[Mithalwen]

Though Spring was near it was a cold night in Midsomer Mawlin. The tiny village had been repopulated after those unfortunate events of last summer which had so blighted the community's chances of retaining it's crown as winner of "Britain in Bloom's "Small and peculiar village" category. However if the prize was simply for being peculiar Midsomer Mawlin would still win....

The dwellings had either been inherited by relatives who bore a strange resemblance in name and appearance to their previous occupants or had been sold to incomers.... incomers who nevertheless had much in common with the other residents.

They were all alone - not necessarily through choice but because their presence seemed to bring death and disaster to all those around them. Here of all places, they could do no harm. Or so they thought.

Mithalwen was about to retire to bed and was sipping a cup of chamomile tea. She had lately received a anonymous message "Beware the Ides of March" - she was not superstitious yet she had taken particular care that day remembering the dreadful accounts of the deaths in the village last summer - her poor kinswoman had been the first to fall victim. But the ides of March had come and almost gone.

There was a knock at the door - she looked through the window, only three of her fellow villagers - she opened the door. To late did she realise in the light of the full moon they were longer of nose and hirsuter of feature than before.

One carried a noose, another a knife the third a blue glass bottle subtly marked "Poison".

Mithalwen's last thought was "Oh no not again..."