Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  Grace started to retort, but Millicent rounded on her. “I’ve known you since you were hours old, Grace Gretchen. I baby-sat you when your own mother was poorly. We’ve been neighbours your whole life, but you would call me a lap dog to my face? What has become of you? For shame, Grace, for shame.”

  There were murmurs among some of the others gathered in the room. People cast side-long glances at me, others nodded at Millicent’s words. Thanks goodness she was here. She had a long and excellent standing in the village.

  Talbot-Lloyd interrupted. “Surely the point is that there are untoward goings on in Whittle Inn currently. Guests roaming the village at night, carousing and making a nuisance of themselves.”

  “Foreigners!” shrieked Grace and Millicent glared at her.

  “Not forgetting rumours of witchcraft…” Lyle, the landlord of The Hay Loft piped up, and turned to me with a smug look.

  Well that’s no secret, surely? Hadn’t my family always been witches. How had the villagers conveniently forgotten this?

  “Ever since Ms Daemonne turned up, the village has suffered nothing but bad luck,” Talbot-Lloyd went on. “While it may suit her to have a long hot summer so that repairs can be carried out on that old wreck of a building up the lane, the farmers have been suffering with the lack of rain.”

  I raised my eyebrows. They surely couldn’t hold me responsible for the good weather? Especially on the day the heavens had finally opened.

  “That’s right,” Bob Gretchen said. “The woman is bad news. Tom Potter said the day after Alf spoke to him, he lost his job, and he hasn’t worked since.”

  I felt like an extra from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. This was getting ridiculous. Yes, I was sorry for Tom Potter, but did they really think I’d cursed him or something? Why would I do that? I just wanted to open my inn. The revelations were increasingly preposterous, but it was clear from the audience reaction that some people were buying into the rumours, lies and slander.

  “Whittle Inn should not be allowed to remain open,” someone else cried.

  “It needs closing down,” Bob Gretchen chipped in. “We can’t have witches and ghosts, and all kinds of monsters in this village, casting spells and concocting poisonous potions. Think of the children.”

  “Yes, think of the children.” Grace’s voice rang out, bordering on hysteria. “I have two sons under ten. What will become of them if we allow this to continue? The council must take action and close the inn down.”

  The next comment chilled me to the bone. It came from somewhere near the front of the hall, but the speaker remained in shadow and with his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face. He spoke clearly, calmly, his words cutting through me with the sharpest of blades. “In the old days we burned witches at the stake or drowned them in the village pond. Perhaps we should return to the old ways.”

  Uproar.

  People leapt to their feet. Bob and Grace in agreement, Lyle and Talbot-Lloyd trying to make themselves heard, one or two more reasonable and rational folk making an attempt to mitigate against the last speaker, and call the comment out of order. Other villagers took the opportunity to slink away, passing me on their way out the front door, but not glancing my way.

  I stood too, trying to catch sight of the man who had spoken of persecuting me, by the same means so many of my ancestors had suffered. Trembling, partly with anger, and partly with fear, I tried to fight my way through the group in front of me, but was held back by jostling, angry people. In vain, I stood on tip toes and peered above their heads, but there was too much movement, and whomever the speaker had been, he had melted away.

  Giving up, I exited the hall in disgust, and stood simmering in the rain, my red face turned up to the sky, allowing the water to cool my burning cheeks. Millicent burst out after me just a few seconds later and stood beside me zipping up her jacket and positioning an old sou-wester on her head.

  Before I could say anything, she held up a conciliatory hand. “Ignore them, Alf. It’s a small and ignorant minority.”

  “The things they said though…”

  “Persecution?”

  “Who was that? I tried to find him?”

  Millicent shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even notice he was there until he spoke.”

  “If they all feel the same way…”

  “They don’t!” Millicent snapped. “The problem is that this minority is particularly vocal. They shout louder than anyone else and it fools us into thinking they speak for everyone. They absolutely do not.”

