Piffling Lives: Agatha Doyle and the Honeytrap

This podcast is supported by Progressive, a leader in RV Insurance.

RVs are for sharing adventures with family, friends, and even your pets.

So, if you bring your cats and dogs along for the ride, you'll want Progressive RV Insurance.

They protect your cats and dogs like family by offering up to $1,000 in optional coverage for vet bills in case of an RV accident, making it a great companion for the responsible pet owner who loves to travel.

See Progressive's other benefits and more when you quote RV Insurance at Progressive.com today.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates, pet injuries, and additional coverage and subject to policy terms.

What could be more important to Agatha than jelly beans and walnut whips?

The answer is, quite literally, a mystery.

This is the village of Piffling Vale, and these are Piffling Lives.

Wooden Overcoats presents Agatha Doyle and the Honey Track.

Oh, goodness.

Hello?

You gave me quite the start.

I'm afraid you've caught caught me with my hand in the cola cubes, as they say.

I know you're never supposed to get high on your own supply, but that non-brand-specific cola flavour, sometimes I just can't resist.

Well, come in.

Come in.

Gosh, it's been a while since we last had you in the broken tooth.

I was beginning to think the lemon drops had got the better of you.

Your usual 80 grams?

You know, I read somewhere that they can cause hair loss, but they are.

are.

You're a fully grown adult, you can make your own decisions.

Still, to be forewarned is to be forearmed.

That's why I had that large neon sign made up for the window.

We are your funeral!

It gave Mr.

Ruddyard Funn quite a start when he saw it.

Oh, God, not another one, he shouted.

Strange man.

What's that?

Sorry?

Ah, yes, of course.

We've just had a fresh batch in.

I knew you'd want some.

One jar of Bellows Farm's extra-thick honey.

Any thicker, and you could build bridges with the stuff.

Or at least a small folly.

Speaking of folly,

we nearly missed out on this shipment.

And not that long ago, either.

Horatio Bellows' hives were a buzz with worry.

A buzz, you see.

It all began one fine June morning in Pifling Vale.

The sun was shining, Mayor Desmond strode around in his shortest shorts, and the townsfolk chomped down ice cream cones with a frankly reckless disregard for their own safety.

Causes kidney rot, you know.

I was in the middle of scolding a small boy for eating a licorice whip, which he'd bought from me twenty minutes earlier, when who should come charging across the square at me but Horatia Bellows herself?

Agathar!

Agatha!

she cried, waving her unusually large hands in the air.

What a sight she was, tearing across the village green, sending bystanders and road signs flying with every swing of those enormous paws.

Murder!

She exclaimed.

Murder, most foul, Agathur!

There's been a horrible murder!

I deduced immediately that all was not well.

Horatia has been in the confectionery game far longer than I have, and I can tell you, she's not one to scream, murder, in a public place, unless it's it's a very serious matter.

Or unless she's been at the gin again.

I need your help, she said.

Oh, no, I replied.

I've left all that detective business behind me once and for all.

I'm just a humble sweet shop owner-proprietor, and that's the way I like it.

Come on, Agatha, urged Horatia,

clapping a shovel-like hand on my back and briefly knocking all the breath out of my lungs.

You may be retired, but you'd never deprive a defenseless civilian of justice.

Now stop gasping for air and follow me.

If I hadn't been so focused on trying to breathe again, I might have remonstrated.

But Horatio was right.

Justice must be done.

And, after all, I have always enjoyed a good

mystery.

I soon found myself wearing more netting than a production of HMS Pinafore, standing amongst dozens of identical hives in the heart of Bellows Farms, surrounded by fat, buzzing, furry little bullets.

It's that one, Horatia said, waving a hand that almost took my head off in the process.

Deftly dodging her flailing salami fingers, I approached the hive which she had singled out.

There,

behind it, lay the victim,

eyes blank and lifeless, mouth hanging agape,

legs splayed.

All six of them.

Poor Gary, sniffled Horatia.

Yes, I agreed.

