On the outskirts of the city where the grass was greener, the flowers more fragrant, and the gossip more juicy than a ripe berry, trouble was brewing, though no one knew it yet. Inspector Septimus Summer-Garden was having a day off from the bustling city. The beloved pond, home to the village’s most famous amphibian crooners, was eerily silent. Only one voice dared to croak, Sir Hopsalot, the village’s star bullfrog, who was supposed to perform at the upcoming Frog Festival. But this morning, Sir Hopsalot was found floating belly-up on the lily pads, well, not quite floating, more like lying motionless with a suspicious purple smudge on his smooth green skin. Enter Inspector Septimus Summer-Garden, famous for his sharp eye, clumsiness and his love for tea, and his extraordinary ability to turn even the most muddled mysteries into amusing adventures.
“Good day, everyone,” he announced, adjusting his trilby hat and peering through his thick-rimmed spectacles. “What’s all this fuss about?”
Mrs. Toadsworth, the village’s gossiping expert on amphibian antics, fluttered her tiny wings and exclaimed,
“It’s Sir Hopsalot, Inspector! He’s been poisoned, or worse! And now he’s silent, just like a frog without a song.”
The inspector knelt beside Sir Hopsalot’s still form, examining the tiny, purple smear. “Hmm,” he muttered. “Poison, perhaps? Or a very bad joke?”
Suddenly, from behind a bush, a squeaky voice piped up.
“Help! I saw everything!” It was Timmy, a young tadpole, trembling but eager to talk.
“Calm yourself, Timmy,” said Inspector Summer-Garden kindly. “Tell me what you saw.”
Timmy shuffled nervously.
“I saw Mr. Goggle, the big, grumpy toad, sneaking around last night. He looked angry, like he’d just lost his favourite fly. And I saw him near Sir Hopsalot’s lily pad.”
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
“Mr. Goggle, you say? And what were you doing lurking about?”
The toad, who was lounging on a nearby rock, looked guilty as a frog caught in a fly net. “Lurking? I was just enjoying the moonlight, that’s all,” he croaked, trying to look innocent.
But then, Inspector Summer-Garden’s sharp eye caught something odd: a small vial tucked into Mr. Goggle’s pocket, decorated with tiny lily pad stickers. It contained a purple liquid, exactly the same colour as the smudge on Sir Hopsalot.
“Ah-ha!” declared the inspector. “Poison! And I think I know who’s behind this.”
Before he could say more, Mrs. Toadsworth gasped.
“Wait! Isn’t that…? Oh, dear! That’s the same potion Mr. Goggle uses to make his tadpoles grow faster! He must’ve been trying to stop Sir Hopsalot from croaking at the Frog Festival.”
But just then, a loud croak interrupted the scene. It was Sir Hopsalot himself, slowly blinking and croaking a faint tune.
“He’s alive?” exclaimed Mrs. Toadsworth.
Yes! Turns out, Sir Hopsalot had merely been faded by the potion, not poisoned; he’d been caught in a harmless prank, one that went a tad too far. Meanwhile, a suspicious shadow lurked nearby. It was none other than Gilda, the village’s gossiping goldfish and self-proclaimed “queen of clues.” She waddled over, flipping her fins dramatically.
“Aha! I knew it! It was Gilda who stole Sir Hopsalot’s singing note and tried to silence him because she’s jealous of his fame.”
Gilda rolled her eyes.
“Jealous? Me? I just wanted a little attention, that’s all! And I thought if Sir Hopsalot couldn’t croak, I’d be the star.”
The inspector chuckled.
“Well, Gilda, it seems your plan was less of a mystery and more of a splashy mess. But you’re lucky Sir Hopsalot is okay.”
Gilda sighed. “I guess I got a little carried away. Sorry, everyone. No more silly schemes.”
In the end, it turned out that Mr. Goggle’s potion was meant to enhance the frogs’ croaks, not harm anyone. He’d been trying to help Sir Hopsalot prepare for his big performance, but his jealous streak and a badly timed mix-up led to this comic chaos. And so, the Frog Festival went on, with Sir Hopsalot croaking the sweetest song of the season, Gilda learning that fame isn’t worth a pond full of trouble, and Inspector Summer-Garden enjoying a well-earned cup of tea and the rest of his day off. Sometimes, the wildest mysteries are just silly frogs and tadpoles making a splash, unless, of course, someone’s trying to poison the pond.
Lazarus Carpenter - Author 