Rimfall Mystery

The first chapter of the Miss Marple mystery “A Carribean Mystery”, transposed to the Discworld.

Chapter One: Granny Weatherwax Hears a Tale

Granny Weatherwax sat in her enchanted deck chair, which hovered a safe distance from the Rimfall’s edge, radiating disapproval at the scantily clad tourists frolicking nearby. The constant mist from the endless waterfall had already dampened her pointy hat, making it droop like a witch’s nose after a particularly vigorous sneezing fit[1].

“Relaxation,” thought Granny Weatherwax, “was something that happened to other people. Preferably far away from her.” She glared at a passing seagull, which immediately decided it had urgent business elsewhere.

“As I was saying,” Lord Ronald Rust bellowed, his face as purple as a beetroot that had aspirations of becoming royalty, “you haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a defeat on the Plains of Sto Lat! The way those trolls outflanked us was simply marvelous!”

Granny inclined her head slightly, a gesture that could have meant anything from rapt attention to a mild case of neck cramp. Her thoughts, however, were far from Lord Rust’s military misadventures.

“GYTHA OGG,” she thought in capital letters, “I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS. ‘Relaxation,’ she says. ‘Good for the soul,’ she says. HAH! More like good for getting sand in places sand has no business being.”

Lord Rust droned on, oblivious to Granny’s inner monologue. “Now, take all this business about Howandaland[2]. Lots of chaps gabbing away who know nothing about the place! I spent fourteen years of my life there. Some of the best years of my life, too—”

Granny’s eyebrow twitched, a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a flea attempting to pole vault. She had perfected the art of looking interested while thinking about more important matters, like whether she’d remembered to feed her cat, Greebo, before leaving Lancre. Knowing Greebo, he was probably terrorizing the local wildlife and adding to his ever-growing collection of eye patches.

As Lord Rust’s reminiscences meandered from Howandaland to the Counterweight Continent, Granny’s gaze drifted across the Rimfall Resort. She watched as Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler attempted to sell a suspiciously wobbling meat pie to Mr. Slant, who politely declined on the grounds that he was already dead and didn’t fancy a second go at it.

“Step right up!” Dibbler’s voice carried across the beach. “Get your genuine Rimfall Resort souvenirs! Take home a piece of the edge of the world! Only two dollars a pebble!”

Granny sniffed. The only thing Dibbler was on the edge of was a trading standards violation.

Her enchanted deck chair chose that moment to hiccup, dropping her a precarious inch closer to the Rimfall. Granny glared at it, and the chair hastily corrected itself. Even inanimate objects knew better than to cross Esmerelda Weatherwax.

“Incident after incident,” Granny thought, recalling the constant stream of problems she’d solved back in Lancre. “Mistress Garlick’s exploding pumpkins, the time when the Ogg boy turned himself into a frog (or was it the other way around?), the real reason behind the feud between the Weatherwaxes and the Netherwitts[3].”

With a start, Granny realized Lord Rust had abandoned Howandaland for the Shires and was now asking her opinion on something. Years of practice kicked in.

“I don’t hold with such things,” Granny said primly, a response that had served her well in countless situations where she hadn’t been paying attention.

“Quite right, dear lady, quite right!” Lord Rust exclaimed, his mustache quivering with the enthusiasm of a caterpillar doing the can-can. “One must maintain standards, what?”

“Oh, indeed,” said Granny, warming to her theme. “Standards are very important. I always say, if you’re going to do something wrong, at least do it right.”

Lord Rust’s eyes bulged slightly, as if trying to escape the confines of his head to get a better look at her. “I say, that’s rather good! Mind if I use that?”

“Be my guest,” said Granny magnanimously, secretly pleased with herself. She’d found that the best way to deal with the nobility was to say something that sounded profound but meant absolutely nothing.

Lord Rust looked around appreciatively. “Lovely place, this. The Rimfall Resort: Where the world drops off, but the prices don’t!”

Granny nodded, unable to stop herself from adding, “I wonder if anything ever happens here?”