  She softened her tone and smiled reassuringly at me. “There are plenty of people in the village who like you and are fond of the inn and want to see it succeed. Don’t let the nay-sayers put you off. Alf. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

  I nodded, feeling calmer. “Alright.” I took a deep breath. “What news about the levels of the so-called illness in the village?”

  “Better I think. I heard this morning there were more children back at school, and people are feeling well again.”

  “So is the cause of the illness the flu, or is it my fanged guests?”

  Millicent shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll never know.”

  “No reports of any of my guests roaming the village last night?

  “None that I’ve heard.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s one thing, at least. So does this improved health in the village correlate with Millicent’s Magick Blackberry Potion?”

  “Definitely.” Millicent laughed. “Stop fretting, Alf. Go back to the inn now and get ready for your big night. I’ll see you later.”

  I grimaced, wondering if anyone else from the village would show up with her. Monsieur Emietter was planning on staging a magnificent buffet, it would be a shame if it all went to waste.

  “I really hope I get some other takers,” I said.

  “Everyone loves a party. The only thing that may put them off is the weather!” She held her palms out to catch the rain as it pelted against her hands.

  “I have a marquee… but it is supposed to clear up if the weather forecast is accurate.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  I returned to the inn to be showered with flowers.

  Black and red roses, dozens and dozens of them, lying in boxes, so fresh I could still see the morning dew beneath the cellophane coverings. Sabien had hired his own florist to arrange the flowers and she and her assistant set about with gusto, creating magnificent flower arrangements that stood as tall as me.

  Meanwhile, Charity took a few boxes of each colour to use to decorate the arbour. “Do you think we should just move the arbour into the bar?” she asked but I shook my head.

  “This rain will stop,” I said. And I believed that. Some sixth sense told me it was true, and in any case I trusted the forecast.

  “Only, think on,” Charity said. “The lawn will get muddy if everyone is walking back and forth on it. I’m worried it will turn into a quagmire.”

  “Don’t worry. Let me find Zephaniah and Ned. They can create a raised walkway using planks as duckboards for now, and if you and anyone else who is going backwards and forwards can use that, we’ll lay the red carpet Sabien insisted on later, when the ground has dried off a bit.”

  Charity nodded and set to her next task. I didn’t envy her. She’d be soaked to the skin in no time outside.

  The inn was full of delicious scents—at last Monsieur Emietter was able to roast meats and create pies and pastries, vol au vents and open sandwiches. Delicacies began to find their way out to the buffet tables, and increasingly there was less room for anyone to manoeuvre in. This was where the main advantage of working with a team of ghosts came in: they can work anywhere and at any time and they don’t take up much room.

  I concentrated on re-stocking the bar and making sure we had plenty of champagne and white wine chilling in the cool store, and red wine breathing behind the bar. I avoided the cellar at all costs.

  Upstairs, Kat was being attended by another
of Sabien’s hires, a make-up artist. The woman, goth to her very core and absolutely dripping in piercings, had come armed with several cases of make-up and the goddess knows what else. I’d effectively been banned from Kat’s room, but every now and then I sent an excitable Florence upstairs to take a secret peep through the door.

  That’s another advantage of having ghosts on tap.

  “What did you see?” I asked Florence the second time she came down.

  “Miss Kat is having her hair messed with, I think,” she replied, looking puzzled.

  “Messed with?”

  “Covered in gloopy stuff.”

  “Like hair dye?”

  “Yes, perhaps that’s what it is.”

  “Aww,” I said. “She has such glorious coloured hair. It’s a shame to mess with it.”

  “I find it strange,” Florence said wistfully. “We didn’t do such things in my day. I think I would like to have had pink hair like Charity. But it’s not natural, miss.”

  “No it’s not but it’s bit of fun, that’s all,” I laughed. Florence may have found it strange, but she also found it entrancing, and off she went again to sneak another look at Kat.

