by Nancy Warren
“Probably not. Do you have a better idea?”
“I am determined to get inside Broomewode Hall. If I could get inside, maybe I could gather some clues.”
Gerry flipped upside down and hung from the light fixture by his shiny white sneakers. “That seems as likely as them coming to the pub for dinner.”
“True. There must be some way we can at least work out their movements. Susan Bentley said the bees were fine at nine this morning. It wasn’t until the afternoon that she noticed the hive was down and Arnold on the ground. So, where were the Fromes between those hours?”
“How are you going to find that out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait!” He tried to snap his fingers, but the result was soundless. “That fellow who’s been hanging around in the pub, I heard him say he was going to visit the Champneys and try and sell them his ridiculous tires.”
“Really?” Sometimes Gerry could actually be helpful.
“Yeah. He was dressed up all smart, and Eve behind the bar complimented him. He told her he was meeting with the Fromes and to wish him luck. She not only did, but she gave him a stone.”
“She gave him a stone? Like a rock?”
“No, like that.” He pointed to my throat, where Elspeth’s amethyst lay.
“A crystal, you mean?”
He flipped himself back so I could look at him without craning my neck. That was better. “Yes. Told him to keep it in his pocket and it would bring him luck.”
“Did he say what time he was meeting them?”
I felt that Gerry was losing interest in the conversation, which made him a very poor sleuth. He was more interested in trying to make his spectral body into a perfect circle. “You’d better ask Eve.”
“If I can find out, then we could determine part of their movements during the critical hours between happy, contented bees and living Arnold and angry, disturbed bees and dead Arnold.”
“Okay, here’s the plan. Go see them and drop heavy hints that you know what they did. Then get them down to the pub so I can eavesdrop. Once you’ve got them nervous that you know what they’ve done, they won’t be able to talk about anything else.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, but how would I get the snooty Earl and Countess to a humble pub?
“They aren’t the only suspects, you know.” Maybe Gerry wasn’t the world’s greatest detective sidekick, but at least I could talk through my suspicions and get some feedback. When I could make him listen. “Gerry, take your feet out of your mouth and pay attention.”
“Bet you can’t do that,” he said smugly.
“Put my foot in my mouth? I do it all the time.” Like telling a detective I thought Arnold Bentley had been murdered. What had I been thinking? It not only wasn’t my business, but it was his. I must have looked like an idiot, and Gerry was right, I did have a little crush on Detective Dimples, which I was definitely going to keep to myself.
“Okay,” Gerry said, sitting properly on the edge of the bed. “Who else could have done it?”
“Peter Puddifoot.”
“The Pudster. In the field. With the bees.” He put his head to one side. “Doesn’t quite have the right ring, does it?”
“Nevertheless, we both heard him and Arnold Bentley arguing. And he kicked Sly.” To my mind, anyone who tried to hurt an animal was halfway to being a murderer. “Remember, I heard him shouting at Arnold that he should have had the farm when his father died. Well, assuming Susan Bentley decides not to stay on, the farm will once again be available. How convenient.”
He nodded, actually giving me his full attention. “And he loves those bees.”
I wouldn’t go that far. I doubted Peter Puddifoot loved anything but himself and maybe Somerset cider. “He was certainly angry that they were being given away.”
“To that pretty silver-haired bloke. I’ve seen him in the pub. He tries to fit in with the locals, but they make fun of him behind his back. Him with his five acres and the old smithy. He’s been taking lessons, you know.”
“Lessons? In beekeeping, you mean?”
“No. Blacksmithing. Likes to play with hot pokers. Make twee things. Garden ornaments, wind chimes and such.”
Oh, dear. I could imagine how the locals might mock a Londoner who’d come down to become a hobby blacksmith. Still, I thought it would be cool to have local artisans working the old ways. But then I was an outsider too.
Should I tell Gerry about Susan and Reg? I felt bad gossiping, but the best thing about Gerry as a confidante was that I was guaranteed he wouldn’t pass on anything I told him. Which made him the perfect person to speculate with. “I saw Susan Bentley coming out of Reginald McMahan’s cottage Friday afternoon. They looked pretty cozy.”
