“He became reclusive?”
“That’s what his neighbours are saying.”
“Oh that’s a shame.” My stomach dropped. He had been one of my tenants. Was there anything I could have done? Visited him? Offered him assistance in some way?
“He wasn’t an old man,” George continued, verbalising his thoughts. “I can’t help wondering whether he felt threatened in some way?”
By The Mori no doubt. I didn’t want to utter their name aloud, so I kept quiet.
I tried the gate and was surprised to find it already unlocked, but the reason became clear as soon as we stepped through. Three or four villagers, older gentlemen in the main, were already hard at work, each on their allotted patch of ground, weeding, pruning, picking, and in once case burning a pile of rubbish. The air was sweetly scented with his bonfire.
“Early risers,” George mumbled, observing them with mock disgust. “They must be mad. When I retire I don’t intend to drag myself out of bed much before mid-morning.” When the old-timers looked our way curiously, Gilchrist waved cheerily and made his way over to the closest gentleman.
“Good morning, sir. DS Gilchrist.” George took out his warrant card and opened it.
The old chap looked at it and him. “Bob Gretchen.” He looked my way and nodded curtly. “That’s the maid from up at the inn?”
“Alfhild Daemonne, yes.”
“Come to check out the allotments has she? I’ve heard she’s intending to sell them off.” He spoke to George and didn’t address me even though I was less than twenty feet away. I stared at him, my forehead creased in indignation at his unnecessary hostility.
George shot me a look that seemed to suggest I should back off.
“I’m not aware that’s the case,” George replied smoothly as I moved away in the opposite direction, “but you should take that up with Ms Daemonne. She seems a sensible woman really.”
I tittered quietly. I’d have to relieve poor George of that notion soon.
While George finished asking his questions I counter-navigated the edge of the allotments, underneath some towering pine trees to my right along the rough stone-strewn path there, walking extra slowly to allow him more time to catch me up.
When he did so, he smirked at me. “Old Bob there is not your greatest fan. What have you done to upset him?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t know. I don’t even recall coming across him before.”
“He lives with his daughter, let me see,” George checked his notebook, “Grace Gretchen in Dandelion Cottage.”
“Dandelion? Oh I know it. Come to think of it, I remember his daughter too.” I grimaced. Dandelion was one of my cottages most in need of TLC. Painted white, once upon a time, it was now grey and weathered. I’d had some emergency repairs done to the cottage over the summer, in particular the guttering which must have been fifty years old, but hadn’t found the tenants overly helpful when it came to allowing tradesmen on their property to conduct repairs. In fact, if I remembered correctly, Grace Gretchen was a sour-faced shrew.
However, I didn’t tell George that. Sometimes the things we say and the things we think reflect badly on ourselves when we release them to the ether. Far better to be mindful and generous, I decided. Perhaps Grace had been having a bad day when I’d met her previously. Perhaps I had been over-officious or seemed judgemental. Life is a constant striving for balance after all.
George looked at me sideways, and grinned. “My what a busy mind you have.”
I thumped his arm. “Where are we headed now?”
Pointing to a shed to the rear of the allotments, he picked up the pace and I scurried after him. “It’s this one,” he said as we halted in front of the ramshackle structure. Yes it had once been a shed, and painted green to blend with its surroundings, but numerous parts had been added on with corrugated iron and planks of wood, and now the paint was flaking off and the iron had rusted. The roof had been felted numerous times, and thick sheets of plastic and canvas were tacked on here and there to ensure everything remained weather-tight.
“Crikey,” I said and surveyed the rest of the plot this astounding piece of architecture inhabited. It wasn’t much better. Any vegetables that had grown here had been gifted to foragers of the small mammalian or insect varieties. In one corner of the plot, the vines from beans had run amok and taken over everything in close vicinity, like some weird be-tentacled parasite. Elsewhere brambles were over-running the fruit plots, and potatoes were rotting in a maggot infested pile.
Perplexed I pointed at the beans. “You know, I’m not big on gardening, but these must have been planted earlier this year. Left to their own devices, surely they would have died back over the winter?”
George nodded. “Derek intended to take care of this plot as recently as a few months ago, so why did he stop?”
“In any case, I thought you said he was here from dawn till dusk,” I ventured as we gingerly picked our way through the vegetation, to the door of the shed.
“According to the neighbours.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s been here in months,” I said.
“Bob says he used to be here day in and day out until a few weeks ago, but recently he’d abandoned his plants and remained in the shed. Bob would see smoke coming from the chimney.”
“Odd.” I fished the bunch of keys out again and looked for the most likely ones to fit the lock. None of them looked likely. I half-heartedly tried a few.
“Let me have a look.” George examined first the keys and then the lock. “Stand back,” he said and put his shoulder to the door. With one almighty heave, the door flew open easily.
George stepped through and I followed.
