the essentials, please?" Carlton called out to the group. "We want to know if it really was the little people who killed Barry."

"But I can't let you go any further onto the property," Nathalie insisted, "until all the evidence has been secured."

"Why don't you show them the photos," Talradja whispered to her.

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "Good idea, J.L.," she said. "Listen, Mr Carlton, and everyone else here too. I can show you a photo of the shoe prints."

"Better than nothing," said Mrs Mason, taking a step closer. "Let me see."

Nathalie looked for the photo on her mobile phone, which showed the car key as well as the shoe print. "Does that help you?"

The woman looked at the display and seemed to stiffen in horror. Her eyes widened; she opened her mouth to say something, but no sound escaped her lips.

"Can I have a look?" Carlton asked when he realised that his neighbour had fallen silent. As soon as he saw the photo, he whispered: "This can't be true!"

"What can't be true, Mr Carlton?"

"Is that your key next to it?" he wanted to know.

Nathalie held up the car key and nodded.

"Then they've actually come!" muttered Carlton, turning away.

"Who, Mr Carlton? Who came?" she called after him, but he had already left the group without saying a word and was walking in the direction he had come from with the others. His stiff posture suggested that he was in shock.

"The little people," Mrs Mason replied in Carlton's place. "The little people have come and killed Barry." Then she turned round abruptly and walked away too. The younger woman put her arm around her and spoke softly to her.

Even the bodybuilder, Steve, made an affected impression, as if the "fact" that those little people had killed Barry Hartman was many times worse than the fact that Hartman had been murdered.

"We'll find Mr Hartman's murderer," Nathalie declared emphatically to make it clear to the people that, unlike them, she didn't believe in any murderous goblins.

"No, you won't, Miss Ames," the muscleman replied. "You won't."

The villager with the tousled hair walked away with him, leaving only the woman who looked so familiar to Nathalie.

"Do you suspect anyone other than the little people?" Nathalie wanted to know.

"I have no suspicions, Miss Ames," she replied, "but a question that may sound a little irreverent in view of the tragic circumstances. Will there be another cheesecake competition at Black Feather this year?"

"A cheesecake ." Nathalie's face brightened. "Oh, that's how I know you! I knew I'd seen your face before, but I just couldn't place you. The cheesecake competition, that's right!" She shook her head. "I don't know if the competition is being held again this year. But if it is, the venue would be different from last year, Mrs ." Nathalie shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Please, excuse me, but I don't remember your name. Please help me out here."

"Elena Wadlikovsky," said the woman with a smile. "Just call me Elena."

"Elena," Nathalie repeated, nodding.

"Can I suggest you organise your own cheesecake competition?" Elena said. "Or perhaps an apple pie competition. As a baker, you can vary it endlessly and it's still an apple pie."

"Good idea," Talradja interjected and introduced himself to the woman. "Something similar could be organised in the pub with...