Stitches and Witches: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Vampire Knitting Club Book 2)

by Nancy Warren

  Perhaps that’s why I noticed so particularly when he walked by the window that Thursday morning. The bells peeled out to announce that it was noon. I still loved the bells that chimed the hour in Oxford. Rafe said those same bells had been ringing for centuries in the old churches. I happened to glance out and saw Gerald Pettigrew on his own, which was unusual. He had a distinctive stride, very military, and he was wearing a tweed jacket, gray flannels and black shoes. He always dressed smartly. On his head was a checked hat. He had a book under his arm. Hardback, and I wondered idly if he was coming or going from the public library.

  Katie came up behind me and said, “Funny to see him without Miss Watt. They’re always together.”

  I daren’t hope they’d fallen out. He looked too cheerful for that.

  About four o’clock that afternoon I popped out to take a deposit up to the bank. I had just passed the tea shop with the temporary sign that said closed until further notice when I heard a scream. It was a terrible scream, the kind that sends every hair on the back of your neck to full attention. It was coming from inside the tea shop. I wondered what new disaster had befallen the poor Miss Watts and went running to see what I could do to help.

  The tea shop itself was dark and empty but there was light coming from the kitchen, where I could hear movement and sobbing. I walked toward the sound of heartbreak. Inside the kitchen everything was much too tidy for a restaurant kitchen. It was clear nothing had been cooked there for some days. They had a small industrial fridge, the kind you walk into. Florence Watt was on her knees in front of the open fridge. Mary Watt had her arms around her waist and was physically attempting to pull her backwards.

  When she saw me she said, “Thank God. Lucy, call the police.”

  With the bulk of the two women in front of the fridge I had to crane my neck to see inside and I rather wished I hadn’t.

  It was Gerald Pettigrew. He was slumped over. Very dead. I thought he’d been strangled.

  My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone. I called 999 immediately and reported the murder.

  Then I went to join Mary in attempting to prevent her sister from throwing herself over Gerald and ruining any forensic evidence there might be.

  We succeeded in dragging her back. The woman who had looked so young, so full of life, now looked haggard and old. The dyed blonde hair incredibly false on that collapsed face like a Christmas star still twinkling atop a long dead Christmas tree.

  She turned to her sister and pointed a shaking finger. “You hated him. And you hated me to be happy. How could you? You did this.”

  Mary grew pale and took a step back. “Oh. Florence, I would never—how could you think it?”

  But Florence Watt was beyond thinking. She began to rant at her sister, unloading all her grief and shock in a torrent of complaints and abuse. Mary tried a couple of times to defend herself and then just gave up and stood, silent, as the words poured out. I felt so helpless, standing there, and, I must admit, in the back of my mind I wondered if Florence was right. Mary had hated Gerald Pettigrew and, I believed with good cause. But would she kill him?

  Of course, she was the only person who’d been on the premises for both murders, well, apart from her sister and I was fairly certain she hadn’t murdered the love of her life.

  The possibility had always been there that the intended victim of the poisoning was not Colonel Montague, but someone else. The pots of Earl Grey tea could easily have been mixed up by Katie. And, perhaps, Mary had decided that when she made a second attempt there would be no possibility of error.

  I was tempted to get Florence a glass of water, anything to stop her mouth for a few moments and maybe give her a second to calm down, but we were standing at the scene of a murder and I didn’t dare contaminate the area further.

  “Why don’t we move out of the kitchen and wait for the police in the tea shop?”

  Florence didn’t stop ranting long enough to hear my words and Mary seemed too stunned to react. I said, again, louder this time, “Florence. Mary. Let’s go into the tea shop and wait for the police there.”

  Florence looked at me aghast. “I can’t leave Gerald. Look how cold he is. I can’t leave him there.” And then she began to sob, long, ragged heartbroken sobs. At least the awful words stopped pouring out of her and perhaps she’d get as much relief in tears as she had in word she could never take back.