  * * *

  Just as the forecast—and my sixth sense—had told me, the rain stopped at four-ish, and it wasn’t long before the sun came out again and the temperature started to rise. It would be dark within two hours, but at least now we could start the rest of the preparations for the wedding in earnest.

  Charity had finished the arbour and it looked magnificent. Standing on the slightly raised stage, covered in red and black roses, and green hedera that had been woven in and out of the wooden frame, and hung with fairy lights, the setting was glorious and truly magickal. Zephaniah and Ned were now putting out dozens of chairs for the guests to sit on, and we’d hired a few fancy cast iron fire baskets to keep guests warm if the evening was chilly.

  I had a table set up and Florence was covering this in red and black table cloths and setting out champagne flutes, all prepared for the first toast.

  Practically everything was ready.

  The sun sank into the trees to the west of us, my cue to ensure everything was ready for the vampires as they rose. Melchior had his bedroom upstairs where he would change into his suit and relax, probably with Sabien, Gorkha and Marc, before we all assembled in the garden just before midnight.

  My own guests would be arriving at the inn at around half-seven for drinks and buffet and some—hopefully—wonderful music. Luppitt Smeatharpe and the Devonshire Fellows were already warming up in The Snug. It sounded a little like a chorus of feral felines caterwauling, but I could hope it would get better.

  I walked the inn and grounds once more, armed with a clipboard and my checklist. Everything seemed to be in order. Full dark was less than ten minutes away. It was time for me to make myself look presentable.

  At that moment my mobile began to ring. Then Charity’s. Then the house phone.

  Charity and I exchanged glances and reached for our phones. Rhona’s name appeared on the screen of my mobile. My stomach lurched. I could only hope Stan hadn’t taken a turn for the worst.

  “Rhona?” I said.

  “Alf. Thank goodness. We have a terrible situation. We need your help,” she gabbled, breathless.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, alarmed by the panic in her voice.

  “All that rain—”

  “Yes?”

  “Where the soil has been so dry these last few months? It’s crumbling away. There’s been a landslip at Whittle Folly.”

  “Oh no!”

  I knew the Folly. It was a flat circular area cut into the forest. The scouts and Whittlecombe youth club had buildings there, little more than flimsy huts. The car park was used as a base to walk in the surrounding forest.

  “It’s worse. The slide has taken down the scout hut and apparently there were a couple of kids in the building. They’re trapped.”

  “The emergency services?”

  “On their way, Alf. But we need as many people down here to help as we can now. Do you have any bodies you can spare?”

  “We’re on our way!”

  * * *

  “It’s probably better if you stay here,” I said to Charity. “In case guests start turning up. They won’t all know about the emergency in the village. One of us should be here.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Just keep them entertained. Feed them, serve them drinks and make merry.” I ran to grab my jacket, Charity following at my heels.

  “What about the wedding?” Charity looked worried.

  “If I’m not back, just go ahead. “You’ll do a great job!”

  Turning about I looked for people to take to the Folly with me. At that moment Kat appeared on the stairs, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a towel around her shoulders. Her hair had been dyed black and the make-up artist had started applying base coat on her skin. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “There’s been a landslide in town and some children are trapped. No time to explain. I’m leaving Charity in charge. I need to get going. I’ll be back soon.” I waved and made for the door.

  “I’ll come!” she said.

  “You can’t do that. You have to get ready.”

  “This is more important,” Kat insisted.

  “It’s your wedding!” Charity called, aghast,

  But Kat was already climbing the stairs. “Let me just grab some boots.”

  “I can’t wait, Kat.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Kat took the stairs two at a time and rushed back to her room.

  * * *

  I arrived at Whittle Folly, on the other side of the village, just as a fire engine drew up. There was a police car already in attendance and an ambulance too. I spotted George Gilchrist, dressed in a suit, speaking to one of the uniformed officers. He’d obviously been on his way to my party when the call came through. The fire officer joined them, and they huddled together for a conflab before splitting off.

