Now, I must tell you about Cornelius.

Cornelius arrived on a Thursday. Or possibly a Wednesday. With Cornelius, it was sometimes difficult to say with certainty.

He was a tortoise — a proper one, slow and deliberate and very, very old — and he had been commissioned to plant the new village flower bed on the green. Tabitha had chosen the flowers herself: marigolds, lavender, and a row of sweet peas along the back wall.

Cornelius had a wheelbarrow. He moved it thoughtfully.

Pip and Whisker Ferret were also on the green that morning. They were not helping. They were lying in the sun, which is a legitimate occupation on a Thursday.

By early afternoon, Cornelius had planted the lavender and half the marigolds. He rested. He considered the remaining half.

By the time he returned from his rest, nine marigolds were missing.

Robin Redbreast had the story before Cornelius had finished blinking.

"BREAKING," Robin announced. "FERRETS UPROOT VILLAGE GARDEN. Nine marigolds. Gone. Eyewitnesses. More soon. Follow for updates."

Constable Bartholomew Badger arrived with his notebook and a small trowel, which he had brought in case evidence needed extracting from the earth.

He examined two small paw prints near the disturbed soil and wrote three things in his notebook.

"Ferret-adjacent activity," he said gravely. "I am building a case."

Pip looked at his paws. Whisker looked at his paws. Neither of them had been near the flower bed.

I had been watching from the gate, because I watch things. And I had seen the marigolds go. Not slowly and in armfuls. Quickly, one at a time, from the far corner, while Cornelius was briefly turned away.

Marlo Pine, I had learned, has a fondness for marigolds. Not to eat — to use as bedding material in his den beneath the mill wall. Practical, fragrant, and entirely stolen.

Cornelius stood over the gaps in his planting with great dignity.

"I shall plant more," he said.

He turned and walked toward his wheelbarrow.