by Tegan Maher
After clearing her table and helping with sweeping up the last of the streamers from the floor of the Village Hall, Morgana walked back to her house slowly, a heavy basket on her arm containing the last of her wares that hadn’t sold. All in all, it had been a successful day, apart from the death of a villager, of course.
Lancelot was waiting in the window of her shop. Curled up in a large wooden bowl filled with semi-precious stones, he looked more like a display item than a living animal. He jumped down to greet her as she entered through the rear door, and they went upstairs together.
“What do I do, Lancelot, when I have a strong feeling who the murderer is but no one else thinks it remotely likely?” She stroked the cat and collapsed on the couch, removing her shoes from her tired feet. “I have no motive either, as yet. Am I being crazy?”
Lancelot butted her chin with his head.
“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed. “I should see if I can get a read on some of the other people too.”
Lancelot made a chirruping noise.
“You think I should just mind my own business? Well, that’s not very likely, is it? You should understand curiosity better than anyone. So long as it doesn’t kill me too, right?” She’d had more than her fair share of near misses: being trapped in a cave at high tide, nearly eaten by pigs, not to mention once being tied to a chair by a man who fully intended to throw her off a cliff!
She tipped the cat off her lap and rose to make some tea. “It’s just that I’ve never actually had an instinct for who it was before, I was always flailing around in the dark. So, shouldn’t I pursue my intuition? Maybe it means my powers are finally honing themselves a bit? That’s a good thing right?”
Lancelot wound around her legs and then looked pointedly at his food dish.
“Right, gotcha. Shut up and feed you.” Morgana laughed and did as bid, but for the rest of the evening, she couldn’t help her mind going constantly back to the feeling of rage she’d felt. Didn’t she have some kind of moral obligation to seek the source of it?
It was about 2am when she sat up in bed and said, “The waste paper basket!”
Lancelot raised his head from where he lay on her feet and gave her a grumpy look.
“She didn’t need to pick up berries, Mrs G swept a load into the waste paper basket right at Miss Beasley’s feet,” Morgana explained to him. She clicked her tongue at her own slow thinking, it was too late now to check the wastebasket.
The following morning she thought about ringing Tristan to share the information but decided he’d just brush it off. Instead, she started her usual morning routine for opening up her little shop.
Merlin’s Attic was an eclectic mix of everything Morgana saw and felt would fit the theme. There were candles and incense aplenty, also crystals, charms and wind chimes, and dragon figures in all sizes. Silver goblets and chalices jostled beside hand-carved wooden bowls, tarot cards, and posters in an alcove, and lots of Celtic jewelry in a display case.
Every morning she started the day by lighting a sage stick and walking every step of the shop to cleanse the space, then she took out an old fashioned broom and swept anti-clockwise, finally opening the front door to sweep any negative energy she’d collected up out of it. That done, she touched her fingers to the charm over the door and filled it with her energy. It was meant to dissuade thieves and sticky fingers from picking anything up without paying for it. It wouldn’t hurt them, but it would make them pause and think twice. It wouldn’t stop the most determined of people, but she was sure karma would get those folks anyway.
Then, grabbing her purse, she closed and locked the door behind her and walked along the main high street to the newsagents to buy a morning paper.
“Alrigh’ Morgana?” The broad Cornish accent greeted her from behind the counter.
“Hello Ted.” She smiled in return. This was one of the things she loved about village life, that familiarity and friendliness amongst the locals.
“Looks like rains a-coming later,” he commented.
She nodded, having noted the dark clouds out over the sea during her short walk. Portmage was founded as a fishing village, but most of the life now happened at the top of the cliffs where the High Street was, and where most people had their homes. At the bottom of the cliffs, there was a long sweeping beach, but only a few businesses were down there to cater for the tourists on the beach, as it was shadowed and bleak during the winter months. But perched up high, on the western coast of Cornwall in England, Portmage village was a real beauty spot and seemed to have a great deal of sunshine. Of course, there was also strong winds, and regular rain, but they were protected from most of the storms that came off the sea.
“It will be bad for business,” she noted. “Of course, Sundays are never great out of season.”
He shook his head. “December is bad for grockels.” Grockels was a local term for the swarm of visitors that came from the cities during the heat of summer. Drawn by the fresh sea air and stunning views. Also, the ruins of Portmage Castle, with its connections to Merlin and King Arthur, drew in a lot of sightseers.
Morgana paid and turned to go before a thought struck her. “Ted, do you know where Gaye Trenton lived?”
“Oh aye. Ivy Cottage, down the end of Boot Lane. Bad business that, I heard her grand-daughter killed her off for the money?”
Morgana avoided replying, remembering what Mrs Braintree had said about Gaye Trenton rowing with Ralph Ludlow. She knew Mr Ludlow, he’d been the Head Teacher at her Primary school when she was very young. He also happened to live on Boot Lane.
Nodding her thanks she made her way back to her shop. She sat down behind her serving counter and unfolded the paper, looking for the crossword. But she couldn’t settle. She tapped the pen against the clues and stared at them without taking in a word.
