by H. Y. Hanna
Caitlyn followed the direction of her cousin’s gaze and caught a snippet of the conversation: the women were avidly discussing Sir Henry’s death and the Black Shuck. In fact, as they pushed through the crowds and made their way past various other tables en route to the bar, she found that the ghostly black hound was the subject of almost every conversation. Like most small villages, Tillyhenge thrived on gossip—the more melodramatic the better—and there hadn’t been anything as exciting as the Black Shuck for a long time. Now, it seemed like every local resident—and several from other villages too—had gathered in the pub to exchange theories, hearsay, and speculation.
And from what Caitlyn could hear, it sounded like the stories were getting wilder and more outlandish with each telling. By the time they’d got to the bar, she’d heard the Black Shuck being variously described as a demon flying through the night sky, a monster the size of a bear, a ghost hound invading your home, and an evil black mist which could enter through your nostrils.
“Jeez, where do people get their crazy ideas?” laughed Pomona. “You’d never think you were in the twenty-first century, listening to these villagers talk.”
Caitlyn wasn’t really surprised. Tillyhenge had a reputation for magic and witchcraft—in fact, it was this quirky identity that helped it stand out amongst the other villages in the Cotswolds and attract tourists. So the locals were used to being immersed in folklore and superstition, and seemed to embrace the association much more readily than most.
“You know, it’s kinda weird how everyone’s so quick to jump on a mythical creature as the culprit and never consider that the killer might be human,” said Pomona.
“Well, you seemed to believe it was the Black Shuck too when you were talking to Inspector Walsh this morning,” Caitlyn reminded her.
“Yeah, but that was before you told me about the estate manager—and that jackass brother! I think they’re both much more likely to have killed Sir Henry than some phantom dog. They’ve both got, like, the perfect motives. Besides, a demon hound wouldn’t need to use poison to kill people—it could just scare everyone to death!”
“We don’t know for sure that both men were killed by poison,” Caitlyn reminded her. “James says the police have only had the post-mortem results for the tramp so far and they’re still waiting to see the report on Sir Henry—”
Pomona waved a hand. “It’ll be poison. I’ll betcha anything you like. And I’ll bet they’ll find chocolate in his stomach too.”
“I could have told you that without an autopsy. We all had chocolates after dinner, remember?”
“Except that professor guy and Mrs Gibbs.”
Caitlyn gave her cousin an incredulous look. “You don’t think she poisoned Sir Henry?”
Pomona laughed. “Nah, she’s a stuck-up old bag but she’s not a killer. Anyway, why would she want to murder him? Man, she was like his ‘BFF’ all through dinner, agreeing with everything he said—hey!” Pomona pointed over Caitlyn’s shoulder and grinned. “Guess who’s just walked in?”
Caitlyn turned to look. Mrs Gibbs and a few other village ladies had just entered the pub. They paused inside the entrance, scanning the room, and Mrs Gibbs’s eyes narrowed as she spied the two girls at the bar. She gave Caitlyn a cold stare, then followed her cronies to a table on the other side of the room. Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the woman’s blatant hostility, and she was grateful when Terry appeared on the other side of the bar counter at that moment. He held up an empty pint glass and looked at them expectantly.
“What can I get you, ladies?”
“Can we have two lemonades… and what’s the lunch special today?” Caitlyn asked.
“There’s homemade steak and kidney pie, and the usual fish ’n’ chips… or there’s always a ploughman’s.”
“A what?” Pomona looked at him in confusion.
“A ‘ploughman’s lunch’,” Terry explained. “Traditional packed lunch for British farm workers.” He smacked his lips. “Nice wedge of crumbly, farmhouse cheddar wrapped in a cloth, some pickled onions, a good hunk of bread—the thick, crusty kind, mind you—and an apple to finish it off.”
“That’s it?” said Pomona, looking horrified. “That’s all they have for lunch?”
“Well, people add all sorts of extras these days, like roast ham and hard-boiled eggs, and even some fancy salad, but nothing beats the simple, old-fashioned version, I reckon.”