  Several families were here, standing together. Fathers ashen-faced, mothers crying. Primarily among them, Grace Gretchen, her hands clasped to her mouth. I joined Millicent and indicated Grace. Millicent nodded, grim-faced. “It’s her boys in the hut. The cub scouts meeting this evening had been cancelled because the Akela is ill, but Grace’s boys and a couple of others had broken in there to play.”

  Two boys managed to get out in time, but both of Grace’s sons were still inside when the excessive and sudden rain we’d endured caused the landslide. Loose, wet mud swamped the hut and the building had collapsed. Both boys were still unaccounted for. I felt sorry for Grace and wished with all my will that the boys were safe in a pocket of space inside the rubble.

  The fire officer began organising his crew while we all stood by waiting for instruction. There was a sense that everyone wanted to wade in and get started, but being very British about the whole thing, we thought it best not to jump in without someone official’s say-so.

  Time seemed to stretch interminably on, until the fire commander addressed us. We were to form a human chain along the side of the gully that stretched from the collapsed building to the road. His team would work at the building itself and hand items to the first in the chain and we were to pass them along and deposit them far from the site of the collapsed building. Specialist equipment had been sent for, but it would take time to arrive.

  Slipping into the mud, a thick oozing river of slime, we lined up and the process began. Carefully the fire officers and the police pulled planks and boards away from the collapsed building, peeling back a layer of rubble, section by section. Each piece was passed down and added to a growing mound in the car park. Progress was slow but sure.

  Some of the pieces were heavy and required two or three of us to manoeuvre them at once. We slipped and slid about, rapidly finding ourselves covered in mud from head to toe. I glanced up the line to see George, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking like a particularly filthy
coal miner. Further down the line, Kat, usually so pristine and elegant, pulled her weight with the best of them, and to my total surprise I spotted Marc with her. What I could see of his skin beneath the layer of muck, glowed eerily in the moonlight.

  We worked solidly for twenty minutes, until the fire officer called a halt and asked us to remain quiet. We could hear the faint crying of a child among the ruins of the scout hut. I watched from a distance as the fire officers tried to get to the sound, but they and their equipment were too bulky. They shouted down to the boys and received a response. Grace screamed for her sons and tried to get through but was held back by Bob. “Don’t get in the way,” he told her, and she sagged in her father’s arms, weeping and lamenting.

  Another fire officer rushed to the engine to grab some rope and there was more toing and froing and I saw the police officer on his radio, but very little else seemed to happen.

  I snuck up to George to see what was happening. Beneath the layers of dirt that caked his face I recognised his tension. “What’s up?” I asked quietly.

  “We’ve found the missing boys, but we can’t get to them. We’ve tried putting a rope down, but one of the boys seems to have broken his arm and the other won’t leave without his brother. We need someone slimmer, but also with a long reach. Or we’re going to have to wait for the specialist equipment to get here from Exeter.”

  “Tall and slim?” I repeated and glanced back down the line. “I think I may have the perfect solution. Not only that, but his vision in the dark is exemplary.”

  I made my way over to Marc, explained the situation, then, with both of us slipping and sliding, led him back to George. George quickly introduced him to the fire commander and they discussed whether Marc was up for a bit of rescue work. Of course Marc readily agreed. I knew he would. That was the sort of person he was.

  Kat came to stand with me, and we watched as the fire officer strapped Marc into a harness. Lying on his front Marc shuffled towards the hole. Slowly and gently he edged into the confined space. One false move and all the rubble could tumble down and crush the boys beneath. Kat and I gripped each other’s hands, and like the other onlookers we remained silent, every muscle and fibre straining in sympathy with Marc as he wriggled forwards. The very earth seemed to hold its breath. For a second I doubted even he was slender enough to work his way through but at last his head was inside and then his shoulders, and millimetre by millimetre he disappeared from view.