The Mystery of Harmville

The Mystery of Harmville was the worst manuscript Daniel had ever read and, as a literary agent, he had read many poorly constructed novels. Set in the bleak landscape of Dartmoor, the story was a thinly veiled copy of Doyle’s Baskervilles though it lacked the charm and character of the Sherlock classic.

To make matters worse, it had been written by Daniel’s most successful client. J. E. Henshaw had found critical acclaim with her Bonecleaver saga, a fantasy epic spanning thirteen books. When she tried her hand at horror, Universal Pictures snapped up the rights for her first offering, A Gentle Undoing, and commissioned three further screenplays. Already a well-known figure in reading circles, Henshaw’s name was getting known in the film industry.

Daniel knew Henshaw could write. She had crafted characters which resonated as truly human – flawed, hopeful, passionate – and weaved tales which were relatable to all, whether set on the mountains of Virginia or within her constructed land of Aberresal. Awards littered her drawing room and her deft use of language and brought tears to his eyes on more than one occasion.

So why would her foray into the thriller genre be such a bust? Daniel could not work it out. The only silver lining was that no-one else had read the offending work. Henshaw was very protective with her writing, only sharing with Daniel once the piece had been completed in its entirety.

Knowing he had to speak to her to discuss the dramatic change her talent had taken, he had emailed, called and texted her a hundred times in the past week but had received no reply. Finally, concerned with her well-being, Daniel knew he had no option but to call upon her home.

Pulling up on the drive of her five-bedroom detached home, Daniel spotted the Mini Cooper parked by the garage entrance. At least she was home, he thought with relief.

He used the antique doorknocker to announce his presence and waited. Before too long, he heard a faint voice approaching. Although muffled by the thick wood, the tone sounded as though the speaker was cursing.

The sound of a lock disengaging preceded the opening of the door. A young woman in her mid-twenties looked up at him. Daniel knew Henshaw lived alone with her cat and dog, and his suspicion was immediately roused.

‘Hello,’ Daniel said brightly. ‘I’m here to see Juliet.’

‘Sh’ain’t ’ere,’ the woman answered frostily.

‘Pardon?’ he asked, not understanding.

’She. Ain’t. ’ere.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Gesturing Henshaw’s car, he added, ‘Well, she can’t have gone far and I’m happy to wait.’

The woman’s brow creased in annoyance.

‘I’m Juliet’s agent,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’ve been here many times before. I’ll just help myself to a nice Earl Grey while I wait.’

Before the door could be closed, Daniel pushed his way in and began walking to kitchen. As he went, he cast furtive eyes though the open doors to the lounge and dining room, looking for signs that something was amiss. Everything seemed in place.

‘Do you want a drink while I’m making one, Miss…?’

‘Parker,’ she answered gruffly. ‘No.’

‘And did Juliet say how long she would be?’

‘Five foot six.’

Daniel uttered a small laugh to humour Parker. Her demeanour and aloof attitude were ringing so many alarm bells in his head, he was having trouble hearing himself think. He was worried Henshaw had fallen foul of this uncouth woman.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he wandered over to the breakfast counter. Henshaw’s laptop was sitting next to a heavy looking heptahedron. About eight inches in height, the seven sides of the object were unequal. Getting closer, he noticed white line drawing on the dark surface.

‘This is interesting,’ he said as he picked it up. It was cooler than he expected, perhaps made from jet. Parker bristled as he lifted it.

On the first plane, the silhouette of a man held aloft a thin-bladed knife. Beneath him was the Roman numeral I. Twisting it around, he saw the head and shoulders of a woman behind a steering wheel, long tresses cascading from under her cap. The legend bore III. Face IV showed the image of a queen wearing a garland of garlic and flowers, her expression heartbroken. It took Daniel some time to figure out the next picture, V; the small cat was immediately obvious, but he couldn’t fathom the strange protuberance on its head. Image VI displayed a young man sobbing over the body of a dying fawn.

At the next turn of the object, Daniel was presented by nothing but the numerals II. He held it out to Parker, and asked, ‘Why this there no picture on this one?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Dunno. Guess there’s no romance left in t’world.’

Having inspected six of the seven sides of the unusual piece of art, Daniel began to turn it around to seek out the final face. Parker shot forward and clutched his wrists.

‘Don’t,’ she hissed. Her eyes pleaded with him and Daniel felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her.

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘What is this?’

‘Don’t,’ she repeated. She tightened her grip, her nails digging into Daniel’s flesh.

With a yelp of pain, he pulled his arms back sharply and broke free from Parker but in doing lost his purchase on the prize. In slow motion, he watched it tumble from his fingertips and spin around as it fell.

Before it hit the floor, it turned enough to reveal the seventh plane. A moment’s clarity was all he was afforded before his world fractured apart.