But are you certain this is Gary?

Can you even be sure it's one of yours?

How dare you, Agatha, cried Horatia.

I know these hives like the back of my tremendous hands.

And even if one of my bees goes missing, I notice it.

I could believe that.

Honey wasn't just a business for Horatia.

It was an art.

She was still wearing her first-place rosette from last year's Piffling Edible Spreadable Awards.

This was not a woman prone to irrationality.

At least, not where bees are concerned.

I accepted the case.

We shook hands.

I can still hear my bones crack.

And I immediately telephoned Dr.

Edgware.

I need you to inspect this bee right away, I cried.

I haven't slept in four days, he protested.

Nevertheless, he was there within the hour.

He immediately identified the cause of death.

Poison.

Administered to the base of the neck via syringe.

Suspicious, one could say.

A professional job, Edgware said.

I haven't seen a bee poisoning this skilled in at least six months.

His post-mortem complete?

Dr.

Edgware promptly collapsed and lay unconscious for several minutes, before running off to his hospital rounds.

But why would anyone want to kill Gary?

I asked Horatia.

Somebody's trying to demoralise the hive, she snapped.

Gary was a pillar of the community, a true inspiration to the children.

The queen is devastated.

The queen?

I gasped.

I didn't know the royal family took an interest in small businesses.

The queen Bee, Agatha, Horatia said.

She's never been so upset.

And look at the rest of them.

I saw what Horatia meant.

The bees' buzzing was a low G minor.

The arcs they traced in the air were weaving and lackluster.

Like the red arrows on Boxing Day.

Think, Horatia, I cried, who would want to hobble your honey operation?

Horatio stroked her chin thoughtfully, nearly breaking her own jaw in the process.

Inspiration struck.

Sugar Ray O'Hoolihan, she gasped.

Well, that was a name I knew very well, believe you me.

Sugar Ray was Piffling Vale's most accomplished dodgy dealer, with, I suspected, a very lucrative sideline in unlicensed sweet-selling.

The market had recently been flooded with counterfeit gobstoppers, and every one of them could be traced back to him.

Say no more, Horatia, I said.

I'll begin my inquiries straight away.

She gave me a thumbs up that could be seen from space, and I left to get out of all that beekeeping gear.

It was very hot and made me look like a children's play area.

Sugar Ray was mooching around at his usual hangout, the local village bus stop.

Approaching quickly and quietly, I had him in a backwards triple headlock before he could say, please don't put me in a backwards triple headlock.

He wasn't a happy chappie.

I don't know nothing.

I never seen him.

I never heard nothing about no illegal bath mat smuggling operation, Ray shouted, in a stream of extremely incriminating denials.

Bellows Farms, Ray, I yelled, stopping him halfway through a particularly saucy denial about turtle fighting.

I've got a dead bee on my hands, and this was no accident.

It must have been the local village hoodlums, suggested Ray, unconvincingly.

The local village hoodlums might have controversial views about the Nouvelle Varg, but they don't inject fast-acting insecticides, Ray, I pointed out.

Sure they do, replied Ray.

They're called those teenagers that hang out on the internet.

There's all sorts of weird stuff on the internet.

Unable to deny that there is lots of weird stuff on the internet, I changed my approach.

Come on, Ray.

Admit it.

Miss Bellow's farm was doing a little too well.

Taking Taking away your business, eh?

Ray?

I don't know what you're talking about, Ray protested.

I whipped his jacket open, and a veritable fountain of illicit confectionery poured out onto the pavement.

Off-brand marmalades, bootleg bonbons,

jaffer figs.

What's the idea, Ray?

Are you trying to corner the market for yourself?

Perhaps you'll even try to run me out of the business.

I tightened my grip on his grubby neck.

Ray laughed at me.

You and that gammon-fisted bellows lady are out of my league.

I'm just an independent businessman tried to earn a crust.

I don't want no trouble.

Then who killed the bee?

I demanded.