  She was bent over like a broken doll and Mary and I were able to each put an arm around her and walk her out of that terrible kitchen and back to the tea shop. I found some bottled water and gave each of the women a bottle and we settled to wait. It wasn’t very long before the portly chief detective inspector and Ian had returned and with them was the young constable who’d come with Ian to interview Katie, and two more police officers in uniform. It was me who let them in, both Mary and Florence remaining unmoving when the doorbell chimed.

  If they were surprised to see me, no one showed it. The portly detective said, “Was it you who phoned in the murder?”

  “Yes, it was.” I gave him my name and the fact that I lived next door in case they might’ve forgotten and then I let them into the tea shop. The chief inspector motioned with his head for Ian to go into the kitchen and he sat at the table with the two ladies. I’m not sure Florence even noticed someone new had joined them. Her tears were flowing so fast and thickly I don’t think she could see. Between her hiccupping sobs and disjointed phrases of accusation, I doubted she could hear anything, either.

  All this he took in. Mary’s face as pale as a marble effigy and her sister, who had enough animation for the two of them, crying and wailing, rocking herself back and forth. After a minute or two he said gently, but quite firmly, “Miss Watt, I am very sorry that you’ve suffered another tragedy in such a short time, but I must ask you to tell me what happened.”

  He was clearly speaking to Florence Watt and so Mary looked at him for a moment and then back to her sister. Finally, Florence pulled a cotton handkerchief out of the sleeve of her sweater and mopped her eyes and nose. “We were going to the pictures. At that nice old theater on Walton Street that shows the classics and art house movies. We were going to see Lawrence of Arabia, because I’d never seen it and Gerald told me how much I’d enjoy it.”

  She wiped away her tears with her hanky. “But he was late. And he’s never late.”

  “What time was this?” The inspector asked her.

  “He was to pick me up at three as the film started at four. By three-thirty I was worried and I came down to see if he was out on the street. I looked up and down and I didn’t see him and so I came back in and then I saw that the light was on in the kitchen. Of course, we’re closed, I couldn’t understand why anyone would be in the kitchen. I thought perhaps Gerald had gone into the kitchen. It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t thinking very clearly because I went into the kitchen. There was no one there. I called out, I don’t know why, because the kitchen was empty. Of course, there was no answer. And then I saw the fridge door was ajar.”

  She buried her head in her hands. And it was a moment before she could speak. Mary tried to rub her shoulder, but her sister shrugged her off. When she spoke again, she said, “I tried to shut the door but something was in the way. And then I opened it and looked in.” Once again her voice was suspended by tears and she had to swallow before she could finish, “And there he was.”

  “Gerald Pettigrew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch him or try to revive him at all?”

  “No. I could tell he was dead. I think I screamed. Because the next thing I knew, Mary was there. And then, and then Lucy from next door. Not sure why she was there.”

  He glanced to me as though thinking it was a fair question. I said, “I heard Florence scream from out on the street.”

  “And who let you in?”

  “The front door was ajar. I suppose that’s why I was able to hear the screams so clearly. I knocked on the open door and walked in and heard the co
mmotion.” I looked at Mary. “I thought someone was hurt.”

  She smiled, a pale semblance of her normal warmth. “I’m glad you did come in.”

  She said to the inspector, “Lucy had the sense to get us all out of the kitchen as quickly as possible.”

  “And did you touch anything, Miss Swift?”

  So hard to remember in retrospect. Had I? “I may have touched the door leading into the kitchen, I don’t remember. Other than that I only touched Mary and Florence.”

  “Did you see the deceased?”

  I had to swallow before I could speak and it was an effort to repress a shudder. “Yes. Yes I did.”

  “And you would confirm Miss Watt’s assertion that he was already dead?”

  “Oh yes.” I didn’t want describe the scene. He could take a look himself.

  He looked me again. “You say the door was open, the door to the street?”

  “Yes, I suppose I didn’t think too much of it because normally the door always is open. That is when the tea shop is in business.”

  He looked to the two Miss Watts. “How long has that door been unlocked?”

  Mary Watt said, “As far as I knew it had remained locked since,” her voice wobbled, “the last murder.”

