Season 1 · Episode 1
The Case of the Second Kewick
Published 7th September 2026
A warm afternoon, and the Square has already begun to talk.
The day began warm and close, with cloud pressing low over the gardens and the air full of that particular late-summer promise that something might happen if everyone simply kept talking long enough.
The Afternoon Shift
Steve and Mrs Steve were first in the square, attempting a quiet lunch under the elder. Batman Smith immediately began a speech on public safety. A Chiffchaff started up from the hedge and, having found a tune it liked, kept returning to it with the doggedness of a councillor who had discovered a microphone.
Goldfinches arrived in a little flash of gold and commentary. Blue Tits zipped through on errands nobody had approved. Teeny Tiny Bird and several equally tiny associates tore around the bushes as though the whole Square were late for something. Hopalong appeared upside down on a trunk, as usual.
“Does he know there are paths?” asked Mrs Steve.
“He knows,” said Steve. “He disapproves of them.”
Mr Jack Daw arrived to inspect proceedings. He did not announce himself; he simply landed in a place that made it clear the meeting had been waiting for him. A Nuthatch marched past the wrong way up a tree, which Mr Jack Daw considered a lack of respect for procedure.
By mid-afternoon, the heat had turned the square languid, but Batman was still patrolling and the Chiffchaff was still filing its musical objection. Gary came and went in little delegations of one, never staying long enough to be questioned. Long-tailed Tits swept through in a family-sized hurry. Goldcrests threaded the higher branches with the distracted air of people trying to remember why they had opened a cupboard.
Then the breeze failed completely.
Even the Chiffchaff stopped for a moment.
A Matter of Family
As the light softened, Batman began another patrol. Lieutenant Colonel Stirling crossed the lawn with something he had probably found and definitely intended to keep, moving with the brisk secrecy of an SAS squirrel on a mission. Mr Jack Daw’s relations started to arrive in instalments, each behaving as though they had been summoned personally. Goldfinches cut across their consultation, and the Jacks lowered their voices only enough to make it clear they were discussing somebody.
The Raven passed over with the grave bearing of a bird expected at a much grander scandal. Nobody spoke until it had gone.
Then Gary started again.
The weather drew itself in. Cloud gathered over the roofs, the leaves went still, and the gardens began to feel as if they were waiting for an announcement.
The Voice at the Fence
Marlboro called first, from the garden fence and with the complete certainty of a young woman who had arrived early for an argument. She held the place for a while, then drifted farther through the gardens, her indignation becoming harder to place but no less sincere.
“That’s Marlboro,” said Steve.
“It could be anybody,” said Mrs Steve, who had clearly never met Marlboro.
Then came another young female voice: unfamiliar, brief, and deliberately unhelpful. Marlboro paused. Somewhere in the damp hedge, every mother in the Square formed an opinion about strangers.
Marlboro returned from the dark sounding rather pleased with herself. Whatever had happened beyond the gardens, she was plainly not going to explain it.
The Second Kewick
Later, when the cloud had made the night feel lower and the branches had begun to drip without any rain falling, a woman called from the blackness. Nobody claimed her. Nobody slept.
Then Marjorie arrived.
She came in close, brisk and unmistakably unimpressed, as though the entire Square had convened without first checking her availability. Harold answered. For one suspended moment they were together, saying exactly the sort of things that sound civil only from a great distance.
Jolene appeared at the edge of it all, polished as a new feather and silent for just long enough to make the silence theatrical.
“Well,” said Marjorie.
“Well,” said Jolene.
Harold made a noise that was intended to mean nothing and achieved the opposite.
Marjorie held her ground. Harold called again. Then the two of them were together once more, close enough for the hedge to lose all professional discretion.
Marjorie swept abruptly away, her final remark trailing through the trees. Harold followed the sound of it with the desperate concentration of a male who had just realised he may have missed an entire subplot. She turned back, gathered force, and returned before he could formulate an excuse.
They met again. Jolene remained somewhere nearby. A different female voice slipped in and out of the darkness, refusing to give the Square a name or a motive. Harold tried to restore order, which was a bold decision for Harold.
At last he was left calling into the low, still night. The unknown woman answered from beyond the gardens. Then Marjorie came back—nearer than ever, calm as a locked door.
The Morning After
Before the cloud had properly lifted, Batman called an emergency meeting nobody had requested. The Smiths arrived in force, each Robin apparently holding a different copy of the agenda. Wrens provided procedural interruptions from the undergrowth. Gary turned up looking innocent, which nobody found convincing.
Mr Jack Daw and the family were already at work by the time the sun reached the roofs. Teeny Tiny Bird raced through with fresh paperwork. Hopalong climbed past again without answering questions. Nuthatches argued with tree trunks, Goldcrests worried the upper branches, and the Goldfinches held a bright, unnecessary press conference.
Steve looked at Mrs Steve.
“A quiet lunch today?” he asked.
Mrs Steve glanced towards the trees where the owls had spent the night.
“Not until somebody explains Jolene,” she said.
DUFF. DUFF. DUFF-DUFF-DUFF.TO BE CONTINUED…