The old, moss-covered granite, packhorse bridge stands proudly above the noisy, never ending brook. Both have served the community for many ages past but today the relatively youthful bridge is doubly proud, for his carefully placed, leafy decoration has donned its frosty Winter morning jewellery. “Aha, he thought, top that my friend, with all your haste, your sun-dappled ripples cannot compare.” Just wait, the Goddess of the stream hissed, for in times to come the unseen, slowly creeping ice will stretch your bones and then you’ll ache,” and turning over lazily, dived deeply, a cold smile spreading over her face.
I am Doctor Jones, a practitioner in a small village. I like amateur dramatics and act as prompt for our local society. A few years ago we were doing, “The inspector calls,” Tom the lead was prone to forgetting his script. He had mentioned feeling rather queer but the show was a great success and surprisingly Tom was word-perfect, something I had been concerned about. After the show the performers took their bows but Tom was missing. I found him collapsed backstage half-dressed with no response. I was certain that he must have been dead for at least two hours.