I had imagined that the inside of the shed would look like every other shed I’d ever seen, full of gardening implements, ladders, chairs and old paint cans. Derek Pearce’s shed was nothing like that. It kind of resembled a small front room. There was one easy chair, faded with age but relatively clean, a wood burning stove with a chimney that opened through the roof, a two-ring stove with a whistling camping kettle and a saucepan atop of it, and small cupboards covered by gingham checked curtains, hung on wire, rather than solid doors. There were several worn rugs on the floor and a comfortable looking dog basket close to the fire. Next to the chair some books and numerous newspapers were piled up on a small occasional table.
“He wasn’t living here,” I said. “There’s no bed, but otherwise it’s certainly comfortable enough.”
George pointed to a few framed photos hanging on the wall. One of a young woman with a Golden Labrador taken many years ago judging by the sepia tones of the print, and one of an older woman smiling into the camera that looked more recent. “His wife.”
“Oh,” I breathed. “He missed her.” My forehead felt tight and tears pricked at my eyes, sad for Derek.
George glanced at me. “You old silly,” he said and gave me a quick hug.
“I know. I can’t help it. I hate it when people are unhappy.” I smiled, my eyes watery. “It really affects me. It’s an empathic trait many witches have. I wish I could have done more for him.”
“You couldn’t have done anything, you didn’t know him.”
“Didn’t he have any family at all?” I asked.
“None that we’ve been able to trace so far. Derek, and Sarah—his wife—had a son, but the lad was killed in a motorcycling accident in the mid-nineties. Sarah died five years ago.”
“So tragic.” I was beginning to feel worse.
“We haven’t been able to locate any siblings for Derek. Sarah has an older sister, but she’s been living in Australia for over forty years.”
“You’ll have to give me the contact details. I’ll need to make arrangements for disposal of the belongings.”
“I’ve been in contact with her already, so I’ll mention that to her,” George said.
I parted the curtains of one of the cupboards. Cannisters containing teabags, coffee, Hob-Knobs and dog bis
cuits on one shelf, two mugs, a couple of plates and bowls on the shelf below, and tins of soup on the bottom shelf.
George was flicking through the newspapers on the table. “This paper is recent, just eight days ago,” he remarked and held it up, so I could see it. The crossword had been partially completed.
“Derek had been coming here but not doing any work on his plot. I wonder why.”
“Perhaps he had been ill. We should get the pathologist’s report later today. I’ll check his medical records with the Whittlecombe Health Centre too.”
I pulled the curtain back on another cupboard, a taller one this time, unleashing an acrid smell. “Phew, what’s that?” I asked and staggered back, blinking.
George pulled me away and hand over his mouth and nose peered more closely. “What a stink,” he said. Taking a pen from his pocket he poked at something on a shelf. “Okay I think we need to get out of here.”
“What is it?” I asked, my voice raised in alarm. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”
“White crystals. I think Derek has been storing some sort of chemicals here. I need to get some forensic specialists in here to take a closer look.”
I tried to peer over his shoulder, but George grabbed me and pushed me out of the shed. “Health and safety and all that,” he said, his eyebrows knitted with concern. “Out you go.”
“You’re a spoilsport!” I pouted.
“Listen I’m a police officer and responsible for public safety. Besides you know I’d hate it if anything happened to you.” He leaned forward to kiss my forehead before firmly closing the door. Having burst it in he couldn’t now secure it properly.
Pausing outside on the overgrown patch of land, I listened to George call the situation in to the police station. I touched the part of my forehead where his lips had been, feeling an energy pulse there, then dissipate outwards, making me tingle from head to toe.
The 27th October dawned bright and sunny. Leaves clung to the trees, reluctant to let go of the marvellous summer we had enjoyed. The kaleidoscope of autumnal colours dancing in dappled sunlight filled my soul with joy as I enjoyed an early-morning walk in the garden of Whittle Inn. Sadly, my contemplative reverie was soon disturbed by the sound of sawing and hammering.
Zephaniah and Ned had set to with gusto and now the raised dais, measuring approximately 15 feet square, along with the arched arbour, were beginning to take shape. I stood and admired their handiwork for some time, but then left them to it and headed indoors for some peace and quiet.
Theoretically.
The inn was coming alive. Deliveries of food and drink were arriving on an hourly basis. Food went straight to the back door while the alcohol either came in the front or was taken around to the drop at the side of the inn, leading to the cellar. Charity had overseen the installation of new pump equipment and at last Whittle Inn had real ale and a local sparkling cider on tap. Florence took pride in making the brasses gleam on the pumps, while I was itching to start pulling pints.
Charity was currently ‘dressing’ the inn. This seemed to involve the Wonky Inn Clean-up Crew moving various items from the attic to bedrooms and public rooms. A variety of lamps for example had been cleaned, painted and re-homed, topped with brand new brightly-coloured silk lampshades.
Antique jug and bowl sets had been washed and dried, and placed on dressing tables in guest bedrooms—purely for effect Charity told me—and books had been brought down, dusted and arranged on shelves.
Now I watched as a dozen large portraits and paintings were carefully moved down the stairs, ready for hanging. Chief among these was the portrait of Alfhild Gwynfyre Daemonne. Her ghost followed it on its journey, clucking whenever it made contact with a wall or stair banister.
“Where are you hanging that?” I asked Charity, the trepidation in my voice obvious. Gwyn glared at me.
