It began, as many small disturbances in Lower Tissington do, with something left exactly where it shouldn’t be.
Maggie saw it on a Monday morning, halfway through her walk.
A parcel—small, brown paper, twine knotted with unhurried care—rested on the top rail of the stile.
Not dropped.
Placed.
The dog sniffed once, unimpressed, and trotted on.
Maggie didn’t.
Rain had puckered one corner of the paper. The twine had cut a shallow groove into the softened surface. Whoever tied it had taken their time.
It sat on the field side of the stile.
Village hands rarely reached that far.
She lingered. The dog looked back.
She tightened the loop of the lead around her wrist, then unlooped it again.
And walked on.
By lunchtime, the village had theories.
Dot at the post office declared it a misdelivery.
“A parcel belongs on a doorstep,” she said, stamping envelopes with the authority of a minor deity. “Not balanced halfway to Derby.”
Reginald, polishing his thermos by the community garden gate, did not look up as he delivered his verdict.
“It’s fly-tipping in disguise.”
He straightened the thermos on the bench by a millimetre.
Audrey, passing with her clipboard held like a shield, muttered about “unauthorised deposits” and began drafting a notice in the air with her finger.
Only Netta said nothing.
She folded a leaflet twice—then folded it again.
Maggie looped the lead once more around her wrist.
Too tight.
She loosened it.
On Tuesday the parcel was still there.
The twine had slackened; someone had nudged it and changed their mind. The rain had dried to a faint tide mark.
Maggie paused, resting her fingertips lightly on the cold rail.
Mud told a quiet truth: footprints on the far side only.
Someone had left the parcel where a hand could reach it without crossing over.
The dog waited beside her, ears tilted.
She lowered her hand and followed.
Late that afternoon, she took the long way back.
The parcel leaned now. A fresh scuff marked the post.
She stepped close. Not to touch it.
Someone had stood here and wavered. A hand had hovered. A foot had not crossed.
She stood still.
The dog settled beside her without command.
She walked on before the moment could settle.
By Wednesday morning, the parcel was gone.
No scraps. No torn paper. No trace of rummaging paws or curious hands.
Just a faint indentation in the wood where it had rested.
“Collected,” Dot said. “Case closed.”
Reginald nodded. “Order restored.”
Audrey posted her notice anyway.
Netta, passing with her thermos, met Maggie’s eye for a breath. Her fingers tightened once on the lid. Then she looked away.
Maggie glanced once at the stile and stayed quiet.
That evening, at her kitchen table, she opened the grey notebook.
The dog settled at her feet, collar faintly chiming as it stilled.
Her pen hovered before numbering the page.
Then she wrote.
Casefile #39: Placed, Not Given
Observation: A parcel appeared on the field side of the stile and remained for two days. It was removed without disturbance.
Outcome: No action taken.
Note: An indentation remained.
She closed the notebook, though the cover did not quite lie flat.
Sometimes the most simple things... a package left out in the rain no less. For two days. And then gone. And somehow that is case closed without an answer lol.