Lord Rust’s eyes bulged even further, threatening to go on an adventure of their own. “Oh rather! Plenty of scandals—eh what? Why, I could tell you—” He paused, glancing around conspiratorially. “There was even a murder here a couple of years ago. Chap called Harry Western. Made a big splash in the Ankh-Morpork Times.”

Granny nodded without enthusiasm. It didn’t sound like her kind of murder. Too many rich people involved, not enough chickens or the occasional farmyard imp[4].

“And if you ask me,” Lord Rust continued, leaning in close enough for Granny to catch a whiff of brandy on his breath, “that wasn’t the only murder about that time.” He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “I had my suspicions—oh, well—”

Granny’s knitting needles clacked ominously as she dropped a stitch. Lord Rust, ever the gentleman, stooped to retrieve the errant ball of wool, which had decided to make a break for freedom and was rolling towards the Rimfall.

“Talking of murder,” he went on, settling back into his chair with the rescued wool, “I once came across a very curious case—not exactly personally, mind you.”

Granny’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. She had a feeling that things were about to get interesting, in the same way that a sudden silence in a troll bar is interesting. The kind of interesting that makes you wish you were somewhere else, preferably surrounded by soft, fluffy things.

As Lord Rust launched into his tale of mysterious deaths and coincidences, Granny found herself, against her better judgment, being drawn in. It wasn’t the story itself that intrigued her—after all, she’d seen more than her fair share of strange goings-on in Lancre—but rather the way Lord Rust told it. There was something… off about his manner, as if he were simultaneously trying to remember and forget certain details.

“It was back in ‘89,” Lord Rust said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “A series of unfortunate accidents, they called it. But I knew better. Three gentlemen, all members of the same club, all dead within a fortnight. Peculiar business, that.”

Granny’s interest, despite her best efforts, was piqued. “And what made you think it wasn’t accidents, then?”

Lord Rust’s eyes darted around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Well, you see, each of them had recently come into a rather large sum of money. Inheritance, they said. But I had my doubts. And then there was the matter of the—”

Just as Lord Rust was fumbling through his overstuffed wallet, muttering about a photograph, a commotion arose from the direction of the resort’s main building. Granny turned her head, slowly and deliberately, to see what all the fuss was about.

Approaching their little corner of the Rimfall were four figures: Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler and his wife Lucky, followed by Lord and Lady Selachii. They seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion about the local flora and fauna, with Lucky complaining loudly about thorns in uncomfortable places.

“And I told him,” Lucky’s voice carried across the sand, “that if he thinks I’m going anywhere near that ‘all-you-can-eat-before-you-fall-off-the-edge’ buffet, he’s got another think coming!”

Lord Rust’s demeanor changed abruptly. He stuffed everything back into his wallet and crammed it into his pocket, his face turning an even deeper shade of purple. “Well, I’m damned—I mean—” he sputtered, before exclaiming in an artificially loud voice, “As I was saying—I’d like to have shown you those Hubland yeti tusks—Biggest yeti I’ve ever shot—Ah, hallo!”

As the newcomers joined their little group, Granny Weatherwax’s mind whirred like a well-oiled thinking engine. She couldn’t help but feel that she’d just witnessed something significant, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. But that was alright. Granny Weatherwax was nothing if not patient. She’d wait, and watch, and when the time was right, she’d know exactly what to do.

After all, even at the edge of the Disc, people were still people. And where there were people, there were secrets. And where there were secrets, well… that’s where things got interesting.

Granny smiled to herself, a smile that would have made a shark swim in the opposite direction. She had a feeling that her vacation was about to become a lot more… educational. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a mystery here that needed solving. After all, what was a holiday without a little excitement?

As the sun began to set over the Rimfall, casting long shadows across the beach, Granny Weatherwax settled back in her chair. She had a lot to think about, and even more to observe. Tomorrow, she decided, she would do a little investigating of her own. Because if there was one thing Granny Weatherwax couldn’t resist, it was a puzzle. And Lord Rust, with his half-told tales and nervous glances, was proving to be quite the puzzle indeed.