Digigran

Well, you might well ask about the prevalence of murder in the small villages of England, as relayed in multiplicity of crime novels and TV series such as Midsomer Murders . (Skip all the blurb on the murder link and take a look at the picture story following it - now that could only have been done by someone in a small village- in fact the scene featuring the 'Rook and his little book' could be located in our village, though it is ravens, rather than rooks that wheel above our roof). A love of murder goes hand in hand with a comparable prediliction for small domestic aimals, so that many of our fellow villagers keep poultry or goats or pet sheep, rather as our friends in town have cats or gerbils and dogs. But to begin at the beginning before I get to the cock and bull of the story.
We have a cottage in a lovely Derbyshire village where we spend at least three days of the week to write and walk and, of course, mark. Here is a picture, the view from our cottage windows, taken after an early fall of snow. Village life is part of the digigran plan for digibaby who I hope will join us here from time to time when old enough to escape from the 'sick hurry' of urban life. We have been here for three years now, gradually making the cottage more comfortabe and getting to know neighbours.
Last night, we went to supper with people who have lived here for sometime and began to hear about the dark underside of the village.
First some villagers had conducted a concerted campaign to keep out a woman fron the curacy;
second there is a member of an important Derbyshire business family who boasted in the pub of never paying bills;
thirdly the stand-in vicar's dog bit the flying bishop, sent in to sort the curate problem;
but fourthly, and most shocking, someone is poisoning the village hens.
Our fellow guests at the supper party had found their hens looking decidedly poorly. Apparently hens are real little drama queens and let you know immediately by their body language when all is not well. Their hens began to lose their feathers and one died. Suspect grain of a virulent orange colour was found scattered in the yard. Now digidoc knows all about hens and feathers and chemical exfoliants. He said there was a poison, which made b oth birds' feathers and people's hair fall out. He also suggested that agent orange might be involved as it is an organophosphate found in acgricultural pesticides and available to farmers.
My ears pricked up and I began to feel like Geraldine Mc Ewan, on the case. These are the theories I am following up.
Suspect may be someone in the village who hates poultry because of fear of avian flu (H5N) perhaps-action- begin a discussion in village shop may give me a clue here.
Perhaps even a very close neighbour who dislikes clucking and scratching noises and fears introduction of a cockerel to the flock-enquire about difficult neighbours in pub, very casually.

Someone who has same knowledge as digidoc of poisons - find out about medical men or chemists in the village

Someone from the competition- commercial poultry owners fighting to keep hold of market (not very likely as most farmers near hear are keeping sheep or cows). No action as yet.

Holiday makers with duff stuff, feeding chickens for fun- again unlikely but I am going for 5,as I always advise boys to do when conducting thought showers in class. Keep eyes peeled for small children with bird seed.

So that's my new project and I shall be down at the village shop today with Edward, on the case- just as soon as I've done the marking.