Now my ghostly companion definitely looked interested. “What? You think they’re having it on over the old forge? While the old man’s tucked away with his Bovril and his EpiPens?”
I stared up at the ceiling, where a small crack meandered across one corner. “I have no idea. Certainly no proof, but he was the first person she called after she found her husband.”
Gerry made a rude noise. The ghost’s version of a snort. “No doubt she didn’t need to use the phone. What do you bet, the old boy caught them at it and they decided to do away with him? Nothing easier. She could lure him down to the hives. Reg could be hiding behind one and push it over as soon as Arnold Bentley got near. Then all they had to do was grab his pen away from him and no more Arnold.” He stretched out beside me once more. He was the most restless ghost.
“Did he have life insurance? Will she inherit a packet that she can enjoy with her lover?”
“No idea.” But I bet the police would be looking at that angle.
“You said she seemed gutted to lose the Mayfair House and the Porsche.”
“And don’t forget the house in Saint-Tropez.”
“Maybe she was angry that Arnold took away her lovely life and brought her down here, where she was driving a tractor instead of a shiny new sports car? Collecting eggs and scraping honey to make ends meet? She thought he owed her and decided to get the money back. Out of his hide.”
“I guess it’s possible. But Susan seemed so nice.”
“Beware the nice ones. Remember when you all thought Gordon the soundman was so nice? And I got nicely barbecued.”
Ouch. “Right. Good point.” But how would we prove that Susan Bentley and Reginald McMahan had conspired to murder her husband? Oh, I sat up in bed so fast my head swam. “I saw him this afternoon. Reginald, I mean. He was watching the show being filmed.”
“Hmm. Bunch of movie stars you are now. That’s nice.”
Okay, I felt bad that Gerry was permanently off the show, but he was messing with my concentration. “He was chatting to Eve. Then I saw him walk up toward Broomewode Manor.”
“The manor or the farm?”
“That’s the trouble. It’s the same path. You turn left to get to the farm or continue straight to the Hall.” I was thinking furiously. “And the timing would work. We still had the second challenge to film. He chatted to Eve, and then I saw him turn and walk up the path.”
“Wonder what he and Eve were chatting about?”
“Me, too.” I doubted it was about murder, but maybe he’d told Eve where he was going and why. It was possible. And I could casually bring him up in conversation and see if Eve knew anything.
“Of course, there were people coming and going all afternoon. Peter Puddifoot also went stomping up that path. I assumed he was going to complain about the spectators ruining his lawn. But maybe he didn’t go to Broomewode Manor at all. Maybe he went to the farm.”
“He definitely knew about Arnold Bentley’s allergy to bees.”
“The whole village must have known, the way those two were shouting about it.”
“Seems like a lot of people had it in for the old codger,” Gerry mused. “And with all the coming and going, the crew, and the spectators, it would have been easy to slip away and knock over a be
ehive.” Now he sat up too. “Wait, what about the sound engineer? Crafty-looking little sod.” He shook his head. “I never trust a man with a beard.”
“Who? Robbie Denton?”
He shook his head. “And that’s another thing I don’t like. Robbie. What’s wrong with Robert? Or Bob if you must?”
“I don’t know, Gerry.”
“That’s different. No one under a hundred is called Gerald. Seriously. I was named for my grandfather. But Robert’s a fine name. What’s he trying to prove by having a name like a little kid?”
“Gerry, I think you only have it in for poor Robbie because of his predecessor.”
He shook his finger at me. “You mark my words. Keep an eye on little Robbie.”
I was picturing the onlookers. Who else had been there? “Oh, that man who’s trying to sell tires to the Fromes. He was there. He had a meeting with the earl. Maybe he saw something?”
“I doubt he saw the earl’s money.” Gerry shook his head. “I could have told him not to waste his time there. The Fromes don’t have that kind of money.”
“No. Thanks to Arnold Bentley.” And now we were back where we’d started with possible suspects in a possible murder.
