by B G Denvil
Back in the kitchen, Rosie found it empty. Having no fondness for an empty kitchen, she first climbed the one storey to her own bedchamber and stuffed the stolen coins and parchments under her mattress, wishing she had magically locked chests of her own. Flopping back on her bed, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of everything that had happened, and had certainly not made sense.
“Number One,” she said, “my mother’s a millionaire, which is ridiculous. She never gives me tuppence, if she can help it. Number two, she kept all Whistle’s papers, even though she made a big scene of tearing them up and shoving them on the fire. Besides, she’d never understand most of them. Number three, does she ever talk to my father? Number four, who had the slightest motive to kill Whistle? Number five, who has the power to kill Whistle? The only witch or wizard I’ve ever known stronger than ninety-one, is this new arrival Edna. But she’s only just turned up. She may be a whole ninety-three, but she can’t turn time around.”
Having almost sent herself to sleep with unanswered questions, Rosie jerked herself awake and sat up, heart pounding. Now she knew what she had to do next. So slipping from her room, she tiptoed downstairs, saw her mother snoozing in the kitchen, hurried past and went again to the back door.
Definitely no rain. The sun was shining with a sort of special gleam as if it knew something nobody else had realised. Rosie ran across the cobbled courtyard and aimed for the stables.
The stable building, once large enough for five or six horses, now made two cosy rooms, one for the maid and one for the gardener. The gardener’s room echoed with sun bleached snores. Kate’s room was quiet.
Having tapped quietly on the door several times without answer, Rosie then whispered through the gap by the door jam. “Kate, dear, no problem. Sleep on, if you like, and if you’re there. I just wondered if you had any other bits of silver. You know what I mean. Even more importantly, do you have any of Whistle’s papers? Do you know that my mother didn’t destroy them after all, even though she pretended she did?”
After quite some time with no answer, Rosie knocked again. Then she whispered for a second time. “You might be out. I’ll look in the main house. But I’ll come back later.”
Having felt a bit silly talking to an obviously empty room, Rosie walked back to the main house and trotted every storey in a brief search for the maid, who didn’t seem to be anywhere. She had either gone shopping in the village, or was off on a pleasant walk beyond the trees. So Rosie sat herself in the meeting hall and waited for supper. She realised she had also been asleep, when the noise of introductions woke her. She opened her eyes to the swirling colours of every witch and every wizard meeting the new resident. The swirling of cloaks, pushing in and hurrying out, was the background to every tone of voice, including shouts and squeaks, shrill hellos and deeper goodbyes. There were lots of hugs, cheek kissing and hand clasping. Rosie stood up and joined in.
“Wonderful to meet such a powerful witch, Mistress Oppolox.”
“Most impressive, madam. I do hope we get to talk at length soon.”
“I believe I am the next in line, Mistress Edna, since I am an eighty-two. Not as high as a ninety-three of course, but next in line.”
“No, you aren’t, Bertie,” said Peg, marching up to Edna. “How dedoo, Madam Edna? I’m an eighty-five, but still a good deal less than ninety-three. We used to have a ninety-one, but he left a few days ago. Nice to meet someone intelligent at last.”
With a growing sense of familiar friendliness, Edna Oppolox clasped both Rosie’s hands in greeting. “I feel we know each other already,” Rosie said.
“Those are very pleasant words, Rosie, dear,” Edna replied. “They hold a particular meaning.”
“Really?” Puzzled again, Rosie smiled widely. There was unlikely to be much close understanding between a fifty and a ninety-three after all. But she liked the light squeeze of Edna’s hand around her own.
Alice called over the buzzing of the crowd. “Rosie, go and fetch Kate. She must serve supper. I’ve made something very special to greet our new charming resident. Get her to meet me in the kitchen. You can come too, just don’t drop anything.”
Shrugging, Rosie smiled at Edna and trotted out into the courtyard once again, and across to the stables. Clearly Kate must be back in her room by now. Indeed, she should be in the kitchen ready to serve supper. Rosie again tapped on the door.