“Um… I think I’m gonna give that a pass,” said Pomona. “I’ll have the pie.”
“Me too,” said Caitlyn.
“Pies are going to take longer, though,” Terry warned them. “Got a whole backlog of orders to get through.”
Caitlyn glanced around the pub. “Yes, you’re really busy today, aren’t you?”
The landlord wiped some sweat from his forehead. “Aye, you could say that again! Place is mobbed. Haven’t been this busy since the Fitzroys’ gamekeeper was found murdered up on the hill and Tillyhenge was in the news—half of England must have come to gawk at the stone circle that time.” He looked around the room. “Probably the same this time. Half of these are from out of town: nosy residents from other villages, and tourists who want a bit of titillation…” He squinted at the crowded tables. “Reckon there’s a reporter or two here too. The press are always sniffing for a story.”
“It’s great for business, though, isn’t it?” said Caitlyn with a smile.
“Aye, you’re right. Don’t mind where they’re from, as long as they pay for their pint… Though there’s one or two that I wouldn’t mind seeing the back of. Him, for instance…” Terry nodded towards a table in the far corner.
Caitlyn followed the direction of his gaze and saw a thin middle-aged man with a receding hairline, sitting by himself. He was nursing a beer and staring at the tabletop, a bitter expression on his face.
“Derek Swanes,” said Terry with a meaningful look. “The Pritchards’ ex-estate manager.”
“Oh! So that’s Swanes,” said Pomona, eyeing him with disappointment. “Man, I was expecting him to be a lot more, like, seedy, you know? That guy doesn’t look like he could murder anyone!”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Terry darkly. “Never liked Swanes—don’t know what Sir Henry was thinking, hiring him to manage the estate. Always had a dodgy look about him. Wouldn’t have been surprised if Swanes was mixed up in drugs! Looks just the type, doesn’t he? All skinny and shifty-eyed. Told my missus, I did—you have to be extra careful with these skinny customers. They say drug dealers are all skinny types. On account of the constant stress, evading the authorities, you see?”
“Er… yes…” Caitlyn exchanged a grin with Pomona behind the landlord’s back.
“But don’t worry, I’ve got Rocco on the case,” said Terry with a proud smile. “Not that he’s a proper sniffer dog, mind, but he’s a clever little mite. I reckon he’d know which customers were up to no good.”
Caitlyn glanced across the room to where a little brown-and-white terrier was trotting, stiff-legged, between the tables, pausing every so often to sniff a leg suspiciously, and she laughed to herself. It had been a match made in heaven when Terry had offered to adopt the terrier, after its owner had been arrested for murder in Tillyhenge recently. The pub owner had found the perfect partner to share his paranoia and the dog had found the perfect owner to let him indulge in his pugnacious tendencies.
“Anyway, I’d best get your order in. Take a table and the girls will bring your food round.”
They thanked him and, carrying their drinks, went off to search for a spot. They were lucky that a couple were just vacating a table near Mrs Gibbs and her friends, and they sank into the chairs gratefully. As she leaned back in her seat, Caitlyn realised that they were also not far from Derek Swanes. She eyed the man curiously, wondering if he really could be mixed up in the recent deaths. Pomona was right—he looked like a weak, ineffectual sort of man—not the type who would have the guts to plan a murder. But then, a
ppearances could be deceptive, couldn’t they?
“You think it’s him?” asked Pomona, reading her thoughts.
Caitlyn shrugged. “I don’t know. He looks bitter enough and I suppose he could be nursing a grudge, but he just doesn’t look like he could murder anyone. Also, he wasn’t at that dinner. Assuming that Sir Henry was poisoned, how could Swanes have had a chance to—”
“Hey!” Pomona snapped her fingers. “Didn’t you say that Sir Henry had a meeting with Swanes just before the dinner party?”
“Yes, that’s what Lady Pritchard said. Swanes came to apologise for his behaviour.”
“Did they, like, eat or drink anything together?”
Caitlyn knitted her brow, trying to remember. “I think Lady Pritchard said they had a drink. Actually, I just remembered—she said Swanes had brought Sir Henry a bottle of his favourite sherry. As a sort of apology gift, I guess.”