“In the bar,” Charity replied, and raised her eyebrows to offer me a brook-no-arguments look.
“In the bar?” I repeated. “No offence Grandmama but I’m not sure our guests will want to look at you while they’re enjoying a drink. It will put them off.”
Charity folded her arms, and Gwyn mimicked her. They stood side by side, heads identically cocked, glowering at me.
“I happen to think it’s a wonderful painting,” Charity told me. “The best of the bunch. It deserves to take pride of place here in the hub of the inn. It’s had a good clean and it’s in remarkable condition. Trust me, with the right lighting your Grandmama is going to glow and illuminate the whole room. People from far and wide will admire it.”
Next to Charity, Gwyn preened openly. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the idea of anyone admiring my crotchety great grandmother, so I scowled back at them. “Well, you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Of course she does,” Gwyn interjected. “Charity is the best decision you’ve made since you turned up in Whittlecombe.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh one of them surely?” said Charity and giggled. “I thought promoting Florence to head housekeeper was an inspired decision.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Had I lost a day somewhere? “I haven’t promoted Florence.”
“You haven’t? Oh that must have been me as well then.”
“You promoted Florence?”
“I did.”
“Charity—” I began and then stopped. Thinking it about it, that did seem like an inspired decision. It was just a pity it hadn’t been mine.
“Not to mention hiring Monsieur Emietter,” Gwyn chimed in.
I pulled a face. Gwyn was right about that too. His food was amazing. I’d already put on a kilo and my skirts were feeling tight. Given my general tendency to curviness, it was something I would have to keep an eye on.
I sniffed. “Okay, okay. I can see I’m surplus to requirements.”
Charity laughed. “Gwyn, we have to stop. We’re hurting Alf’s feelings.” Gwyn smirked and turned to oversee proceedings as her portrait was lifted into pride of place above the large fireplace in the bar. Charity wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “I’m only kidding, honestly.”
“I know,” I said and hugged her back. Truth to tell, she was the best decision I had made. Charity was helping me make my dream become a reality. I might have achieved it without her, but she added imagination and pizzazz and a healthy dose of fun.
Standing back I tilted my head this way and that. Charity was right. The portrait did appear to glow. Whether it was a trick of the light, or due to the paint used, I couldn’t say. Grandmama gazed out at the bar from between the edges of the gilt frame, surveying the world with imperious majesty. The angle of her chin, the glint in her eye and the slight curve of her lips told the viewer that everything was right with her world, and therefore by extension, right with theirs.
* * *
After lunch I headed down into the village to pay another visit to Derek’s cottage. Sarah Pearce’s older sister had instructed me to pass her sister and brother-in-law’s valuables on to a solicitor in Exeter, so she could arrange valuation and have them auctioned. Everything else was to be offered to charity or given away.
I’d been visiting the sad little cottage for a few hours a day and working my way through each room, boxing, bagging and binning. Considering Sarah and Derek had lived in this cottage since they’d been married in 1976, their belongings were scant. I had the sense that Derek may have already worked his way through the house in the years since Sarah had died, ridding himself of all her possessions and the memories that went with them.
That’s not to say that he hadn’t cherished her. I really believe he had. I found small mementos—photos of her hidden away in his bedside drawer, in the pages of a book he’d been reading, and a threadbare and well-loved teddy bear on her bedside table, along with one of her jumpers, tucked under the pillows on her side too.
I hadn’t lingered long in the main bedroom. The police had boarded up the window in there and it was darker th
an the rest of the house. Memories of the spinning orb unnerved me and had me glancing over my shoulder or starting at the slightest noise.
It was with relief that I moved on to the rest of the house. The spare bedroom was virtually empty. Once upon a time this would have been their son’s room. The only nod to his existence were the naked single bed, a poster on the wall of Marilyn Manson, and a pile of CDs on a shelf in the corner. The wardrobes and cupboards were devoid of contents. I rattled around the room, filling up my cardboard box with the CDs and a random beermat, yanking open drawers and cupboards and quickly closing them again when all they contained was stale air and the memory of belongings.
Nothing to see.
Or so I thought.
Pulling open the bottom drawer of the son’s chest of drawers, I automatically began to close it again when I spotted a pale manila folder tucked into the corner. Coloured beige, it was well-camouflaged and would have been easy to overlook.
Assuming it was school work I tossed it into my box, but the sheath of paper contained within scattered and I realised they were actually bank statements. I picked up the box and rescued the paper, arranging them on top of the chest of drawers to take a closer look.
It felt wrong, looking back at someone’s personal finances, but I couldn’t stop myself. I flicked through the pages, each one a month’s statement from the same national bank, dating back for the past five years or so. There were relatively few transactions. Monthly payments to Whittle Estates for rent and the hire of the allotment, direct debits for gas, electricity, council tax, TV license, phone, and water. Every Monday, £50 cash was drawn from the post office here in Whittlecombe. Derek didn’t have a car.
That was it.
One man’s lonely routine.
I was about to put the statements back into the file to pass onto George when one payment caught my eye.
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3 Page 6