  Florence said, “It was me, I think. When I went out to the street to look for Gerald.”

  “And you’re certain it was locked when you went to look for Mr. Gerald Pettigrew at approximately three-thirty?”

  She looked like a college student terrified she was about to fail a final. “I think so. But now, I’m not sure.”

  He looked at her steadily for a moment but she didn’t have anything more to add. He asked, “Who else has been in the house, today?”

  Mary answered, “Only Elspeth Montague. She’s a friend of mine.”

  Ian returned and said, “You’ll want to take a look, sir.” The chief inspector nodded and rose. He and Ian both went back into the kitchen. They were gone a surprisingly short time and then they returned together. He told one of the constables to stand outside and wait for the forensics team and the police photographer.

  Then he asked, “You’re certain that is Gerald Pettigrew?”

  Florence nodded and then said in a voice that was barely a whisper, “Yes.”

  “And when did you last see him, Miss Watt?”

  “See him? Alive? Last night. We had dinner out. At that nice restaurant on top of the Ashmolean. He said it made him feel less old to dine above the mummies.” And she burst into tears.

  “And what time did he leave you?”

  “About eleven. He walked me home. Even though it’s not far, he’s very old-fashioned that way and has such good manners. Had, I mean. I invited him in but, well Mary didn’t like him very much, so he refused.” She began to cry again. “Perhaps if he’d come in with me, he’d still be alive.”

  He turned to Mary Watt. “And when did you last see Mr. Pettigrew?”

  Her gaze dropped to her hands, which I noticed were restless suddenly in her lap. For some reason I was reminded of the manic knitting. She said, “I saw them coming home last night, from the upstairs window. It was about eleven.”

  “So, no one’s seen him since eleven o’clock last night?”

  “I have,” I said. And suddenly all gazes turned to me. I reported seeing Gerald Pettigrew earlier that day.

  “And what time was that?”

  I thought back. “It was exactly noon. I heard the bells chiming.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No. I saw him across the street. I was in the shop and I suppose it seemed remarkable to see him alone. Normally when I see him he’s with Miss Watt. He had a book in his hand. The light hit the jacket cover as he swung his arm, looked like a library book.”

  “And what was he wearing. Do you remember?”

  “A checked cap, a tweed jacket. There was a scarf around his neck, I think. And he had on woollen trousers that I think were brown, and black walking shoes.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “Gerald Pettigrew was always well turned out. That’s why his clothing caught my attention. He looked every inch the retired gentlemen.” I felt a little sad as I said, “Dapper. That’s the word I would have used to describe him.”

  “Yes,” Florence said, “he was always so well-dressed. So gentlemanly.” And she began to cry again. This time Mary didn’t even try to soothe or touch her.

  He said to one of the constables, “You. Check the local libraries, see if Gerald Pettigrew had a library card and if he took out or returned a book today.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young woman said and left.

  A SLIGHT DISTURBANCE occurred when the police photographer arrived and, close behind him, the forensics team. Two men with a stretcher came in last and it was all so familiar, I think all three of us who’d been present at the last murder felt terrible, with a sinking sense of déjà vu. I certainly did. I think it was even the same two men.

  That was the last straw for poor Florence Watt. She took one look at the stretcher and the body bag and laid her head in her arms on the table. I said to the Inspector, in a low voice, “Would it be all right if I took Miss Watt next door? I think, perhaps, a doctor should be called. She’s making herself ill with grief.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I must just ask the two ladies one more question. Could each of you tell me your movements since eleven o’clock last night?”

  Mary Watt was still watching her very busy hands in her lap. She said, “Florence and I spoke briefly when she came home. Then, I went to bed. I got up this morning about seven, had my breakfast and so on, and then I went out to do some shopping.”

  “And what time was that?”

  She shook her head. “About nine, I think, perhaps half past?” She seemed to be thinking back on her day. There was a pause. And then she said, “I stopped for coffee and came back about twelve-thirty I should think. I made some lunch and then I sat in the front room with the television on, knitting. Elspeth came by for a visit.” She looked at me and said, “Without the tea shop to run, I haven’t found a routine yet. I’m so pleased I’ve got the knitting to do.”