Pomona jiggled excitedly. “That’s it! I’ll bet that’s when he poisoned him. It’s the perfect setup! You bring a bottle and you say: ‘Hey, sorry I messed up. Let’s have a drink together, to show there’s no hard feelings…’ And then that gives you a chance to spike the other person’s glass.”
“I suppose… but then, did Swanes murder the tramp too? Why would Swanes want to kill him?”
“Maybe the tramp found out about Sir Henry’s murder and Swanes killed him to silence him.”
Caitlyn shook her head impatiently. “No, that would only work if he was killed after Sir Henry—but he was killed almost a week before.”
“Okay, similar scenario; maybe the tramp found out what Swanes was going to do—like he overheard him planning it or something—”
“But the tramp never went to the Pritchard estate,” Caitlyn protested. “I asked Lady Pritchard when I saw her this morning and she was definite that he hadn’t been there. Personally, I think it’s more likely to be Sir Henry’s brother. Not just because he was such a jerk but because he seems to have a much better motive.”
“You mean greed?”
Caitlyn nodded. “He looks like the type that will do anything for money. And he obviously really likes to spend it—I noticed that he was wearing all sorts of expensive watches and things, and he drove a really swanky sports car that must have cost a small fortune.”
“Yeah, but that sounds like he’s already pretty rich—so why would he wanna murder Sir Henry?”
“Maybe he’s living on credit and needs more money to support his lifestyle… or maybe he’s got big debts… or… or…” Caitlyn sat up excitedly as an idea occurred to her. “Maybe he’s been bribed to do it!”
Pomona looked puzzled. “Bribed?”
“Well, bribed is probably the wrong word. Incentivised, induced… basically, somebody offered him a lot of money to bump his brother off.” Caitlyn leaned closer and said, “Blackmort.”
Pomona’s face darkened. “What do you mean? What’s Thane got to do with anything?”
“You heard Sir Henry at dinner that night—he was refusing to sell that piece of land that Blackmort wanted really badly. But with him dead, now there’s no one standing in the way of the deal going through.”
“So? That doesn’t mean that Thane Blackmort hired someone to kill him!” snapped Pomona. “Man, I’m so sick of everyone dumping on Thane all the time. Just ’cos the guy’s rich and powerful, and a bit mysterious, doesn’t mean that he’s evil!”
Caitlyn paused, surprised by Pomona’s angry defensiveness. She hesitated, then changed what she was going to say. “Uh… well, I suppose not. Maybe it wasn’t from Blackmort’s side then. Maybe it was Julian Pritchard himself getting impatient and greedy. I mean, he seemed really desperate this morning to get hold of Blackmort’s rep—he practically bullied Lady Pritchard into going back to Pritchard House with him, so that she could contact the rep for him—and I’m sure he’s getting some kind of extra kickback for selling that land.”
She glanced at Pomona’s stormy expression and added hastily, “In fact, now that I think about it, it can’t have been Blackmort instigating things because if it had been, Julian Pritchard wouldn’t need Sir Henry’s wife to contact the rep for him, would he? He would just be in touch with them himself. So yeah, that was a stupid idea.”
Pomona looked slightly mollified and said, “It could be Pritchard doing it on his own. Although I still don’t see where the tramp comes in with him either.”
Caitlyn gave her cousin a sideways look and said casually, “Maybe you should ask Nathan what he thinks when you get back to the Manor—he seems to have some pretty good ideas.”
“Mmm… I’d rather talk to Professor Thrope. That guy is fascinating, and he always has the best stories.”
“Don’t you think Nathan’s a really nice guy, though?”
“Nathan? Yeah, he’s all right…” said Pomona. Then she looked at Caitlyn sharply. “Wait a minute… are you trying to set me up with him?” She laughed. “Honey, I appreciate the thought but he’s not my type. He’s too… decent, you know? I like ’em a little dark and dangerous.” She winked. “Anyway, you should be focusing on your own love life. Speaking of which…”
She leaned forwards suddenly with a conspiratorial smile, her bad mood forgotten. Caitlyn watched as Pomona reached into her pocket and pulled something out.
