Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

After about another quarter of a mile, or so, we approached the scene of the circling vultures with caution, Hannah having reined back Daisy-May to a walking pace and Billy slowing to her side. Soon, we could see a dark heap on the ground ahead. I kinda hoped it would prove to be the fallen mass of a longhorn, partly because I hadn't eaten since breakfast, but mostly because of the way Hannah said with such certainty "someone's in trouble". Like she knew that it was a person, rather than an animal in danger, before we could even see what was ahead. The way she'd tilted her head back, inhaling deeply, like she could smell it, had unnerved me.  I could now see the body. It was no cow. It was much smaller. "Whoa, Daisy-May," Hannah cried, pulling right back on the reins and leaping out of the wagon before it had fully stopped. She ran with an unexpected speed toward the body on the ground. She seemed panicked, rather than excited now. I stayed back, fro

I followed her out of the saloon and round the back to a rickety looking barn, wherein she quickly proceeded to hitch-up a robust draft horse to an equally robust wagon. As she was finishing with some buckles, I clambered up and lifted the reins, feeling the heavy tanned leather. I glanced over as she stood. "Move over, I'm driving," she ordered. "I thought I might—" "Have you driven a cart before?" she interrupted, hands on hips. "Well, not exactly; I've driven a Surrey." "Different things entirely," she scoffed. "You know the trails round these parts?" "Nope..." "You know Daisy-May's peculiarities?" "Nope..." "Then move over, I'm driving." I slid over the smooth wooden seat and she climbed up beside me. I handed her the reins. Taking them from me, she smiled quaintly and turned to urge Daisy-May out of the barn and into the side street between he

Prologue – Philadelphia, May 1890 - Office of C.P. Samuels – Private Investigator It was a sunny morning in mid-May when my life changed completely. Work was slow and I was getting restless. That was until ten o’clock, when Mr Lennox and his distraught wife entered my office.  “It’s my son Mr Samuels; James Lennox, a Geologist. He’s been missing for three months. Headed out West for work.” He handed me a photograph of a handsome fellow, young, aged twenty-three, so he said. I studied it carefully, though it told me nothing yet. “Sir, with all due respect, lots of young men head out West and lose contact with their folks. It’s nothing personal. The West, as we know, is a different country.” I handed the photo back. “Besides, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m sorry Sir, I’m not sure I can help you.” “We’ll pay double your usual fee. Make it worth your while. It’s important, my wife is desperate and may not have long to live!” I looked across at Mrs Lennox and sh

Whilst volunteering in the library, I was given a book with the suggestion that it should be put forward for the reading group. The book was ‘How to Ruin a Queen’ by Jonathan Beckman. The reviews described it as a ‘rollicking whodunit’; ‘a terrific tale’, ‘Beckman tells this scarcely believable story with flair’. It’s actually a history book, not fiction, relating events surrounding Marie-Antoinette and the French Court. When reading this book, you also need an extremely good dictionary to hand to be certain of fully understanding such literary ventures as: ‘His lack of resolve deliquesced into   self-destructive generosity’, or ‘the marquis’s face torqued itself incredulously’.Would you want to be described as a ‘milquetoast nonentity’? It’s always good to stretch our vocabulary and perhaps mine isn’t as good as other people’s, but it made me think: what is the point of writing, whether it’s fiction or fact? Firstly, I suppose we do it because we enjoy it, so perha