The Grey Cells Press Greenwood Tree Mystery Tour

We are delighted to be hosting a stop on the Grey Cells Press "Greenwood Tree Mystery Tour".

Come aboard the Mad Gorgon, together with 18th century pirate Captain Redheart and 1920s detective novelist Julia Warren, on a light-hearted vintage murder mystery tour spanning nine episodes.

Those who follow the episodes and come closest to the truth stand to win some devilish fine prizes, including classic editions of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island and Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers.

How to enter:

1) Read the 9 episodes of "The Tale of the Mad Gorgon". (See the schedule of links on the Grey Cells Press website.)

2) Solve the puzzles along the way.

3) Email your solutions via the contact form.

There will also be opportunities to win a digital copy of Greenwood Tree via Twitter, so follow @CaptainRedheart to keep up. (Information on these opportunities will also be posted via @GreyCellsPress as well, if you prefer tweets without grog and parrots in them!). Also, look for odd scraps and bits and pieces from the Captain's Logbook at Bagshott Manor.

The seventh episode in this adventure follows …

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Another day dawned, one unbroken by shrieks or upset teapots, and a quiet calm settled over the building. Laetitia arose late and declared she would stay in the conservatory for most of the day. "If those engaged in this unseemly business could refrain from digging up any more begonias, I should be most grateful," was her comment before retiring with a copy of Loudon's Encyclopædia of Gardening.
 Julia went with her to settle her cushions and ask her about the retired captain who had been at the dinner. She left the conservatory a few minutes later with his telephone number on a piece of paper and rang him from the comparative privacy of the study.
 "The sextant? Which sextant? Oh, in the portrait — yes, yes, I remember now: wasn't sure if it was a sunrise or sunset, but the way he was holding it would suggest the latter. Mmm? Yes, because of being on land; he would need to hold the sextant in that position to be able to take a shot, and they say, either because trees or buildings were in the way. Sunset would be a good time for him to take a measurement — where from? Ah, there you have me, but as he is standing near the window in the portrait, might that not be the vantage point? A curious affair, all round. Poor old Ezrard. But he would always play his pranks, even at school. Sooner or later some of them were bound to come home to roost, eh?"
 After Julia had replaced the receiver, she went in search of a mirror.
 Afternoon came, bringing tea with it, which was served in the conservatory; Laetitia intimated she might go for a walk and Julia joined her, skirting the painfully dislodged rosebushes and lilacs to follow a favourite path of Laetitia's leading past the front of the house towards the folly.
 "I must say, it has been quieter today; my headache has quite gone," said Laetitia as they rounded a small fish pond and sauntered past a few as yet undesecrated flower beds.
 The light was pleasant, the air still. After a moment spent admiring the view, they wandered towards the Folly; Julia was interested to see it in detail.
 The statue was quite magnificent up close. The artist had done his job well in the small area of canvas allotted to her, capturing the ferocity of expression. In reality, she was positively terrifying.
 "What a thing to have carved on the front lawn, most people say. I have grown up with it, so I tend not to see it that way," said Laetitia, admiring the figure. "And now, I begin to feel a little chilly; I think I shall go in — are you going to stay? Yes? Dinner will be at eight as usual."
 Julia walked around the outside of the folly; a semi-circular thing, quite squat, with a couple of columns on either side of the Gorgon at the entrance, carved marble benches along the wall and a door way in the centre, leading to the cool inner depths of the building. A little gloomy, she thought, but no doubt welcome on a very hot summer's day. She stared up at the Gorgon, but saw little would be forthcoming from that quarter, so she walked between the columns, in the vague hope of piecing together some other clue. Nothing — although, some lines of white glared up from the otherwise mossy floor. Rather straight marks, leading to the doorway. Not immediately visible at a distance; Julia stepped closer, staring: they looked like freshly made scuff-marks. She stepped through the doorway into the inner chamber and looked round. Quite a large area, lined with more marble benches. There was a small hole in the ceiling of the cupola, allowing light in to pick out the figures carved into the wall frieze, the odd weed growing between cracks in the wall … and a pair of shoes jutting out from under one of the benches. Julia drew her breath in sharply. Whoever it was, had not decided on a mere siesta; rather, a more permanent state of rest had been enforced. She approached cautiously; the shoes belonged to a man — one of his hands rested on the floor, grasping something. Whatever it was, he had crushed it in rigor mortis, causing white powder to sprinkle on the moss. Chalk. He had been holding chalk. She turned to leave — and stopped again. More white marks, this time on the wall by the door way. Chalk again. Symbols, hastily rubbed out — she peered closely; she couldn't be certain, but they might be the symbols in the portrait of Redheart. She patted her pockets, but remembered her notebook was upstairs in her room. And she really should inform the household first … She gazed at the marks again. Not symbols, but letters and numbers, which looked like SE35NW15.

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Image provided courtesy of
B. Lloyd

A bustle attached to a keyboard, occasionally to be seen floating on a canal …

About B. Lloyd: After studying Early Music in Italy followed by a brief career in concert performance, the Bustle exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.

Her inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions of the Internet, and appendaged to good people's works (for no visible reason that she can understand).

For more about the author, visit her website or blog, or find her on Twitter.

— ♦ —

Greenwood Tree
B. Lloyd
A Julia Warren Mystery

"Well, what do all mysteries have?" said Aunt Isobel. "Money, mistresses, and murder."

1783 — and Lichfield society is enthralled by the arrival of dashing ex-Officer Orville; he charms his way into the salons, grand houses and even a great inheritance from extrovert Sir Morton.

1927 — and detective writer Julia Warren returns to her home in Lichfield to work on her next novel. Initially she hopes to find plot material from the past and set it in the present. Aunt Isobel, while making preparations for the annual midsummer ball, has managed to root out an old journal from 1783 which might prove a source of inspiration. Once Julia starts reading her ancestor's journal she becomes absorbed in solving the mystery surrounding officer Orville. Detective fever takes over, and she moves from reality to legend as events from the past seem set to re-enact themselves in the present, and she finds herself unravelling more than just the one mystery. Who was Orville? Who was the agent, Oddman, set to spy on him? And who is helpful Mr Grenall?

Pagan gods don't walk away just because you stop looking at them. The Gronny Patch sleeps. Perhaps it dreams. Or perhaps not …