Emma sat at her desk. Her lithesome body was slim and tall and she sat perfectly erect with her shoulder length blonde hair curling gently round her oval face. Her elegant fingers were clasped together, as if in prayer, as her deep green eyes starred beyond the blank page before her and into the middle distance. It was late December and Emma was reflecting on New Year resolutions.
It seemed to her that everyone makes resolutions, most of which would last a few days or perhaps some weeks. The village was buzzing with talk of resolutions as the village marked the time between Christmas and New Year. The usual suspects included “give up smoking”, “drink less”, “lose weight” or “exercise more” – whatever these mean as without criteria to qualify them, she wondered how anyone can be expected to maintain such vague resolutions. Emma also wondered if stating these resolutions was for her benefit. Some, perhaps the ones which are easy to keep or ones which are well defined, may last a few months or even the whole year.
Emma wanted to make a change and to make it permanent.
To the outside world Emma had it all. Her body was youthful and flexible, furthermore with little effort she maintained a level of fitness, predicated mostly on walking when she could and not driving or using public transport unless necessary. She loved to walk around the village with her golden Labrador and enjoy its beauty and that of the surrounding patchwork of fields, with their criss-crossing public footpaths and bridleways. She had a clear, porcelain complexity which again, with little effort on her part seemed to be self-perpetuating. Her figure was much to be admired and her sense of style was best described as understated and classical. She rarely drank alcohol and she did not smoke and had no need or desire to lose weight.
Emma worked as a general practitioner in the village health centre. Her patients loved her; she had a caring and gently manner and understood all too well the failings of her patients, who found themselves unable to comply with her advice or their medical regimens. Most importantly she was loved because she never baulked when patients approached her when she was off duty to ask for a ‘bit of advice’. She worshipped on Sunday in the parish church, was a member of the Parochial Church Council, took her turn in helping with the Sunday School and was a Governor of the local primary school. She shopped in the village to help maintain the local economy and keep up friendships with everyone she inevitably met by doing so. Emma not only attended but wholeheartedly embraced all the village, church and school events… the summer fetes, the winter fayre, the Christmas Tree lighting ceremony, autumn bulb planting, the spring dance and whatever else arouse from the imaginations of those attempting both to keep village life vigorous, and to raise money for its sundry needs.
Glancing briefly out of the window of her small study, which was upstairs with a window in the side wall, Emma had a view over the rooftops of her neighbours and could see down to the central green with its War Memorial and small children’s playground. It was deserted as even the most hardy children had been driven, or called, inside to avoid the bitter cold wind.
As she starred, Emma noticed the green was not deserted after all. Walking slowly along the pathway was an elderly woman. Emma knew her; she was always a solitary character only ever seen outside when others would not be abroad – typically in the biting cold, the rain and after dark. She lived on the far edge of the village in an ill-kempt cottage and surrounded by a small but aggressively wild and unmanaged garden. People complained that Mrs Smith was the reason the village never won a ‘Best Kept Village’ award, for which everyone else worked so hard to ensure their gardens and public spaces were abundant with flowers. This in itself was a heinous crime in the eyes of the villagers but it was only the beginning.
Mrs Smith never spoke to her neighbours and was rumoured to be a witch. She was said to trade in the medicines of the old ways, tending to those who in their distress refused to seek medical attention for certain conditions, who distrusted modern medicine and its practitioners. No one was able to be precise in their accusations but everyone agreed she practised the black arts. No one was personally involved with Mrs Smith, but everyone knew she was a bad lot. No one could say for sure, but everyone believed she could summon up evil forces. No one ever saw her actually ride a broomstick, but no one questioned that she had one and could do so. Emma had found the prejudices upsetting and ludicrous when she had first moved to the village a few years ago.
Now though, she was less sympathetic towards an elderly woman who chose to live alone and not engage with village life. Now she had seen patients who had been previously ‘treated’ by Mrs Smith. Whilst no one ever admitted to where they had acquired the herbal concoctions or viscous pastes and creams, Emma had grown to recognise Mrs Smith’s involvement in village life. There had been several inexplicable incidents with which Emma had been presented by various patients, all of whom had no explanation for their sufferings. Emma had challenged them as gently as she could. She wanted to understand what they were taking so she could best help them but there was a universal silence and Mrs Smith held an influence which seemed totally impenetrable. Then one day there was the young woman who had subjected herself to Mrs Smith’s liquor to end an unwanted pregnancy. She had eventually been carried into Emma’s surgery by her father, doubled in pain and bleeding from her mouth. The foul fluid could still be smelt on the girl’s breath and clothing where she had vomited; despite the best efforts of Emma and the local hospital, the girl and her child died, two days later.
