A Matter of Plot [Narrated]
A Maggie B. Casefile
It started, as many things in Lower Tissington did, with a mutter.
Reginald Smythe-Harrington—retired Sergeant Major, amateur brassica specialist, and longtime Community Garden devotee—stood at the edge of his newly assigned plot with hands on hips and a face like thunder.
He’d taken on Plot 91 to complement his beloved Plot 88, where he nurtured his cabbages, cauliflowers, and other assorted greens with military precision.
Someone had placed a gnome there.
Not just any gnome. A jaunty little fellow with a fishing rod, a belly like a wine cask, and cheeks so pink they looked medically concerning. He was tucked beside a terracotta frog and what appeared to be a tiny resin wishing well.
Reginald removed the lot and stood them in formation by the compost bin—shoulders squared, eyes front, ready for inspection.
The next morning, they were back. And the gnome had company.
By week’s end, there were seven.
A notice appeared on the community corkboard—all emphatic block capitals and overly aggressive underlining:
TO THE PERSON LEAVING GNOMES ON PLOT 91: KINDLY DESIST.
It was unsigned, of course. But Reginald’s penmanship had the subtlety of a marching band.
Maggie sipped her tea and lingered—just long enough to register the tilt of Reginald’s stance and the slow accumulation of gnomes.
She wasn’t involved yet. But the wind had shifted. She felt it.
She waited for the right moment and approached Reginald with a thermos of ginger tea and a packet of fig rolls.
“I believe you,” she said, after he recounted the entire ordeal—including the failed sting operation involving a trail camera and a suspicious robin.
Her gaze lingered on the gnomes, then on Reginald.
She didn’t smile—exactly. But the corners of her eyes softened, the way they sometimes did when a storm had passed, or was about to.
Together, they launched an informal inquiry. Plot numbers were checked. Timelines assembled. Surveillance logs reviewed.
Plot 91, Maggie deduced, hadn’t been erroneously assigned at all. No, the balls-up had been with a different plot entirely.
Plot 16 had recently been assigned to Lynn Braithwaite, a decidedly woo-woo divorcée with a weakness for overly twee knick-knacks and a disturbingly lifelike owl-shaped watering can. She preferred to do her decorating as dusk was falling—said it helped with the feng shui or astral alignment or something like that.
Maggie located the original plot assignment slip. She held it one way. Then the other.
And there it was.
The culprit? Audrey Crenshaw, naturally. Chairwoman of the Community Garden Association—and sworn enemy of newfangled technologies of all kinds.
She’d fed the pre-printed stationery into the printer the wrong way.
The bold “16,” made up of repeating 1s and 6s, had become a near-perfect “91”—depending on your angle, and your sobriety.
Maggie broke the news gently.
“I suppose we’ll have to share,” Lynn said cheerily.
There was something about the way Reginald carried himself—back straight, voice clipped, presence so commanding it made even the brussels sprouts stand to attention. Lynn had always had a soft spot for a man in uniform, and while Reginald wasn’t wearing one, the aura lingered.
Reginald, to his credit, remained diplomatic.
“Your actual plot is at the other end,” he said, pointing firmly. “Number 16. Just past the rhubarb.”
Lynn’s smile faltered. She gathered her gnomes with a sigh and a muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.”
The next morning, Plot 91 was gnome-free once more. And a wheelbarrow of manure—courtesy of Reginald’s old pals in the Coldstream Guards—had been delivered right on schedule.
Maggie watched it unfold with quiet amusement. Before leaving, she paused at the edge of the path, thumb brushing the spine of her grey notebook. She flipped it open and began a new page.
Case #13: A Matter of Plot
Observation: Gnomes multiply. So do misunderstandings.
Outcome: Reassigned with extreme decorum.
Additional note: Some borders are best redrawn with tea, not tape measures.
She tapped the page once. Then closed the book.
Her thumb rubbed a smudge of compost on the cover before she slipped it back into her bag.
The gardens were peaceful again. For now.
She liked the quiet after.
It gave her space to listen—for the things no one said out loud.