I say you do what I do whenever I see a discarded fiver blowing down the road.

Follow the money.

I had to admit, the man had a point.

Who could stand to gain from this even more than the local competition?

And then an idea popped into my head, and I knew what I had to do.

Satisfied, I released my grip on Sugar Ray.

He dropped to the ground, spluttering a number of oaths acquired from a guilty Catholic upbringing, and I was soon on my way.

Later that day, I arrived at the Piffling Lawn Bowls, Archery and Petting Zoo Recreation Centre.

The day had become ever more bright and sweltering.

Around the green, pensioners and goats dozed in striped deck chairs.

It would have been an idyllic sight if Gary's murder hadn't been hanging in the air.

Aykroyd Thompson, the New Zealand ambassador to Piffling, stood on the green, gripping his bowls firmly yet gently, in the traditional fashion.

Ah, Miss Doyle, he said.

You've just caught me in the middle of a game.

Here to join me?

I'm afraid I'm here for business, not pleasure, mister Thompson, I said.

Aykroyd tilted his head inquiringly.

He stood tall, glowing and impressive in his whites.

The effect was only spoilt by the unfortunate combination of aviator sunglasses and an enormous straw hat, as well as the sound of two sheep mating loudly a few meters away.

What can I do for you?

He asked.

I've been doing some rather interesting reading at the village hall, Mr.

Thompson, I replied.

The ambassador rolled his eyes.

If it's reading you want, the book club meets here on Thursday evenings, Miss Doyle, he replied, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

You can inquire about membership at the office.

It's Lady Chatterley's lover this week.

It's always Lady Chatterley's lover, I reposted.

But that's not the point.

So is the point, Miss Doyle?

Aykroyd barked.

He was losing his cool.

A bead of sweat trickled down his chin, not entirely, I flattered myself to think, because of the heat.

Well,

it's the strangest thing, Mr.

Thompson, I said.

Piffling and New Zealand have always enjoyed a very fruitful exchange of goods and comestibles.

Long may it continue, Aykroyd interjected.

Yes, but it's very interesting to note that New Zealand's most popular export to our island by far is...

honey.

I gave him an impressive glare that made his knobbly knees knock.

Is it a crime to make delicious honey?

He spluttered.

But Mr.

Thompson, who said anything about crime?

I stared down the barrel of a fully loaded ambassador.

He wisely kept his mouth shut.

Bellows Farm Honey was very much the underdog for many years, bobbing faithfully along behind a full range of tasty New Zealand products until last year.

I don't know what you mean, Aykroyd muttered, swiveling his eyes from side to side and fingering his collar.

The Piffling Edible Spreadable Awards, Mr.

Ambassador.

A crucial win for Bellows Farms and a crippling blow for New Zealand's honey trade.

I paused impressively.

Thank goodness, it still has its second most popular export, insecticide.

If the ambassador reacted, it was only with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and by dropping his bowls directly onto his toes and screaming in agony.

I persisted in my attack.

The corporate giants, those sweet, sweet honeymakers, have been lagging behind the local competition ever since, and so they bribed you, Mr.

Ambassador, into doing something about it.

Sabotage wasn't enough.

You went all the way, didn't you?

All the way to murder.

Ackroyd remained impressively calm and collected, despite rolling around on the floor, clutching at his feet.

Miss Doyle, this is nothing but speculation and conjecture.

If you have any evidence linking me to any illegal activity, I'd be very happy to scoff heartily at it.

Then scoff away, I cried triumphantly.

For I discussed all this with the mayor, who firmly believes that a village cannot become a town when its finest bees are being willfully slaughtered.

He promptly called up your government to air my concerns.

And what did they find when they checked your bank account but a hefty payment made by the New Zealand Runny Honey Corporation paid to you this very morning?

The corrupt and cowardly ambassador shoved a fist into his mouth and began to weep pitifully.

I looked down my nose at him.

Admit it, I yelled.

No!

I don't want to, he yelled back.

And then...

We found ourselves distracted by a sustained and persistent buzzing.

