A 1970s Rural British Police Station Comedy of Errors

Sergeant Edith “Edie” Punter leaned back in her squeaky vinyl chair, surveying the chaos of papers strewn across Desk B. It was Tuesday—officially “Stationery Monday,” when every constable refilled ink pads, alphabetized incident logs, and polished the wooden counter until it gleamed like a newly minted badge. Instead, PC Nigel “Nige” Brinkworth was busy tossing file folders into the air like confetti.

“Do you know where the Missing Persons docket went?” Edie asked, barely concealing exasperation.

Nige, still sporting the enthusiastic grin of a man who’d survived his first month on the beat, patted his tunic pockets. “I thought it was the one about Mrs. Corey’s runaway goat?”

Edie pinched the bridge of her nose. “That was three years ago, Brinkworth.”

Behind them, Miss Maud Snickle—station clerk, tea-maker, and unofficial arbiter of gossip—flitted in with a teapot and five mismatched cups. “Hot builder’s brew,” she announced. “And I found this under the rogue’s gallery.” She held up a Polaroid of a mangy tabby cat, captioned “Station Mouser – Wanted for Mouse-icide.”

Before Edie could retort, the telephone shrilled. Hulking on the line was Chief Inspector Barnaby Grimshaw, who was visiting from headquarters in Sheffield.

“Sergeant Punter, I trust all is well? I received an urgent telegram: murder in your jurisdiction?”

Edie exchanged a stunned glance with Nige. “Murder, sir?”

“Indeed. A most gruesome case. Blood at the scene, mutilation…” Grimshaw cleared his throat theatrically. “Need I continue?”

Edie coughed. “Actually, Chief Inspector, it was a missing bovine. Mrs. Rollins’ prize Guernsey cow—she’s taken to wander off now and then.”

Silence crackled through the receiver. “A… cow?” Grimshaw repeated as though tasting a particularly foul word.

“Yes, sir. Very valuable to the farmer. He’s distraught.”

“Right-o,” came the clipped reply. “Be sure you treat it with the utmost seriousness. Report back in half an hour. Inspector Grimshaw out.”

Edie set the receiver down and surveyed her team. “All right, you lot. Saddle up. We’ve got a cow to find.”

Twenty minutes later, the police van roared down a narrow country lane, boots on pedals, hearts aflutter. Nige manned the radio: “Control, this is patrol 3. Please confirm route to Field 9C. Over.”

Maud, wedged between two rickety filing cabinets at the back of the station, leaned forward. “Northeast, past the windmill, then left at Bertie’s farm. Don’t forget—Bertie hates policemen driving through his turnips.”

“Copy that,” Nige said with the gravitas of a bomber pilot.

They arrived at Mrs. Rollins’ farm—she was a diminutive woman with a voice like a foghorn. She led them to a trampled patch of grass. “She went this way,” Mrs. Rollins said, pointing to flattened daisies. “And I found this.” She handed Edie a single tuft of black-and-white hair.

Edie knelt, examined it through her monocle. “Looks bovine enough.”

Nige whipped out a small evidence bag. “Label as ‘Exhibit A: Hair of Missing Cow.’”

“Excellent,” Edie said, “but pray we don’t misplace it.” She tucked the bag into her pocket—just as it promptly tore open, scattering hair tufts onto her lap.

Nige fished around in the grass. “I’ll get the Secateurs, Sergeant—so we can trim a new sample?”

They combed the hedgerow for half an hour. Inspector Grimshaw’s voice crackled over the radio: “Punter! Have you located any blood? Any signs of foul play?”

Edie cleared her throat. “No blood, sir. Unless you count Mrs. Rollins’ tea-stained boots.”

“Keep searching. And check Mr. Abernathy’s field—he reported strange howling last night.”

They set off again. The hedges closed behind them like prison walls, and somewhere a pheasant screamed in panic. At Mr. Abernathy’s field, they found farmer Abernathy leaning glumly on his fence.