When there was no answer she banged and shouted. “Kate, I’ve been sent to fetch you. It’s nearly supper time, and this is a special one.”
There was still no answer. So with a very solid shoulder push, Rosie shoved open the door.
Chapter Thirteen
The body of the young girl lay on the floor, her blood soaking the small blue rug beneath her head. Her loose blonde hair was still sticky and dark, for both sides of her face had been smashed inwards.
Kate’s body lay on its back, untouched except for the hands, still attached to the arms, but smashed into tiny pieces. Rosie stood a moment, her knees shaking, and her throat closed, refusing to breathe. It took her some moments, but eventually she tottered from the room and carefully closed the door behind her. Then she stumbled back to the meeting hall, and it was only afterwards that she realised she should have searched the room.
Instead she approached her mother. “Mamma, it’s happened again.”
“What has happened, foolish girl?” Alice was impatient and strode past her daughter into the kitchen. “I am extremely busy. Where’s Kate?”
“That’s the problem,” Rosie said, easing into the revelation. “I’m very sorry to say that poor Kate is – dead.”
Alice stared for a blink and then raised her voice in a tremulous shriek. “She’s far too young to die. Where is she? What happened?”
Rosie started to explain, and then realised that as she staggered and trembled, she was actually being held up by Peg on one side and Edna on the other. “Can you face it again, my dear?” Peg whispered.
“I think so,” Rosie whispered back, “as long as you’re with me. I couldn’t go alone.”
“I shall be coming as well,” Edna nodded. “My first day here is honoured by a mystery of horrible happenings. I can hardly ignore that.”
Clearly Alice disliked the idea of her new important guest being involved in such a gory business, displeased even more than she was at losing her maid. But after opening her mouth to complain, she quickly shut it again. “Supper is nearly ready,” she muttered with vague hope. “And it’s a special one just for you.”
“Oh, this won’t take long,” said Edna, and the three women hurried out to the stables.
Peg knelt, looking at the dead girl’s smashed skull, while Edna bent over the other side. “Horribly brutal,” Peg mumbled. “There are far simpler and cleaner ways of killing someone, especially for a wizard. Why use such extreme measures?”
“The act of someone with a dark twist,” Edna said at once. “The act of killing may have many motives. But the method used is the choice of a wizard with a leaning to the dark side.”
“We have none of those here,” Peg insisted.
“Mm,” mused Edna. “You might, without realising. Some wizards have a dark thread. And some darker wizards hide that side, ashamed of showing it, but are tempted to relieve themselves when they presume they will never be discovered.”
“You mean,” Rosie asked, “there might be no other reason to kill except for fun?”
“I believe we have a simple situation here,” Peg insisted. “For there is just one obvious link between Whistle and Kate, and that’s a few of Whistle’s belongings which went missing after Kate cleaned his room for your arrival, Edna.”
Edna muttered a few Celtic swear words under her breath. “I shall do what I can here,” she said, still bending over the body, “and perhaps you two should search the room.”
The small room was a mess, but it was not clear whether this signified an earlier search of the premises by the killer, or whether Kate always live
d in an untidy muddle. But Peg groaned, “Nothing left, I’d wager. But I shall see what I can find.” And Rosie began to search on the opposite side of the room.
The destruction of Kate’s body still lay on the central rug when Rosie, Peg and Edna all stood together, admitting that nothing had been found. The room was now even more of a mess, but Peg sighed, “Not a thing, except her own dreary belongings, poor little thing.”
And Rosie nodded. “I think she had some more of Whistle’s silver. But either she hid it outside the room, or the killer took it.”
“Unfortunately,” Edna added, “I cannot get a grip on the killer. I sense both anger and pleasure, and I am fairly sure this was the work of a wizard, not some boring human.”
“But a very powerful one,” said Rosie, feeling sick again. “Because it must be the same one who killed Whistle, and he was too powerful to be killed so easily.”