For Emma, this had been the final straw. If the villagers chose to revile Mrs Smith publically but creep to her cottage in secret to secure her aid, then that was their choice. When her potions and lotions added to their suffering and delayed their healing, that too was their choice. Emma knew some of her patients would never again seek the aid of Mrs Smith as their own suffering and the words of warning uttered by Emma, seemed to have hit home. But the death of a young woman was not to be tolerated. Emma was not certain but she suspected some other deaths, all of which were predicted but had occurred earlier than expected, could be attributed to Mrs Smith. The occasional bottle of something unlabelled lying on a bedside table had warned her and once she had taken one to have the contents analysed. When she enquired, no one knew where it had come from or what it contained. Her talk with the village police officer had been futile. He believed Mrs Smith to be harmless and although more than a little odd, there was no reason to investigate. As Emma had persisted in pushing the point, Mrs Smith had received a visit from the local constabulary. The outcome was redundant as far as Emma was concerned. Mrs Smith was a quiet old lady who chose to live alone; lack of social engagement, and untidy home and a wild garden, were not, Emma was informed, criminal actions. Emma, herself had called on Mrs Smith, but although the door had been opened a little, Emma had been refused admittance and soon the door had been closed again with a firmness which spoke more loquaciously than any words.
Picking up her pen, Emma started to write her New Year resolution.
KILL MRS SMITH
Carefully folding the paper and placing in a sealed envelope taped to the underside of a drawer in her small desk, she went downstairs. Emma had been pondering this course of action for some time. Driving Mrs Smith from the village seemed unmanageable as her unpopularity apparently had no negative impact, especially as the villagers continued to beat a steady path to her door. So, on balance, this appeared to be the only option to protect the villagers from this unwholesome temptation. She wanted to put it down on paper, to help her to screw her courage to the task in hand. It gave the whole idea a solidity which merely thinking about it did not offer. Boiling the kettle, she made a pot of tea and settling beside the fire, her Labrador by her feet, she began to browse through various volumes on pharmacology and poisons.
Mrs Smith died, no quite knew when, but sometime in mid-January. Her body was eventually found when one potential client had peered through a window in the back of the cottage and then anonymously called the police. Emma had been called as the local medic and had certified the death. Mrs Smith was not registered with any GP and no one was providing her with medical care so there was little interest in the cause of death. The coroner pronounced it was a natural death, like that of a dozen other elderly ladies living alone.
It seemed to her that everyone makes resolutions, most of which would last a few days or perhaps some weeks. The village was buzzing with talk of resolutions as the village marked the time between Christmas and New Year. The usual suspects included “give up smoking”, “drink less”, “lose weight” or “exercise more” – whatever these mean as without criteria to qualify them, she wondered how anyone can be expected to maintain such vague resolutions. Emma also wondered if stating these resolutions was for her benefit. Some, perhaps the ones which are easy to keep or ones which are well defined, may last a few months or even the whole year.
Emma wanted to make a change and to make it permanent.
To the outside world Emma had it all. Her body was youthful and flexible, furthermore with little effort she maintained a level of fitness, predicated mostly on walking when she could and not driving or using public transport unless necessary. She loved to walk around the village with her golden Labrador and enjoy its beauty and that of the surrounding patchwork of fields, with their criss-crossing public footpaths and bridleways. She had a clear, porcelain complexity which again, with little effort on her part seemed to be self-perpetuating. Her figure was much to be admired and her sense of style was best described as understated and classical. She rarely drank alcohol and she did not smoke and had no need or desire to lose weight.
Emma worked as a general practitioner in the village health centre. Her patients loved her; she had a caring and gently manner and understood all too well the failings of her patients, who found themselves unable to comply with her advice or their medical regimens. Most importantly she was loved because she never baulked when patients approached her when she was off duty to ask for a ‘bit of advice’. She worshipped on Sunday in the parish church, was a member of the Parochial Church Council, took her turn in helping with the Sunday School and was a Governor of the local primary school. She shopped in the village to help maintain the local economy and keep up friendships with everyone she inevitably met by doing so. Emma not only attended but wholeheartedly embraced all the village, church and school events… the summer fetes, the winter fayre, the Christmas Tree lighting ceremony, autumn bulb planting, the spring dance and whatever else arouse from the imaginations of those attempting both to keep village life vigorous, and to raise money for its sundry needs.
Glancing briefly out of the window of her small study, which was upstairs with a window in the side wall, Emma had a view over the rooftops of her neighbours and could see down to the central green with its War Memorial and small children’s playground. It was deserted as even the most hardy children had been driven, or called, inside to avoid the bitter cold wind.
