Enter the village. Follow the clues. Name the culprit.
Hushbourne is small, self-contained, and thoroughly Victorian, the kind of place where the church bell, the Tea Shop and the Village Green all know your business before you do. Everyone knows everyone. Every fete, council meeting and church service becomes a stage for the whole village, whether the people involved intended it to or not.
The village runs on small, cheerful obsessions: a postmistress who insists she only collects information, never gossip, a baker at open war with someone new every week, a gardener with a running grudge against the local aphids, a librarian who forgets no book and forgives even less. Nobody is cruel. Nobody is even particularly dishonest. Everyone is simply certain their own version of events is the correct one.
None of it is haunted, cursed, or secretly run by anyone in particular. It’s simply a village full of people who like each other enough to cover for one another’s mistakes, which makes every mystery a little harder to crack and the place considerably nicer to spend time in.
MEET THE HUSHBOURNE VILLAGE
Twenty-one residents, three animals, and considerably more opinions than a village this size should really have.
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