We both looked out across the green.

There, approaching fast from the west, a single, solitary bee, charging at us like a bull to an Ernest Hemingway.

As it grew closer, I saw that.

But no,

it couldn't be.

Gary!

cried the ambassador.

No!

You're supposed to be dead!

But it was Gary all right.

That noble brow, that tufty fur.

Horatio Horatio was right.

He was unmistakable.

Ackroyd tried to vote for freedom, but immediately tripped and fell into the petting zoo's pigpen.

Mistaking him for a wayward piglet, a dozen sows charged over and began nuzzling at his head.

Eat away, you crazy pokes.

I didn't kill anybody.

You can't prove it.

His quarry thus distracted, Gary went in for the kill.

I watched, helplessly from the green.

Gary, no, I cried.

The strike would mean death for a honeybee.

But it was too late.

Gary plunged his stinger into Ackroyd Thompson's knee.

Ow!

The ambassador cried.

It quite hurt.

Meanwhile, his one and only blow spent recklessly on revenge, Gary collapsed into the swill,

dead once again.

This time,

Booku.

Cradling Gary's tiny, lifeless body in my hands, I solemnly approached the pigpen.

Mr.

Ambassador, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come with me.

And that's really all there was to it.

Mr.

Thompson was convicted on charges of breaking and entering a hive, attempted destruction of property, and willful emotional damage to an apiarist.

His replacement has made reparations to Bellows Farm and informed me that Mr.

Thompson has a new role in the New Zealand Government.

Toilet attendant to the Cabinet.

And had Gary been a vengeful bee ghost?

No!

Knowing his business better than his product, Ackroyd had foolishly injected Gary with highly concentrated mosquito repellent, not fatal in bees, instigating only a temporary comatose state, indistinguishable from bee death.

A terrible shame about Gary, I know.

I broke the news in person to Horatia and her swarm.

Twice bee reft, they were now twice bee-broken-hearted.

But Horatia tells me that they'll sleep easier in their bee beds now, safe in the knowledge that justice has been served.

As a parting gift, she gave me a complimentary stock of Bellows Farm honey.

It isn't quite up to Horatia's lofty standards, but it had still beat any other brand on the island, hands down.

Terrible for the teeth, of course.

But look, there,

by the best before date.

Dedicated to Gary,

the bravest bee on the Channel Islands.

Let me get that bagged up for you.

I wonder if the ambassador ever did get any lotion for his knee.

Still, that's what you'll find when you go interfering with bees.

There's usually a sting in the tail.

Agatha Doyle and the Honey Trap was written by Tom Crowley and was performed by Alison Skilbeck as Agatha Doyle.

The script was edited by David K.

Barnes and the music was composed and conducted by James Whittle.

The programme was recorded at the RNIB Talking Book Studios and was directed and produced by Andy Goddard and John Wakefield.

The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.

The clock is ticking to get the most of your summer behind the wheel of the upscale all-electric Jeep Wagoneer S and innovative Chrysler Pacifica plug-in hybrid.

And right now, get 0% financing for 72 months on the 2025 Chrysler Pacifica plug-in hybrid and the 2025 Jeep Widener S, plus you may qualify for up to a 7,500 federal tax credit.

See your California Jeep brand dealer and California Chrysler dealer today.

Finance offer not compatible with any other offer.

0% APR financing for 72 months equals $13.89 per month per 1,000 financed for well-qualified buyers through Stellantis Financial, regardless of down payment.

Not all customers will qualify.

Contact dealer for details.

The federal tax credit is offered by a third party and is subject to change without notice.

Please confirm this information to ensure its accuracy and availability.

Consult the tax professional for details and eligibility requirements.

Income and other restrictions may apply.

Purchases are not eligible if the customer exceeds adjusted gross income limitations: $300,000 for married filing jointly taxpayers, $225,000 for head of household filers, and $150,000 for single-filers.

Offers end September 30th.

Chrysler and Cheap are registered trademarks.