“Check out what I found in the Fitzroy Portrait Gallery this morning!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Caitlyn looked down at the item in her cousin’s palm. It looked like an irregularly shaped stone, with a hole in the centre. “What’s that?”
“It’s a hag stone!” said Pomona, her eyes gleaming. “A really old one, by the look of it.”
“What’s a hag stone?”
“They’re these rare stones you find—usually by a beach or a river—which have a natural hole in the middle. Like from the movement of water, or something. You hear about them a lot in European folk magic.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
Pomona rolled her eyes. “That’s ’cos you never read the right books! Hag stones are said to protect against malevolent witchcraft and the black arts. People used to, like, hang them in their homes and on the farm, to protect themselves and their animals. I think there are English fishermen who still tie hag stones to their boats, to repel witches and keep evil spirits away.”
“Well, it’s not repelling me,” said Caitlyn dryly.
“That’s ’cos you’re a good witch! It’s not just witches, anyway. It can protect against any kind of negative force. People used to hang hag stones at the end of their beds, to protect them from the Night Hag.”
“The what?”
“The Night Hag—she’s a succubus witch who comes while you’re sleeping. That’s why you get nightmares, see? The Night Hag sits on your chest and sucks the life force out of you—What?” Pomona demanded, frowning.
“Sorry…” Caitlyn chuckled. “It’s just such a funny image. Seriously, is there anything this stone doesn’t do? Let me guess, it cures diseases too, right?”
“Yeah, it does! It’s supposed to have healing properties if you rub the stone against a wound or a broken bone. And it’s also supposed to let you see into the Otherworld. Legend says that if you hold it up and look through the hole, you’ll be able to see fairies and spirits and things concealed by spells…” Pomona broke off and scowled. “Okay, you don’t have to look so snarky. Jeez, Caitlyn, I would have thought that you of all people would show some respect for these old folk legends about witchcraft and magic.”
“Sorry,” said Caitlyn, abashed. “You’re right, Pomie. I guess old habits die hard—you know I was always really sceptical of these occult objects and superstitions.”
“Yeah, but you’re a witch now! You know magic exists!”
Caitlyn put her hands up in a defensive gesture. “You’re right, you’re right! I… I’ve never had your easy faith, Pomona. I don’t know how you can just believe things when you don’t have any proof—”
“Because I
feel it with my heart, even if I don’t see it with my eyes.”
Caitlyn hung her head, feeling shamed by Pomona’s simple words. She also realised guiltily that she was doing the very thing that she’d accused James of. And she had far less excuse than him to be sceptical.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said quietly, giving her cousin a contrite look. “So… what else do hag stones do?”
Pomona grinned, regaining her good humour. “Okay, okay… so this is the bit I was coming to: hag stones are also meant to have been used in fertility and love spells. See, they say the hole represents the Sacred Vagina of the Great Goddess and if you find a tree branch that fits exactly in it, that represents the Penis which—STOP LAUGHING!”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Caitlyn gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth and trying to stifle the giggles. “But… aww, come on, Pomie—you have to admit, that’s hilarious!”
Pomona’s lips twitched. “Well, okay—I did think that sounded a bit cheesy… but you never know! The hag stone definitely has magical powers. I mean, it found me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was walking around the Portrait Gallery, just looking at random stuff, right? There’s a whole bunch of glass cabinets in one corner of the room… and then I saw it, the hag stone… It just appeared on the top shelf in one of the glass cabinets.”
“What do you mean, ‘it just appeared’? It must have been in there the whole time and you just didn’t see it.”
Pomona shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m telling you—it wasn’t there before. I’m positive! I know ’cos I walked past that cabinet twice and I stopped to look through the glass at everything inside it. There was definitely no hag stone. And then, the third time I passed it, I saw it immediately. Which fits what the legends say perfectly!” she added excitedly. “It’s just like the elf shots. They say you don’t find hag stones—the stones find you. You could spend all day combing a beach and, like, never find one… and then when you’re not looking, one turns up on your doorstep.”