by Tegan Maher
It was bearable on a one to one basis, but when faced with a room full of people, all feeling different things, Morgana soon found it overwhelmed her.
She shut her eyes, spread out her hands on the table in front of herself to steady herself, and focused on putting up guards to that part of her mind. Mental blocks were gathered behind her closed lids and then she began to stack them like a wall. The process took only a minute but she wasn’t even half done as the people swelled into the room.
And then she felt it: dark and violent hatred. Pure rage washed over her unprotected senses like a wave crashing right over the wall she was mentally building.
Morgana opened her eyes wide and looked around, but all she saw was smiling faces and happy people. Her eyes swiveled first to Ellie, who was distracted and already serving someone, and then to Mrs Goodbody and her aunt. The sensation had been close, very close. She took down her wall and began to reach out with her senses, trying to feel the emotions of those around her, but there were too many people, and more coming every second. Lights began to flash in her eyes, caused by her efforts, and she closed them against the blinding pain.
“Blast it,” she muttered, annoyed at her inability to narrow it down in the crowded room. She’d spent too many years ignoring her talents and now she couldn’t use them as easily as she once had. Instead, she now shut them down and let the strain dissipate, relying instead on good old fashioned observation.
Morgana scanned the crowd, looking for any telltale signs of anger. She also tried to memorize the faces passing by. One of them had most definitely been feeling that rage, and in her experience it wasn’t generally a frequently occurring emotion.
But she still got nothing: no one seemed even slightly upset. Just a lot of happy people out at a Fayre.
Sighing to herself, she even wondered if she had really felt it as strongly as she’d thought. In the end, she dismissed it and pinned a smile to her face as a potential customer began to pick through her holly wreaths.
It was half an hour later that a commotion was heard toward the back of the village hall, and all heads turned as someone let out a shriek.
“What’s happened?” Ellie said, beside Morgana. Morgana stood up on tiptoe to look over the crowd. It helped that she was tall for a woman, several inches taller than Ellie.
“Some people are gathered around what looks like a person on the floor. I think someone has fainted?” Morgana said, craning her neck.
“Is there a doctor here?” A shout rang out, sounding worried.
“I was a nurse,” Mrs Goodbody pushed between the tables and was soon kneeling beside the fallen figure. Morgana followed curiously and watched as Mrs Goodbody checked over the person on the floor. It was a very frail-looking old woman, and her skin was paperwhite.
“Is she okay? Grandma, wake up.” A younger woman patted hard on the cheeks of the old lady.
Mrs Goodbody looked up at Morgana. “Call an ambulance,” she instructed.
Morgana nodded and pulled her phone out of her dress pocket. There was a tense ten minutes where everyone stood about, unsure of what to do until the ambulance arrived. Two more minutes passed while the paramedics checked her, then she was put onto a stretcher and taken away, the young woman who had called her Grandma going with her.
The Fayre resumed, somewhat muted at first, but quickly getting back to business as usual.
Mrs Goodbody returned to her table followed by her closest cronies, Mrs Braintree and Mrs Ellington-Jones. The three of them were ladies that Ellie had referred to as the matriarchs of the village.
“Probably drunk too much sherry.” Morgana heard Mrs Braintree comment to Mrs Goodbody.
Mrs Goodbody shook her head. “I don’t think so, her pulse was so weak it was hard to find. She was extremely unwell. I’m surprised she came out today.”
“She was perfectly well outside,” Mrs Braintree arched a thinly penciled eyebrow. “She had quite the to-do with a gentleman in the queue beside her. Sounded like they were shouting at each other. Ralph Ludlow, I think it was, but I was some way back behind them.”
“Hmm,” Mrs Goodbody paused thoughtfully. “I believe you’re right, she had some of my punch when she came in and did seem perfectly steady on her feet at the time.”
“She was knocked side-ways when she came in though, someone pushed past her quite roughly at the door. She hit him across the shoulders with her umbrella.” Mrs Ellington-Jones added. “Perhaps she was injured by it, but didn’t realize immediately?”