I needed to take a bath to wind down from the drama of the day so I told Gerry he’d have to vamoose. He pouted, but I threatened him with a blocking spell, which meant he’d never be able to talk with me again. Of course, I didn’t know a spell like this or if one even existed, but I figured Elspeth must be doing something similar for Gerry not to realize who—or more like what—she was.
“But I’m bored,” he complained. “Talking about murder is at least interesting.”
“Go downstairs and eavesdrop in the pub. If word’s got out about the death, and in a gossipy village like this one, it probably has, then everyone will be talking about it. Float around. Hear what you can and report back.”
“I suppose I could.”
“You are the best co-detective. You can see and hear things when no one realizes you’re even there.”
“Like the proverbial fly on the wall,” he said gloomily. But he went.
With Gerry safely floating back downstairs to the pub, I shimmied out of my outfit, noticing that I had chocolate on the back of my silk shirt (how did I even manage to do that?) and switched on the radio. In my absence, it had been reset to a classical music station, and the lilting sound of a lone violin filled the room. It was beautiful and a little haunting, exactly suiting my mood.
I turned the brass taps of the bath and watched the water gush into the tub. Steam began to fill the room, and I found that the inn had also changed the miniature bottles of bubbles from rosemary and bay to prickly pear. I inhaled the sweet, fruity scent and was about to pour the lot into the bath when I noticed something strange about the water. It was swirling, rather than rising, like a gentle whirlpool.
I blinked. Was I so tired I was hallucinating now, or had that wine gone right to my head? I closed my eyes and opened them again. And that’s when I saw the churning water suddenly still and an image appear on its surface.
At first it wasn’t clear, just a shadowy outline, but then a familiar shape sharpened into focus. Although the room was steamy and hot, a chill spread through my body. It was the same heavily pregnant woman from my vision by the river at the footbridge near Broomewode Hall. My heart began to beat double time. Like before, the image was too shadowy for me to make out the woman’s face, but I was hit with the sense that if I could, my own features would be present there. Was it my mother, or did I just want it to be? I still wasn’t sure.
I leaned in closer, desperate for a glimpse of her face, but she remained hidden. And the water began to stir again, rippling and swelling, making the image seem frantic and wild. There was the sound of static, and then the radio went dead. I felt my eyes widen in fear. What was happening? And then I heard it, a soft voice calling to me. “Poppy, you’re in danger, you’re in danger. You must leave this place.”
I was too startled to even try to reply, and by the time my mind woke up again to tell my mouth to try and speak to this apparition, as I had so many questions, the impression in the water had vanished. I reached out to touch where the woman’s concealed face had been just seconds ago and yanked my hand back. The water had turned brutally cold.
I shivered as the radio sprang back to life and the sounds of a full orchestra crashed into the room. So much for a relaxing hot bath.
I pulled the plug and stared as the water swirled down the drain. If it had been my mother, her voice was gentle and lovely, full of tenderness and love despite the warning message. I felt exhilarated at hearing its sound for the first time, but this was tempered by a feeling of absolute dread. She had spoken to me only to warn me about impending danger. As if I wasn’t aware that life could take a dramatic turn for the worse in a matter of seconds. I’d already come face-to-face with a murderer and seen my life flash before my eyes as I narrowly escaped being flattened by a crumbling tower.
I already knew that I had to be careful––Elspeth and Sgt. Lane were saying the same thing, so what else could my mom be trying to warn me about? Could more disasters be heading my way? Why else would she speak in my vision for the first time? I wished so hard that it had been to say something comforting or loving. Or even, “I like your hair like that, Pops.” Anything but a warning.
And what if it wasn’t my mother? I had a pretty good idea that being a witch meant I was more receptive to negative supernatural forces as well as the good ones. Was something toying with me? Frightening me for no reason? Pretending to be my mother?
I showered quickly and then slipped into pajamas, feeling fearful and unsettled.