An hour later she huffed out a breath of irritation. Not a single customer and she couldn’t concentrate on anything. She fetched her coat, locked the shop, and went back out into the cold.
Walking down the High Street lifted her spirits. There were twinkling Christmas lights in every window despite the morning hour, and each storefront she passed was decorated differently. Some with fake snow, others with baubles in various colors. All seemed good with the world until she spotted some mistletoe hanging over a doorway and had a mad urge to pull it down. One death was enough, she’d think twice before blithely handing it out again.
Boot Lane was named for the way it turned at the end, and Morgana walked the full way down before finding the last two houses tucked around the corner.
A man was out in the front garden of one of the houses, shovel in hand, digging up the fence that divided the two properties. She paused, closed her eyes, and drew on her power.
Seeing auras wasn’t an exact science, and it told you very little about the person, but it did show their mood. Colors would flicker around them, giving away what they were feeling at that moment, and also - most importantly - when they were lying.
“Hello, ” Morgana greeted the man, trying to look as if she were just out for a stroll.
He stopped and cocked his head at her. “I know you. Morgana isn’t it, or Morwenna?”
“Morgana,” she confirmed. Morwenna was her twin sister, who thankfully hadn’t been back to Portmage for months. It wasn’t that she disliked her sister, only that wherever Morwenna went, trouble seemed to follow.
Of course, Tristan would say that wherever Morgana went, murder seemed to follow!
Mr Ludlow nodded. “You’ve that shop on the High Street, though I can’t say I approve of all that occult stuff you sell.” He wagged an admonishing finger at her and Morgana grit her teeth to keep her smile in place.
“I bumped into your mother a few days ago,” he continued, conversationally, “she seemed well.”
Morgana squinted at him, seeing almost nothing of his aura. It was frustrating, but people with controlled personalities often unconsciously concealed their auras. Morgana supposed that all the years
being a school teacher had probably taught him to keep a tight reign on his emotions.
“She is. She has plenty of time to paint now that the tourist season is over, which makes her happy. Are you digging up your fence?” She asked, attempting to seem only vaguely interested.
“Yes.” A dark frown crossed his face, and she finally saw flickers of light around him. Tiny pulses of red revealed his anger. “My neighbor put it in, stupid woman, that flower bed on her side, it’s mine!” He pointed at the other side of the fence. “I planted those rose bushes more than ten years ago.”
“Oh dear, is that what the two of you were arguing about at the Fayre yesterday?”
“Been arguing about it for months now.” He leaned on his shovel and looked morosely at the fence. “Dividing line has always been in the same place for at least the last two hundred years, but she says the deeds to the house put the rose bed on her property. She put up the fence when I was in Truro for the weekend visiting my son. Said she’d take me to court over it if I moved it back.” He brightened slightly. “Still, not much she can do to stop me moving it now.”
“No, I suppose not,” Morgana said, almost shocked that he’d reacted so quickly to move the fence back in the circumstances.
He regarded her, clearly seeing what she was thinking. “Got to put things right before that granddaughter of hers comings nosing around to look at her inheritance.”
“Is it her granddaughter who inherits?” Morgana asked, unable to hide her curiosity.
He shrugged. “Police didn’t exactly say so, but I got that impression. They were here yesterday, seemed to think I poisoned Gaye. Not that I didn’t want to sometimes, but you can’t go around killing people over a rose bed now, can you?” He looked absolutely bewildered by the idea and Morgana believed him. The shimmer of blue as he spoke told her that he was being genuine. He had never considered murder as an option to resolve the boundary problem.
“But if she was threatening to take you to court, that could have become extremely expensive for you, lawyers aren’t cheap,” she said, wanting to cover every angle of motive.
“True,” he shook his head resentfully at the idea. “But at least she’d have had to pay for moving this bloody fence back. My lawyer says she didn’t have a case, standing precedent he said.”
“Oh, well I guess I’d better leave you to it. At least you don’t have to live next to her anymore.” She floundered for a moment, wishing she’d been able to pick up more.
“She might have been old, but she was mean,” he responded, with feeling. “So I won’t be crying any tears over her death. I just hope the granddaughter wants to sell Ivy Cottage rather than move in herself. Looked to me as if they were both cut from the same cloth.”
Morgana bobbed her head sympathetically, then casting a glance at the brooding sky above her, she gave him a wave and went on her way.
She skirted around the edge of the village and stopped when she got to a picturesque viewing point where she could see the sea. A bench had been placed there for people to sit and admire the water, and so she sat and thought.
Had mistletoe berries really been responsible for Gaye Trenton’s death? It seemed so unlikely, especially as in small quantities mistletoe even had medicinal properties. But the woman had been pretty frail, so perhaps a small dose was all that was required to finish her off. But why would her granddaughter want to kill someone so elderly? Firstly, they were family, and secondly, surely she wouldn’t have to wait particularly long to inherit anyway? And what about the rude man who’d pushed the old lady and received a blow for his impudence? Maybe it caused enough rage to act on impulse and exact deadly revenge? Maybe he hadn't even intended to kill her, just make her feel ill?