  “And Miss Florence? I know this is difficult for you, but I must ask you to try and tell me everything you did after you left Mr. Pettigrew last night.”

  Her handkerchief was so wet that I dug in my handbag and found a package of tissues and pushed them across the table to her. She mopped up once more and then said, “I woke up about eight. I had my breakfast. Normally, Gerald and I would make plans to spend the whole day together but he said he had some business to attend to this morning, that’s why we weren’t meeting until this afternoon.”

  “Did he say what this business of his was?”

  “Something to do with his investments, I think. I got the feeling he was going to the bank.”

  “Did he mention anything about a book? Or going to bookshop or library?”

  “No. But he was a great reader.”

  “Did he say what time this appointment was?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I’d thought to ask him. I never thought it would be important.”

  “Do you know which bank he used?”

  Once more she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry to ask you this, Miss Watt, but do you have any idea who his next of kin was?”

  She shook her head. “Gerald didn’t have any family. He had a wife who was sickly. He had to look after her, and then she died last year and he was finally free to come and find me.”

  I caught Mary’s eye and she nodded. She was going to have to tell the police about his other family. If she was right, and the man we knew as Gerald Pettigrew had had a wife and family up in Leeds, then presumably his now adult children were his next of kin.

  The chief inspector said to Florence, “You go next door with Lucy. I’ll come and talk to you again, soon.”

  She grabbed the sleeve of his coat with her hand, her fingers curled like claws. “You’ll catch who
did this? You’ll find them and punish them?”

  He said, gently, “That’s our job.”

  I rose and said, “Come on, Miss Watt. Let’s go next door.” To her sister I said, “Is there any chance your doctor makes house calls?”

  “We’ve seen Dr. McNeil as long as he’s been in practice, and his father before him. I’ll make sure he comes and treats Florence. You just keep her nice and quiet at your place.”

  “I’ll do my best. Why don’t you come as well and bring your knitting?”

  “In a minute. I’ve something to say to the chief inspector, first.”

  I nodded. And I helped Florence out of her chair. To my surprise, Ian, said, “I’ll come next door with you ladies.”

  I did not think he was being chivalrous. I wondered if he wanted to interview Miss Watt away from her sister and then I realized, of course, that Katie was now working in my shop. Sure enough, when we reached the knitting shop, the closed sign was on the door but Katie, bless her, had remained. When the three of us walked in, her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the detective and a clearly distraught Miss Watt. She said, “I didn’t want to leave, in case you needed me.”

  “Thank you.” I said, “I’m just going to take Miss Watt upstairs and make a cup of tea. Ian can fill you in.”

  She looked as though she wished very much that she hadn’t stayed behind. She didn’t seem to relish another interview with the detective. She looked at me. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  He shook his head at me and said, “I’m glad you’re still here. I have a few more questions for you.”

  As I ushered Miss Watt through the door to the stairway that led to my private quarters upstairs I heard him say, “How well did you know Gerald Pettigrew?”

  “Who?”

  “I made her promise never to lie to me again. She promised.” These words sprang, unprompted, from Florence Watt’s mouth and seemed unconnected to anything except, I imagined, her thoughts, which she had not so far shared with me.

  I was quite worried about the younger Miss Watt. She’d come straight upstairs and slumped on my sofa as though her legs wouldn’t hold her. Even her spine seemed compromised, as though all her bones had gone soft in the last half hour. My heart actually ached for her. Not only had her lover been murdered and she’d found the body, but I feared she was about to find out he was a bad man. I wasn’t certain if discovering he was not the man she had thought he was would be a benefit to her in the days to come, but strangely I didn’t think so. Florence Watt struck me as a woman who believed other people were good because she herself was so good. Gerald had certainly invented a character for her to fall in love with and she had obligingly helped him, adding further virtues to the ones he had assumed. She had already lost him once. To find he hadn’t been that man at all, well, who would she grieve?