“But I can’t do my job unless I know the whole truth, Alf. You need to help me out.”
I understood his predicament fully. I also knew there was no way The Mori would ever be stopped by any common mortal. George wasn’t going to let it drop however. I suppose you don’t get to be a Detective Sergeant if you roll over at the first sign of an obstacle, do you? In this case, I was the obstacle.
I sighed. “When we first met you may remember I had a chap in helping with the painting and decorating at the inn.”
“Oh yes. I’d forgotten about him,” George replied, his tone casual. There was no way George had forgotten about Jed. “You two seemed pretty close at the time if I remember correctly.”
“We were close.” I nodded. I’d thought we were in love. More fool me. “He turned out to be a member of an organization known as The Mori.”
“The Mori?”
“They’re an international organization, highly secretive. Made up almost entirely of warlocks, but supported in their endeavours by mortals.” I clarified, “Ordinary folk with poor intentions.”
“And what are their endeavours?”
“Probably to make as much capital as possible, but they’re anti-environmental, so they make their money by selling green spaces to property developers.”
“There’s a lot of money in property.”
“Too much.” I nodded, pinching my lips together.
“What’s the difference between a warlock and a witch?” George asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to get his head around the content of the conversation. “Is a warlock a male witch?”
“Kind of. Sometimes. Warlock is a harsh term and one that should never be clumsily bandied about. Many of our kind find it offensive. Witches can be male or female, they’re simply practitioners of magick. But warlock comes from the Old English word wærloga, which means a traitor, or a liar or oath-breaker. In this case, the warlocks in The Mori—all male as far as I know—have been banished from whichever coven they belonged to, for wrongdoings of some description.”
“There are no women in The Mori?”
“Apparently not. But it’s a highly secretive organisation, and no-one can really be sure who belongs to it.”
George nodded. “And your painter and decorator friend was a member of this organization?”
“His name was Jed,” I said, my tone curt. I didn’t like to think of him and the way he had betrayed me. “He—and his friends—were intent on ruining the inn, making the business fail, so that they could buy my land cheaply. They were particularly interested in the wood I own out the back of the inn. Then their intention was to sell it on to a local landowner, so he could build a housing estate.”
“And you foiled him.” It was a statement not a question.
George reached across to stroke my arm and I realised how uptight I must appear with my shoulders scrunched up under my head, my arms folded defensively across my chest and my eyes screwed up with loathing.
I breathed deeply. “Yes. You’re right. I did.” I rolled my shoulders back, trying to relax.
“But you think The Mori are back?”
“I know they are.” I jerked forwards once more. “When I went up into Mr Pearce’s bedroom I saw one of them. They take the form of a …” I cast about looking for the right words to use to explain what I meant. “A spinning globe is the best way I can describe it.” I made a small round shape with my hands. “In this case it was the size of a tennis ball or a cricket ball or something like that. They can be bigger. Much bigger. Each globe looks like a Christmas bauble that you would hang on a tree. Red, with a gold thread running through it. They float in the air, spinning really quickly.”
George regarded me quizzically, but I pushed on.
“These baubles, or globes, or orbs, or whatever you want to call them, they attract energy. Negative energy. They use the energy to grow.”
“And one of these killed Mr Pearce?”
“I didn’t see that. I had the sense that Mr Pearce had been lying there for some time before I found him.”
“The pathologist on scene reckons he’s been dead for over 48 hours.”
I grimaced. “So that globe had been there with the body all that time? I wonder why?”
“Do you think that’s what killed him?” George asked. “Can these globe things kill?”
I thought back to the Battle of Speckled Wood. “Yes. I’ve seen them grow to the size of a small car, like a mini or something. The Mori use these orbs as carriers, like a form of transport. I saw one transform into Jed. But the spinning orbs aren’t harmless, by any means. They can shoot energy beams. Yes. They can kill.”
“Hmm,” George took a few notes.
I watched him as he processed all I’d told him. When he looked at me again, I could see the questions in his eyes, so I asked them for him.
“What did The Mori want with Mr Pearce? And why did they leave him dead?”
* * *
“So what will happen now?” I asked George as I walked him back to Primrose Cottage. He slipped under the blue and white tape and turned to face me. His frown told me he wasn’t sure.
“I’ll have to help continue to process the scene and pursue various lines of enquiry as my colleagues see fit.”
“But—”
“But, given what you’ve told me, I’ll keep my eyes peeled and I’ll be asking a lot of questions,” he replied firmly. “You’re right. No-one else will believe what you’ve shared with me. Let’s keep it between ourselves, alright?” He raised his voice as a uniformed officer came our way. “That’s all I can tell you for now, Ms Daemonne.”
I nodded. “That’s good enough,” I said, and smiled, although my lips felt thin and dry and stiff.
He glanced behind him at the open door. Beyond, I could see a few shadows moving around. “I’ll see if I can gather up your invitations and let you have them back.”
“Yes. Thanks. I suppose I need to finish my rounds in the village. Just drop them at the shop if you like.”
“Will do. Is there one for me?”
“There might be.” I smirked.
