“Magatha Crispy and the Somerset Murder” A sharp detective mystery soaked in rain, secrets, and an old Kate Bush record still spinning.

The rain fell in sheets over the Somerset countryside, drumming a steady rhythm on the roof of Magatha Crispy’s compact blue Mini Cooper. She parked outside the crumbling manor where the body of Hilary Carmichael had been discovered just hours earlier. The constable on duty, a jittery man with the unfortunate name of Percy Whimp, adjusted his hat as she stepped out.

“Bit of a mess inside, ma’am,” Whimp muttered, shifting from foot to foot.

Magatha glanced up at the ivy-choked walls of the old house, then at the muddy footprints leading to the door. A mess indeed.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood — and something metallic. Blood. Hilary’s body lay sprawled across the chaise longue in the sitting room, an unfinished glass of wine beside her. The record player in the corner spun uselessly, the needle scratching at the end of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love album. Running Up That Hill had been playing when the housekeeper found her.

“How poetic,” Magatha murmured, slipping on a pair of gloves. “Did she ever make that deal with God, I wonder?”

Whimp blinked. “Sorry, ma’am?”

“Nothing,” she replied, stepping forward. “Tell me about the ex-husband.”

Percy Whimp didn’t need to check his notes. “Stephen Ian Carmichael. Divorced back in ’89. Bit of a scandal at the time. She had an affair, left him high and dry, and he lost a good chunk of his estate in the settlement. Didn’t take it well, by all accounts.”

Magatha examined Hilary’s face — serene, almost amused in death. “And yet, here she is. Dead at sixty-eight, still listening to Kate Bush like a lovelorn teenager.” She straightened. “Did you find anything unusual?”

Whimp coughed. “There’s, um, a bag. Hidden under the floorboards in the bedroom.”

Magatha raised an eyebrow. “Show me.”

Upstairs, the bedroom was a monument to past decadence — silk sheets, antique mirrors, and the faint scent of expensive perfume still lingering in the air. Whimp led her to a loose floorboard near the window. Inside the cavity was a duffel bag, its contents neatly arranged: two handguns, a stockpile of ammunition, and £500,000 in crisp, unmarked notes.

“Now, that’s interesting,” Magatha said, kneeling beside it. “A fortune in cash and enough firepower to start a small war.” She looked up at Whimp. “Who else knew about this?”

“Just the housekeeper.” He hesitated. “And the ex-husband.”

Magatha smirked. “Well, well, well. Let’s go have a chat with Mr Carmichael, shall we?”

Stephen Ian Carmichael was waiting for them at his modest cottage on the outskirts of town. He answered the door with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

“Detective Crispy,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’d call it unfortunate,” Magatha countered. “Unless, of course, you enjoyed your ex-wife’s company more than we’ve been led to believe.”

Stephen chuckled. “That would be a lie.”

She stepped past him into the sitting room, where the fireplace crackled invitingly. He was calm — too calm, considering the circumstances.

“We found a bag at Hilary’s house,” she said, watching him closely. “Two guns. A small fortune in cash. Any idea what she was doing with all that?”

Stephen exhaled, slow and measured. “You think I killed her?”

Magatha tilted her head. “You tell me. She broke your heart, drained your bank account, left you with nothing but bitterness. I’d say that’s enough of a motive, wouldn’t you?”

Stephen smiled faintly. “It would be — if I hadn’t made peace with it years ago. I hated her once, yes. But murder? That’s a little extreme, even for me.”

Magatha studied him. The way his fingers tapped absently against the armrest. The way he held her gaze without blinking. He was hiding something — but was it murder?

“You ever listen to Running Up That Hill, Mr Carmichael?” she asked suddenly.

His lips pressed together. “I suppose she told you about that?”

“About what?”

He sighed. “She used to play it to taunt me. Said I’d never understand how hard her choices had been. She even made me listen to it during the divorce settlement.” His jaw tightened. “So no, Detective. I don’t listen to Running Up That Hill.”

Magatha crossed her arms. “Then why was it playing when she died?”

For the first time, Stephen hesitated.

“You said you made peace with her,” Magatha continued, stepping closer. “Yet she was found dead with her favourite song playing, as if she were still trying to prove something. So tell me, Mr Carmichael — what was she trying to prove?”

Silence stretched between them. Then Stephen laughed — a quiet, hollow sound.

“Maybe,” he said finally, “she wanted me to remember.”

Magatha met his gaze, unflinching. “Or maybe you wanted her to pay.”

The fire crackled. The rain drummed on the windows. And outside, sirens howled through the night.

But Stephen Ian Carmichael wasn’t worried.

He had planned this moment for decades, calculated every step, and ensured every alibi. Magatha Crispy was good — but he was better.

Revenge, love, money, sex — every motive had played its part. And now, he was free.

Because murder, he had realised, was not the end — it was simply freedom from the person. A final severance. A clean slate.

But not freedom from the act. That part lingered, whispering in the quiet moments, like an unfinished novel begging to be written.

And Stephen Ian Carmichael was nothing if not a storyteller.

Stephen L. Harrison writes poetry and fiction that walks the line between memory, mystery, and the unspoken truths beneath polite society. This is his first published Magatha Crispy mystery.