Maybe if I concentrated on getting ready for tomorrow, I’d get out of this nervous funk I was in. Gateau wasn’t around to comfort me. At that moment, I’d have welcomed Sly and his soggy ball for company. I even missed Gerry.
Resolutely, I opened the wardrobe and picked out the outfit Gina had helped me select for tomorrow’s filming. I laid it neatly on the back of the chair. I loved the dark denim jeans and soft, ribbed pink sweater we’d settled on, but now all that preparation seemed silly. What did looking fashionable matter if I was in some kind of mortal danger? Elspeth’s necklace was still around my neck, and I touched the purple stone and hoped that this, and keeping my wits about me, would be enough to help me through whatever might be coming my way.
Although I was exhausted, I had little hope for sleep now. I went to the window and opened it just enough that Gateau could slip back in whenever she was ready. I spent a moment looking out over the grounds. The moon was full, a huge silver orb suspended in the black sky, and it illuminated Broomewode Hall so that it seemed to shimmer.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t know how long someone had been knocking on my door until I heard my name.
It was Elspeth. I raced over and flung open the door.
“Goodness,” she said as I hugged her hard. “Whatever has happened? I would say that you look like you’ve seen a ghost if I didn’t already know that was a common occurrence for you.”
“I had a dreadful vision,” I said, standing back and blushing a little. I sounded like a little kid running to mommy because she’d had a bad dream. It had become easy to forget that Elspeth wasn’t just my witchy godmother, she was a celebrity, too, and we didn’t know each other well enough for me to actually crush her in a bear hug. And on top of that, I was wearing red tartan pajamas and she was in a pair of perfectly pressed brown slacks and cream cashmere sweater. Over her arm, she carried a woolen coat. I felt like a total dork.
But instead of pulling back or looking offended, Elspeth shut the door and ushered me to the bed, while she settled in one of the armchairs. “Tell me what happened.”
“It was my mother, I’m sure of it. No. I’m not sure. But it might be. But either way, she was warning me that I’m in danger. I don’t know what’s going on.”
Elspeth frowned, and a flash of con
cern clouded her warm eyes. “Yes, I’ve had this strange feeling all evening, Poppy. Something isn’t quite right. But I can’t put my finger on what it is.”
“You mean you haven’t heard about Arnold Bentley?”
“Arnold who?”
Once more I explained about the death by bees I’d witnessed this afternoon.
“Oh, my poor Poppy. What a dreadful day. It nearly overshadows your delightful Gooseberry Upside-Down Cake and that well-deserved win.”
Yep. Almost.
She nodded, as though she’d come to a decision. “Put some clothes on and come with me. It’s a full moon, and I’m taking you to your first magic circle.” She smiled conspiratorially as I just gawped at her. “Put on something warm, as we’ve a bit of a walk and it’s a chilly evening.”
I didn’t even have the words to ask what happened at a magic circle. Instead, I grabbed a sweater and some fresh underwear from the wardrobe and stepped into the bathroom to pull on my old jeans and run a brush through my hair. I peered at the mirror. My eyes were red from tiredness, my skin paler than usual, too. But I was also excited. Would a magic circle finally give me an insight into what it really meant to be a witch? Would I meet some of the coven Elspeth had told me were drawn to Broomewode? And, most importantly, could I trust myself not to say or do something embarrassing? Hmm, the jury was out on that one.
I was glad now I’d brought so many clothes as I put on a warm sweater and over it, a navy woolen coat.
We left the inn in comfortable silence. Okay, Elspeth seemed comfortable, and I was definitely nervous. A man had died today under suspicious circumstances, and I’d been warned I was in danger.
Still, I gamely followed Elspeth as she guided me onto a narrow pebbled path, lit by old-fashioned caged lanterns. Whitebeam trees flanked either side of the path like they were guarding it, and their puffy leaves swayed gently in the breeze. We walked away from the inn and the manor house, on a path that grew rougher and headed into woods. The lanterns stopped, and we had only the pale silver moonlight to guide us. We climbed a short hill, and the path meandered through thick trees until we came out into a clearing, and in the middle was a circle of standing stones.