“When we first met you promised me you’d invite me to the opening of the inn.”
He had a good memory. “So I did, DS Gilchrist. Although I thought it might be in a working capacity rather than a personal one.”
“Did you?” he asked, his voice low. He leaned forwards, across the tape, and my heart skipped a beat thinking he would kiss me, but he stopped, inches away from my face, as though remembering he was on duty and in public. Instead he pulled back and smiled at me. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Just be careful,” I said, and realised with a jolt that him staying safe was more important to me than I might previously have cared to admit. “The Mori are deadly.”
“I will,” he said and with one last lingering look, he turned away and entered the cottage. I heard someone call him and then the door closed, leaving me on the narrow pavement alone, shivering despite the relatively warm afternoon.
Whittle General Stores, run by my friends Rhona and Stan, had long been the centre of the community. Today was no exception. People were gathering both inside and outside to discuss the goings on down Whittle Lane. Those loitering outside could just about make out the police cordon, and of course there were numerous marked police cars and vans parked on the road. Whittlecombe being such a small village meant everybody tended to know what was going on immediately, and as they say, good news travels fast, but bad news travels faster still.
“Poor Mr Pearce,” I overheard, as I made my way up the path to the shop entrance.
“Oh it’s a tragedy. Lived in the village his whole life, you know,” said a second bystander.
“He’s never been the same man since his wife passed away though. In some ways, this will be a welcome release,” the first voice said and there were murmurs among the throng of people. I couldn’t tell if they were in acquiescence or disagreement with this turn of tho
ught, so I kept my head down and doggedly continued along my trajectory, not wishing to answer any questions about my role in finding him.
Rhona and Stan were both busy serving customers, so I hid my face at the newspaper stand and waited for a lull in proceedings. It took a while. Everyone had something to say about Derek Pearce, and understandably they wanted to share their memories.
I listened in to their conversations with half an ear.
Despite having lived in the village his whole life, in excess of sixty years, it seemed that for the past five or six he had become increasingly reclusive. His wife had died prematurely, I couldn’t glean why, and he had folded into himself, spurning invitations and spending most of his time on his allotment.
I knew all about the allotments. They were on a patch of land belonging to my Whittle Inn estate, and were available to anyone who paid rent on one of my tied cottages. Most of the cottages had only small gardens, many without even a hint of lawn, and so the allotments were a wonderful way for the tenants to grow fruit, vegetables and even flowers if they desired.
Other than that, people didn’t seem to know very much about him. He had no children and no other close family.
Just his little dog, I thought. Such a sad and quiet existence
I flicked absently though the magazines, not taking in the content on the pages at all, until Rhona’s voice broke into my thoughts, making me jump.
“Alf?”
“Sorry,” I said, turning my attention to the couple behind the counter. “I was miles away.”
“I heard you discovered poor Mr Pearce. How terrible for you.”
“I was delivering invitations to the grand opening of the inn,” I explained. “In fact, that’s what I’ve popped in for. I dropped them in the cottage, and George… ah… DS Gilchrist is going to bring them here and leave them for me once the police have finished up in there.”
Rhona nodded. “I’ll save them for you. Perhaps Stan can finish delivering them for you?”
Stan smiled at his wife. He was a quiet, perfectly unassuming man. His wife was fond of finding extra jobs to keep him busy.
“Oh there’s no need, thank you. I’m happy to deliver them personally.” My voice caught in my throat and embarrassed I looked away, but not before Rhona spotted how upset I was.
“Oh you poor love,” she cried, squeezing out from behind her counter. Stan subtly melted through to the back of the shop, thoughtfully making himself scarce while I behaved in a decidedly un-British way, thereby sparing my blushes. “It must have been a shock for you.” She wrapped me in a supportive embrace. “What a few months you’re having! I promise, it’s not all doom and gloom like this in Whittlecombe normally.”
“Only since I arrived here, you mean?” I asked, blinking rapidly. We looked at each other and burst into laughter, me through my tears.
“Just a coincidence, I’m sure,” Rhona giggled. She broke off as another customer walked in. I recognised her as a waitress at The Hay Loft, the other hostelry in town, main rival to my wonky inn. When I’d first met her, her hair had been dyed red, now it had been bleached blonde. It looked more normal, but not as interesting.
Situated just across the road from the General Stores, I found The Hay Loft, altogether too modern and bland, and was determined that Whittle Inn would serve an entirely different clientele altogether.
The more supernatural kind.
“Hey, Charity,” Rhona greeted the young woman, and Charity smiled.
“Hi Rhona. How are you doing?” She glanced at me curiously, obviously noting my tears but politely refrained from acknowledging them.
“Very well,” Rhona said and with one last squeeze of my shoulder resumed her place behind the counter. “Although it’s a very sad day for Whittlecombe.”
“Yes it is.” Charity nodded, her face grave. “Poor Mr Pearce. I didn’t know him very well, although I’ve lived next-door-but-one to him my whole life, but it’s still incredibly sad.”
Of course. I had forgotten. Charity and her mother lived at Snow Cottage.