Morgana eavesdropped unashamedly, interested in their gossip.
“I didn’t recognize her,” she interjected into their conversation. “Do you know who she was?”
“Gaye Trenton, she’s just moved back to the village from Plymouth, I think.” Mrs Braintree provided.
“Moved back?” Morgana asked, screwing up her face to try to remember if she’d ever known her.
“You wouldn’t remember, dear,” Mrs Goodbody told her. “She left long before you were born, must be sixty years ago or so. I wouldn’t have known her either but she introduced herself to me a few days ago. Used to be good friends with my aunt, apparently. She was very nice and very upset to hear of auntie’s condition. She even said she’d try to go and visit her in the care home.” Mrs Goodbody shook her head sadly. “I hope she’s alright.”
The Fayre was drawing to a close when Morgana felt a frission of awareness pass over her and raised her head toward the door, knowing exactly who would have caused it.
Tristan Treherne strode in, the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. He wore a casual grey suit, and his black hair was brushed back off his brows, making his eyes look bright in the twinkling fairy lights hanging around the door.
Tristan had been Morgana’s childhood crush, a few years above her at school. But then he’d had a torrid relationship with her twin sister and that had put paid to any fantasies she’d cherished about them ending up together. She still thought he was breathtaking, but she would on no account consider dating someone who’d dated her sister, even if it was more than ten years ago.
There was just the small matter of chemistry between her and Tristan that she couldn’t quite shake.
Morgana squished the butterflies in her stomach and reminded herself firmly that it was never going to happen. Besides, she did have a boyfriend, well, almost. She had a dinner date lined up with a very dashing peer of the realm. Oliver Westley, Lord of Latheborne, had asked her out during a weekend house party where she also happened to help solve a murder, and she was really looking forward to getting to know him better.
Her eyes widened as she saw that Tristan hadn’t come to the Fayre socially: behind him stood Police Constable Poppy Dunn in full uniform, notepad at the ready.
Tristan wasn’t just a man she once went to school with. These days he was also Detective Sergeant Treherne.
He raised a hand as they made eye contact and began to walk towards her, while Morgana resisted the urge to check her hair wasn’t a mess.
“I’m glad to see you here,” he said, reaching her table. “Looks like we have another possible murder on our hands.”
Morgana blinked in surprise. “A murder, what happened? Did you come here just to find me?” She felt ridiculously flattered at that idea. She didn’t exactly help the police in any official capacity, but Tristan knew about her gifts for reading people and had asked for her assistance a couple of times in the past.
Tristan shook his head and her spirits dropped a little. “The investigations begins here. My DI is on his way, but as PC Dunn and I were in the area, we came ahead.” He spread his hands to gesture around the room.
“Here?” Morgana looked confused.
“Elderly lady died a short while ago, but it looks like she was poisoned. I believe she was here at the time the poison was administered.”
Morgana put a hand to her mouth. “The woman who fainted? She was poisoned? She’s dead?”
He nodded, leaning in closer so as not to be ov
erheard. “She died in the ambulance on the way to hospital, but not before she’d vomited. The medics contacted us immediately, she’d consumed some kind of drink and there were clear traces of mistletoe berries mixed into it. There will be an immediate autopsy, of course, but it seems very likely it was the mistletoe. It can be quite deadly and she’d already digested a fair amount.”
Morgana swayed, feeling suddenly sick at the thought. Her voice came out as a whisper. “But I’m the only one here selling mistletoe. Is there no chance at all she ate them beforehand?”
“We still have to establish that, but it doesn’t seem likely. She was here with her granddaughter, who swears they had nothing to eat for at least two hours before setting out for the Fayre, the only thing they had here was some punch.”
“Mrs Goodbody’s punch.” Morgana glanced to her right, but only Mrs Goodbody’s aunt was at the table, still staring unseeing into space. For some reason, Morgana had the impression that she was pretending.