Morgana looked at the cliff path, stretching away in either direction from the bench where she was sitting. What had the vicar said? The man had a holiday home on the headland. Which was exactly where this path went. There wouldn’t be many people leaving the city to come to Portmage this close to Christmas. It was worth just walking by and taking a look, wasn’t it?
The path was muddy and there were small ice crystals in the puddles. Morgana looked ruefully at her knee-high leather boots, they were getting splattered with mud, but she was grateful for their warmth. She moved with purpose along the headland and cut in to avoid the peninsular that reached out into the sea, where Portmage Castle perched. She didn’t want to get too close to the castle, too many ghosts inside who might sense her presence. She had one dead person on her mind already.
On the far side, she picked up the path again and was soon walking in front of a row of new properties that took advantage of the sea view but were pretty cold places to be in the winter wind that whipped at the exposed bit of coastline.
Morgana pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and ducked between two of the houses to walk on the more protected roadside rather than the cliff path. Most of the wooden lodges were in darkness, devoid of the fairy lights that lit up the homes in the village, but halfway along she heard the cheerful tune of White Christmas coming out of an open garage door and made her way toward it.
She peered inside the open garage and saw a car up on bricks. The car door was open and the radio inside it was playing, but there was no sign of anyone.
She stood and debated for a while. She had no reason to call on whoever was occupying the lodge and couldn’t think of a single excuse for questioning him about his encounter with the murder victim, but even a small clue about what kind of person he was might be helpful to narrow down the suspects? She knew she’d be able to see more than the police could, and Tristan listened to her about what she saw and felt. With all her senses on high alert, she stepped into the garage door.
Unfortunately, there was no neon sign inside that said ‘a killer lives here’, but she did immediately smell something familiar. Pudding. Ellie’s home-made Christmas pudding to be precise.
A shadow fell across the open garage door behind her at that moment and a large man in a red jumper with the picture of a snowman on it stepped into the garage, muttering about rain. He stopped short when he saw Morgana standing there and looked at her in surprise.
Morgana looked back at him, her face going pale with horror. She recognized him. He’d been the customer Ellie was serving when the feeling of rage had swept over Morgana. He’d been right there, and while she’d been mentally cataloging which villagers were around her at the time, she hadn’t taken in his face as fully because he was a stranger.
“What you doing in here?” he asked roughly. His jumper might look jolly, but his stance was aggressive.
“I, um, I was looking for you.” Morgana licked her lips nervously and wished, not for the first time, that she had some decent defensive magic. Her sister, Morwenna, could push energy around making objects or even people fling away from her, but the most Morgana could do had to be up close and personal. Even then, it wasn’t much more than a jolt.
“Why?” he asked, his face a suspicious mask.
“Just to ask you some questions about the village Christmas Fayre, I believe you were there?” She tried and failed to smile.
“You’re a reporter?” He took a step toward her and she forced herself not to step back or appear threatened.
“No, just…interested, about your interaction with Gaye Trenton before she died.”
He looked her up and down. “You’re that witch.” He sounded cold as he spoke and Morgana found her hand going to the protective crystal that hung around her neck. His aura flickered to life as she did so, and she saw a disturbing myriad of colors. There was some red of annoyance but no dark rage, and it wasn’t the predominant color. His aura was flooded with purple. Purple meant desire.
“Tell me, witch, do you dance naked in the moonlight?”
At this point Morgana did back away, trying to go sideways around him to reach the open garage door.
“No,” she lied. She glanced at the daylight outside and wondered if there was anyone close enough to h
ear her scream if she had to. The skies chose that moment to open and the rain came down in a whoosh of water, thumping loudly to the ground and dashing her hopes of being seen or heard.
It never rains but it pours, she thought sourly. “I work with the local police sometimes,” she said, which was sort of true, “and we thought you might have seen something?” She stressed the words police and we, in the hopes that he’d think they knew where she was.
“I saw you,” he came even nearer, and Morgana lost her nerve and bolted. She cursed herself for an idiot as he laughed and watched her flee. She ducked around him and out into the rain and kept running.
How could I have been so stupid? He knew something and all I’ve done is put him on his guard! She slowed to a walk when she realized he wasn’t following her.
He’s dangerous, definitely, she continued the line of thought. I had it completely wrong! He was the one feeling rage, he has a connection to the victim I don’t know about, and he’s a revolting letch as well.
She kept looking over her shoulder as she walked fast back to the warm welcoming light of the village and to familiarity. She heaved a huge sigh of relief as she saw the cheerful glow of the village bakery and tea-rooms. Ellie’s place of business.
Ellie didn’t normally work Sundays, preferring to spend that day of the week with her family, but as Morgana fell dripping wet through the door to the tea-room, Ellie herself rushed out from behind the counter and came over.
“You’re here,” Morgana blinked raindrops off her eyelids and blew more drops off the end of her nose. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Stocktaking. What are you doing out in the rain?” Ellie steered her to a table and called out for hot tea to the girl in the kitchen area.
“Being an idiot,” Morgana answered, shaking out of her jacket. “I just went and questioned a suspect in the murder and I think I almost got murdered myself. Or physically attacked in any case.” She shivered, remembering his unwholesome lust.