When an elderly neighbour is found dead, no one suspects a thing â until they uncover 81-year-old Elsieâs true identity: Mad Mabel, the youngest Australian in history to be convicted of murder, more than 60 years ago. Here is an excerpt from Mad Mabel.

My name is Elsie Mabel Fitzpatrick and I am eighty-one years old. I want it on the record that I donât look eighty-one. Not because Iâm particularly attractive or youthful-looking â on the contrary, Iâve seen hairless mole rats more attractive â but because if storybooks are anything to go by (and I, for one, believe they are), eighty-one-year-olds are frail, birdlike creatures with silver hair who call people âdearâ and go inside the bank to speak to an âactual personâ rather than use the much more convenient ATM. At six feet tall with broad shoulders and a sturdy backbone, no one would ever accuse me of being birdlike â unless the bird in question was an ostrich. My hair is reddish-grey, and I call people âdipshitâ with far more regularity than âdearâ. Most importantly, I adore the ATM. Who wouldnât? Iâm eighty-one years old, and I donât want to spend the precious time I have left in a stuffy, air-conditioned room talking to a power-tripping branch manager called Barry through plexiglass.

I digress.

Iâve lived on Kenny Lane for close to sixty years. Kenny Lane is a peculiar little cobbled street on the periphery of central Melbourne, made up of the back doors of restaurants and half a dozen single-fronted terrace homes, each adorned with intricately tiled porches and wrought iron fences in varying states of disrepair. The tiny front gardens tell diverse stories: mine meticulously tended with blooming roses, the rest ranging from untamed beauty to sparse weed patches. Parking is limited to a single row along one side, and any non-resident who dares to park their vehicle in these public spots is destined to suffer the wrath of Mrs Nguyen. (Iâve yet to see a person make this mistake twice.)

Thereâs the usual assortment of neighbours: Peter Pantages (aka Pete the Greek) at number 1; Joan Waters (litigious, and a real piece of work) at number 3; and Roxanne (sex-crazed single mother), and her evil seven-year-old spawn, Persephone, at number 5. On the other side, thereâs me at number 2; Old Ishaan (my nemesis) and his deranged Chihuahua, Nugget, next door at number 4; and the Nguyens â very nice couple so long as you donât utilise the public parking on Kenny Lane â at number 6.

The houses are close enough together that I could throw a tennis ball back and forth with residents opposite me if I was so inclined, which, needless to say, I am not. In fact, beyond the necessary interactions of neighbours â accusations of stealing space in each otherâs rubbish bins, lobbing dog droppings over the fence when Nugget does her business in my front garden, and shared complaints about the dreadful postman Dwayne â we donât interact at all, which is exactly how I like it.

Itâs a funny little street, to be sure. But itâs home to me. The only real home Iâve ever had. And while I consider myself flexible about a lot of things, Iâm not flexible about Kenny Lane. In fact, Iâll tell you something for nothing: The only way anyone is going to get me out of this street is in a mahogany box. An extra-long one.

I am dangling a Lady Grey tea bag in hot water when I see it. From the kitchen I have a direct eyeline down the long corridor to the front door, under which I see a protruding piece of paper.

âWell, well, looky here,â I say to Daphne, who sits patiently at my round table, waiting for her cuppa. âMust be another letter from Joan.â

Joan at number 3 is sixty-odd, has a neat grey bob, polished black orthotic footwear, and darting, suspicious eyes. Since the day she moved in, Iâve been receiving notes underneath my door: about my porch security light shining into her bedroom window, about the placement of my rubbish bins, about my roses creeping too far over the fence line into the laneway. If I wasnât so full of myself I might have feared she didnât like me. Joanâs nephew, she is forever at pains to point out, is a partner in a law firm. Sheâs managed to include this detail in every one of her letters.

Your nephew sounds marvellous, I replied to her last note. But Iâm assuming heâs going to be a little young for me, and besides, Iâm not looking to date at this time.

Daphne snorted her tea when I read that out to her.

In the year sheâs lived on the street, Iâve never heard Joan speak. Not a word. Each time I shout, âGood morning,â she scurries away like a rat in a sewer. I suppose Joan is more of a pen pal than a neighbour.

âI wonder what Iâve done this time?â I say.

âPerhaps sheâs discovered our cannabis racket?â Daphne muses.

âYou donât think she knows a lawyer, do you?â DM

Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth is published by Pan Macmillan. It is available at a retail price of around R395.