Tristan’s eyebrows rose. “Lillian Goodbody gave her the punch? She’s not a very likely suspect.”
“She’s hardly going to be a suspect at all,” Morgana said, giving him a stern eye. “You know her, we’ve both known her all our lives! She’s not the murdering type. Besides, what possible motive could she have, she’s already told me she only spoke to the victim once in passing.”
“Now why would she make a point of telling you that?” Tristan quirked a suspicious look.
Morgana heaved a sigh. “It came up quite naturally in conversation after the woman had fainted! Obviously, we talked about her.”
“Obviously. So, what did you learn?” He tilted his head expectantly, and Morgana saw a brief flash of his aura as it went from relaxed to alert.
“That her name is Gaye Trenton, she’s from Portmage originally but moved away about sixty years ago, she’s only recently moved back. She was in an argument with someone outside the hall just before opening, possibly Ralph Ludlow. She also hit a man with her umbrella as he pushed past her, I’m not sure who though.” She made a mental note to find out.
“Impressive,” Tristan favored her with a genuine smile. “That’s actually very helpful. Anything else you can think of?”
“No.” Morgana paused. “Actually, yes. I felt a sensation of extreme hatred earlier today, someone near me was very angry just as all the people were coming into the Fayre.”
Tristan stilled suddenly. “Extreme hatred?”
“Rage,” Morgana confirmed, “murderous rage.”
“From who, or where exactly?”
Morgana spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t be sure, I was in the process of putting up my mental barriers at the time. Too many people around me, you know? But it was close, very close. This area.” She swept an arm to encompass the tables immediately beside her own. Lingering as it passed over Miss Beasley. She didn’t know why, it was just some instinct.
Tristan looked to Morgana’s left. “Ellie was at this table? Was anyone else with her?”
“She was serving alone, but she might have had a customer already browsing.” Morgana screwed up her eyes trying to picture the scene, but no face came to mind.
“And Mrs Goodbody was on this side of you.” His eyes went to the table on her right.
“Yes, and her aunt, Miss Beasley.” Morgana fixed her eyes on the old woman in the wheelchair. She appeared to have gone back to sleep.
“Hmm,” Tristan looked unsure. “Well, it’s an extra angle we can look at, but I think the man outside is a better lead. Plus we don’t know yet who stands to inherit or how much. That’s usually a pretty good motive when it comes to murder. We haven’t ruled out suicide either, she might have had a health condition that she couldn’t face, though it’s an unusual way to go about it and I suspect it won’t be the case.”
“Wait.” Morgana put a hand on his arm as he moved to return to where PC Dunn was waiting and looking over at them curiously.
“Mrs Goodbody’s aunt, she knew the victim. I think they were friends when they were young. There could be something in that?”
Tristan threw a disbelieving look at the woman in the wheelchair. “She’s about ninety, Morgana, and doesn’t seem very aware of much.”
“She’s got dementia. But… I don’t know.” She dropped her hand, aware that she sounded ridiculous.
“Well, unless that somehow makes people demented with rage, I can’t see her as a killer. What I need is for you to give PC Dunn the names of everyone you can remember who bought mistletoe from you today.”
Morgana gave him an irritable look. “Fine, but there were some berries rolling around on the floor, it could have been literally anyone on that basis.” She cast another look at Miss Beasley and struggled to picture her scrabbling around on the floorboards collecting up enough berries to kill someone.
He gave her a tired-looking smile. “Quite right, and we’ll interview everyone who was here if we have to. But not that many people will have had the opportunity to add it to the cup. Just give Poppy what information you can, and keep your eyes and ears open. I always appreciate your thoughts, Morgana. Now, I’d better speak to Mrs Goodbody.”
Ellie came back at that moment, and Morgana filled her in on everything Tristan had told her.
“You don’t seriously think Miss Beasley has anything to do with it, do you?” Ellie looked as doubtful as Tristan had been.
“Do you know her well?” Morgana asked, shooting another curious look at the sleeping woman.