“I saw him out walking Sunny last night. It was all so sudden,” Charity added, and I turned towards her, no longer concerned with my tear-stained face.
“Last night?” I blurted. “That’s impossible.”
Charity glanced at me sharply. “What do you mean?”
Hadn’t George mentioned the pathologist was assuming Mr Pearce had been dead for over two days? I was sure that’s what he’d said. Perhaps it was better not to repeat such information though. I shrugged, sinking into a wave of misery. “Ignore me,” I said, but I could see that Charity had put two and two together.
Her face flushed. “Oh.”
We exchanged glances. I had the feeling Charity had more she wanted to say to me, but wouldn’t in front of Rhona.
“I need to get back to the inn,” I said. “Sorry for crying on you, Rhona.”
“Oh don’t worry, pet. That’s what friends are for.” She smiled. “I’ll hold on to your invitations when DS Gilchrist drops them in.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Nodding at Charity, I made my way out of the shop and headed a little way down the road in the direction of the inn, walking slowly up Whittle Lane, out of the village.
It wasn’t long before I heard the patter of footsteps running after me and I turned as Charity slid to a stop.
Before she could open her mouth, I said, “You see ghosts.”
She looked me straight in the eye. “I do.”
* * *
We meandered along the road. Charity offered me one of the soft mints she’d purchased from Rhona and I chewed thoughtfully while she told me her story.
“I’ve always been able to see them. I’ve never known my father. It’s always been just me and my mum. When she found out she was pregnant with me, Mum was living in Manchester. She moved back down here and in with her mum, my grandmother Ivy.” Charity laughed. “She was a case, Ivy. Into everything. Clubs and societies, and organising fetes and events. She loved it. And everyone in Whittlecombe loved her.”
Charity offered me another mint and I took one. They were refreshing in a sweet treat kind of way.
“Ivy died when I was 8 and right from the word go I could still see her. She’d come and read me stories when I went to bed. At her funeral, people told me not to be sad, but I wasn’t sad. She was still with me.”
“And is she still with you?” I asked, looking around for any tell-tale ghost light that might indicate a spirit’s presence.
“From time to time yes, but mainly in the cottage. I don’t see her out and about anymore.” Charity watched me glancing about, curiosity written on her face. “Can you see ghosts too?”
“Yes. More than I’d like sometimes.”
“Does it run in your family?” Charity asked. “Only, everyone knows that you folk up there at the old inn have a rather unusual history. My Mum always calls you the Adams Family.”
“Does she?” I asked, unsure whether to be affronted or not. In the end however, I giggled. “Better than the Munsters, I suppose.”
“You’re a part of Whittlecombe’s history,” Charity continued. “A part of what makes all of us who live in the village, the people that we are.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say.” I’d never thought of our family being seen that way.
Charity smiled. She was so warm, and her face so open. No wonder she was good at what she did. She’d certainly made her mark on me when I first met her at The Hay Loft.
A sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you like working at The Hay Loft?”
Charity shrugged. “It pays the bills. But they made me dye my hair to a more natural colour.”
I nodded, pondering on what to do. It probably wasn’t ethical to try and poach staff from your main rival, but I knew Charity was good at what she did. My long experience of the hospitality industry in London had taught me that good staff were hard to come by. In fact, hadn’t I recently tried and failed to find a decent chef for
the inn?
“That’s a shame,” I said. We reached Charity’s cottage and I paused by her gate. We dropped our heads, as two doors away, a covered gurney was brought out from Primrose Cottage, carrying poor Derek Pearce’s body.
We stood quietly and respectfully, while the old man was loaded into the back of the ambulance, and watched as it drove slowly away, heading for the morgue and a post-mortem in Exeter no doubt.
My insides quivered like jelly. “Life can be cruel sometimes.”
“And incredibly short,” Charity agreed. “He was only in his mid-sixties.”
I sighed. “Indeed.”
I was about to say my goodbyes and continue up the road, when Charity chimed in again. “That’s food for thought, isn’t it? I mean, that life is so short?” She gestured behind her, back into the village. “I don’t really like working at The Hay Loft if I’m honest. Lyle is a big pain in the neck.”
I smiled.
“So if you were thinking of offering me a job…?”
“Come up and see me,” I replied. “I’m definitely hiring.”
To say I was a little pre-occupied when Charity arrived at the inn the next morning after her breakfast shift at The Hay Loft is something of an understatement.
I’d been looking forward to the opening of the inn very much, and so far I’d accepted a few bookings, but I fully intended to have a ‘soft’ opening, meaning I’d trial the inn on a few guests to check that all the hospitality the guests needed, and all the systems I needed, were fully functional. My plan was then to gradually step up to full occupancy once we were in the swing of things. But now I’d had a letter from a potential client going by the name of Sabien Laurent, enquiring whether he could hire out all available rooms in order to host a wedding for his son, Melchior.
He appreciated that it was rather last-minute, but he’d been let down by a well-known hotel in London, and someone—he didn’t specify who—had suggested he try me at Whittle Inn.
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3 Page 2