“Mr. Abernathy,” Edie began. “We’re investigating your howling report. Did you witness anything untoward?”

Abernathy spat into the dirt. “Just my wife. She’s been singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ since dawn. This cow business has got her proper rattled.”

Edie blinked. “Your wife’s singing triggered the call?”

“Thought it was the cry of the damned. Sunup’s not kind to old pipes.” He shrugged.

While Edie consoled Abernathy, Nige wandered off and nearly stepped on Inspector Grimshaw, who had inexplicably appeared in the field, binoculars glued to his eyes.

“Good heavens, Punter,” Grimshaw hissed, lowering them. “I thought I smelled treachery… and manure.”

“Just the farm, sir.” Edie gestured to the bedraggled Abernathy. “We’re coordinating efforts.”

Grimshaw frowned. “Then be swift about it.” Turning on his heel, he marched off—straight into a cow pat.

“Sir?” Edie hissed, rushing to assist. Grimshaw hopped, howled, then jammed his gloved hand down the back of his tunic to retrieve the offending spline.

Nige pinched his nose. “Clean, sir? I mean, we can fetch you a towel?”

Grimshaw sniffed indignantly. “No time for towels, Constable. We have a… soiled situation to rectify.”

By mid-afternoon, they’d interviewed half a dozen villagers, puzzled over two false sightings (one a Highland pony, another a particularly large sheepdog), and spent ten minutes questioning a scarecrow dressed in an old duffle coat. The sun dipped low when Mrs. Rollins wailed: “She’s come home!”

They raced back. There, in Mrs. Rollins’ vegetable patch, loitered her Guernsey cow, calmly chewing lettuce. Behind her, Station Mouser prowled, batting at a stray radish.

Edie arrested—er, retrieved—the cow by coaxing her through the open gate. Grimshaw watched, arms folded. “So… was this a rescue or a raid?”

Edie patted the cow’s flank. “Recovery, sir. No one’s been harmed.”

Inspector Grimshaw considered. “Very well. But next time, let’s try to distinguish livestock from lead crimes, shall we?”

Nige saluted. “Yes, sir—unless they’re exceptionally cunning sheep.”

Back at the station, the team convened over lukewarm tea.

Maud rolled her eyes, receiving the evidence bag—now empty but for a few tufts of straw. “Shall I note it down as ‘Operation Lettuce Liberation’?”

Grimshaw sniffed. “Make it so, Miss Snickle.”

“Right,” Edie began. “Case closed—cow’s back, paperwork… is somewhere. We’ll storm the supply cupboard tomorrow. Let’s hope it hasn’t grown legs.”

Nige tapped his pen on the desk. “If it did, it’s welcome to pursue me. I might enjoy a break from lunchtimes.”

Maud slid a folder across. “Found your missing docket, Sergeant—under the tea towels.”

Edie donned her reading glasses. “Ah: ‘Barbara Corey, Missing Goat—Case 1971.’ We’ll file that under ‘Cattle Mismanagement.’”

Grimshaw cleared his throat, casting a glare sharp as a cattle prod. “I trust the next crisis will involve something… murderous?”

Nige raised a brow. “Not unless someone steals Mrs. Rollins’ prize begonias.”

Grimshaw cracked a rare half-smile. “Then I suppose I’ll stay on standby.”

Edie stood, saluting the Inspector with mock precision. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. We remain—and I quote—‘ever vigilant.’”

As Grimshaw departed, Edie whispered to Nige, “If he wants action, let’s misplace the station stapler. That’ll have him on a manhunt by morning.”

Nige beamed. “Splendid idea, Sergeant—though I’d prefer if he didn’t chase it across the fields.”

They all laughed—at once—echoing through the wooden beams of the old rural station. Outside, the Guernsey cow munched contentedly on discarded paperwork, chewing over her triumph in the great bovine caper.

And somewhere, Station Mouser sharpened his claws, readying himself for the next case of “mouse-icide.”

—Fin—