“Yes, she lived in Pear Tree Cottage, at the end of Cobb Lane, remember? Such a pretty place, she must have been devastated to leave it when she got too old to manage on her own anymore. I think Mrs G had intended to have her aunt move in with her, but she needed round the clock care and it just wasn’t feasible.”
Morgana shook her head. She’d left Portmage herself when she’d gone to University at eighteen, and had been absent for six years before coming back and opening her little shop.
The hall began to empty as Morgana gave PC Poppy Dunn all the names she could remember of people who’d bought mistletoe.
“Poppy,” Morgana lowered her voice as they finished up.
Poppy looked at her questioningly.
“Gaye Trenton had only just moved to Portmage, right? But she’s from here, a long time ago. Isn’t it possible this was done because of something from her past?”
Poppy’s expression switched to skeptical. “We won’t rule anything out, Morgana, but she’s been living here a few months now which is plenty of time to make enemies. Murder isn’t usually something people wait to do in my experience, it’s usually a case of greed or fresh anger. The location and the means suggest it was a crime of opportunity, not something that was coldly planned.”
Morgana nodded in sober agreement, but her gut was telling her not to ignore the sensation of rage she’d picked up on.
“It was definitely fresh anger,” she mused, more to herself than Poppy.
Poppy snapped shut her notebook. “Well, I suppose I’d better start questioning all the people on this list, which will make for a long afternoon. Personally, my money’s on the granddaughter. She was with her at the time and may be a benefactor. The most obvious person is usually the one who did it.”
Morgana turned and saw Mrs Goodbody preparing to wheel her aunt out of the hall. She hurried over to them and despite the surprised look she got from Mrs Goodbody, she ignored her and crouched down instead beside the old woman.
“Hello,” Morgana said, trying to make eye-contact, but Miss Beasley just stared over her shoulder. Morgana took the woman’s hand in her own and tried to pick up some sensations or emotions from her. “I’m Morgana Emrys, perhaps you knew one of my parents or grandparents even? My family has lived in the village just about forever.”
She was talking only to try to prolong the contact, but she got nothing. The woman wasn’t closed off or hard to read, there was just simply nothing there to get. She sighed and straightened.
Mrs Goodbody tipped her head at Morgana questioningly.
“Sorry to hold you up, she reminds me of my own great aunt a little.” This was actually true, mainly because elderly aunts had a uniformity about them to Morgana’s way of thinking. A primness from a very different generation, but they also tended to have a marvelous sense of humor. “Do you think it might be okay if I dropped in to visit her sometime at her care-home?”
Mrs Goodbody’s face broke into a warm smile. “That would be lovely, Morgana. Very thoughtful of you.”
Morgana ducked her head, feeling guilty. What she really wanted was to try to question Miss Beasley, but she would make a point of taking her some flowers too and would follow through with the visit, even if the police found the real murderer in the meantime.
On her way out of the hall she stopped to speak to the village vicar. He’d been the one welcoming everyone into the event and was still at his century post to see them all out again.
“Hello, Reverend.” She gave him a cautious smile. She knew he didn’t like her very much, what with her being openly pagan in her beliefs. But he’d been fairly respectful in the past, apart from the one time he’d accused her of giving the local youths drugs and she’d had to point out that hemp incense wasn’t going to get them remotely high. He still thought she was leading them astray though. But he had a lot of those crosses to bear in Portmage, as the entire village was themed around Portmage Castle and the magic Merlin was supposed to have wrought there.
“Miss Emrys.” He inclined his head.
“I was just wondering if you saw the lady who fainted hitting anyone with her umbrella as she came in?” Even as she asked, Morgana knew Tristan would frown on her for poking around, but it was an innocent enough question.
“Oh yes,” the vicar pursed his lips. “A townie, has a holiday home on the headland, one of those wooden lodge affairs. Very rude he was, pushing past like that. But you know these city folks.” He looked serious and Morgana made a murmur of agreement, while inwardly laughing at the irony. The vicar himself was London born and bred and had only recently joined their rural community.