As she starred, Emma noticed the green was not deserted after all. Walking slowly along the pathway was an elderly woman. Emma knew her; she was always a solitary character only ever seen outside when others would not be abroad – typically in the biting cold, the rain and after dark. She lived on the far edge of the village in an ill-kempt cottage and surrounded by a small but aggressively wild and unmanaged garden. People complained that Mrs Smith was the reason the village never won a ‘Best Kept Village’ award, for which everyone else worked so hard to ensure their gardens and public spaces were abundant with flowers. This in itself was a heinous crime in the eyes of the villagers but it was only the beginning.
Mrs Smith never spoke to her neighbours and was rumoured to be a witch. She was said to trade in the medicines of the old ways, tending to those who in their distress refused to seek medical attention for certain conditions, who distrusted modern medicine and its practitioners. No one was able to be precise in their accusations but everyone agreed she practised the black arts. No one was personally involved with Mrs Smith, but everyone knew she was a bad lot. No one could say for sure, but everyone believed she could summon up evil forces. No one ever saw her actually ride a broomstick, but no one questioned that she had one and could do so. Emma had found the prejudices upsetting and ludicrous when she had first moved to the village a few years ago.
Now though, she was less sympathetic towards an elderly woman who chose to live alone and not engage with village life. Now she had seen patients who had been previously ‘treated’ by Mrs Smith. Whilst no one ever admitted to where they had acquired the herbal concoctions or viscous pastes and creams, Emma had grown to recognise Mrs Smith’s involvement in village life. There had been several inexplicable incidents with which Emma had been presented by various patients, all of whom had no explanation for their sufferings. Emma had challenged them as gently as she could. She wanted to understand what they were taking so she could best help them but there was a universal silence and Mrs Smith held an influence which seemed totally impenetrable. Then one day there was the young woman who had subjected herself to Mrs Smith’s liquor to end an unwanted pregnancy. She had eventually been carried into Emma’s surgery by her father, doubled in pain and bleeding from her mouth. The foul fluid could still be smelt on the girl’s breath and clothing where she had vomited; despite the best efforts of Emma and the local hospital, the girl and her child died, two days later.
For Emma, this had been the final straw. If the villagers chose to revile Mrs Smith publically but creep to her cottage in secret to secure her aid, then that was their choice. When her potions and lotions added to their suffering and delayed their healing, that too was their choice. Emma knew some of her patients would never again seek the aid of Mrs Smith as their own suffering and the words of warning uttered by Emma, seemed to have hit home. But the death of a young woman was not to be tolerated. Emma was not certain but she suspected some other deaths, all of which were predicted but had occurred earlier than expected, could be attributed to Mrs Smith. The occasional bottle of something unlabelled lying on a bedside table had warned her and once she had taken one to have the contents analysed. When she enquired, no one knew where it had come from or what it contained. Her talk with the village police officer had been futile. He believed Mrs Smith to be harmless and although more than a little odd, there was no reason to investigate. As Emma had persisted in pushing the point, Mrs Smith had received a visit from the local constabulary. The outcome was redundant as far as Emma was concerned. Mrs Smith was a quiet old lady who chose to live alone; lack of social engagement, and untidy home and a wild garden, were not, Emma was informed, criminal actions. Emma, herself had called on Mrs Smith, but although the door had been opened a little, Emma had been refused admittance and soon the door had been closed again with a firmness which spoke more loquaciously than any words.
Picking up her pen, Emma started to write her New Year resolution.
KILL MRS SMITH
Carefully folding the paper and placing in a sealed envelope taped to the underside of a drawer in her small desk, she went downstairs. Emma had been pondering this course of action for some time. Driving Mrs Smith from the village seemed unmanageable as her unpopularity apparently had no negative impact, especially as the villagers continued to beat a steady path to her door. So, on balance, this appeared to be the only option to protect the villagers from this unwholesome temptation. She wanted to put it down on paper, to help her to screw her courage to the task in hand. It gave the whole idea a solidity which merely thinking about it did not offer. Boiling the kettle, she made a pot of tea and settling beside the fire, her Labrador by her feet, she began to browse through various volumes on pharmacology and poisons.
Mrs Smith died, no quite knew when, but sometime in mid-January. Her body was eventually found when one potential client had peered through a window in the back of the cottage and then anonymously called the police. Emma had been called as the local medic and had certified the death. Mrs Smith was not registered with any GP and no one was providing her with medical care so there was little interest in the cause of death. The coroner pronounced it was a natural death, like that of a dozen other elderly ladies living alone.
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