“Not necessarily.” Edna sat back on her heels. “If this was one of your own familiar residents here, no one would expect an attack when a friendly face came to visit. I imagine your Whistle Hobb would have been taken by surprise just as this poor girl was, in her own room.”
Both Rosie and Peg nodded earnestly. “I didn’t think of that,” said Rosie faintly.
Edna’s hands hovered just over the body. “I cannot tell you who the killer is,” she admitted. “But your maid certainly knew him. He was almost positively resident here and known to all of you. The meeting seems to have started with a friendly chat. But your maid may have attempted to defend herself when she realised what was coming, since her hands are also destroyed, possibly because she was trying to scratch her killer.”
“Then,” said Peg with a small clap, “we must look for any one of our wizards with scratches on his face or hands.”
“Now that,” agreed Rosie, “will be a wonderful clue. Almost proof.”
“No wizard leaves easy proof,” Peg reminded her. “A strong wizard – even an average one – can eliminate his own bruises and bangs.”
It was a fine supper for those who knew nothing of the new murder, but since it had been planned for Edna, sadly she was the one who enjoyed it least. She, Peg and Rosie spent a great deal of time looking around the table to discover suspicious scratches on their companions, but eventually Edna thanked Alice for the magnificent feast, didn’t mention that she hadn’t enjoyed it and finally flew to the top floor and her own new apartment.
No one heard from her until the next morning. Meanwhile, Peg sat under the trees outside, listened to the squawking and screeching flurry of crows as they had their own supper and settled for sleep.
Avoiding the last few drops of birds’ mess, Peg asked, “Now then. Who would have done such a thing?”
“Number one, someone who wants Whistle’s latest secrets,” Rosie said, “Two, he has scratches on face or wrists and hands. Three, he’s got a really nasty side. Maybe he does horrible things in secret. Maybe he beats birds and cats. Four, he owns big brown boots and doesn’t bother to clean them. Five, he lives here.”
“At least we’re getting a little further,” Peg sighed.
“Not really.” Rosie stared up at the twilight glimmering through the black silhouetted branches. Little ruffled bird heads were now all snuggled down. “Could it have been an animal, do you think? Crows can be a bit pecky and rough.”
Peg frowned. “Rubbish, dear. And there aren’t any wolves left in the country anymore.”
“No single wizard at supper showed any scratches.”
“But who didn’t show up?” asked Peg suddenly. “Such a special meal wouldn’t normally be missed. So who missed it?”
“Interesting.” Rosie bit her lip. “Not counting witches, though I think some might be capable – just counting wizards, I don’t think I saw Dandy. Now, I’ve never liked him. He’s fairly strong, a seventy-nine, I think. And it wouldn’t surprise me if that sort of man had a dark side.”
“Anything’s possible. I don’t believe Boris came either.”
“He often doesn’t.” Rosie nodded. “And the same with Harry Flash. Only a forty or something, so he likes to keep himself to himself.”
The buttercup sprigged grass, attracting dew as the day’s warmth ebbed, was now damp, and Peg stood, wishing Rosie a good night. Murder was not something that made her want to stretch out the day.
As Rosie wished her sweet dreams, the bats whirled high in great black sweeps from the thatched roof and the attic beneath, filling the sky with dark clouds before they moved on. Rosie waved goodnight to them too, although it was highly unlikely they would notice her small hand below.
She had rather hoped to see Montague at supper with two nice bright red scratches down his face, but he had come to the table with eager, unblemished smiles. So had Mandrake. Rosie would not have been surprised to discover that Mandrake had a dark side, whereas she had long adored the handsome Montague from a silent distance. He had ignored her, of course, and she doubted if he had even remembered her name. But she had not blamed a wise and powerful wizard for ignoring a pathetic fifty.
That afternoon, however, had changed her mind. He had spoken of her, and then to her, with condescending and patronising insolence and even dislike. Not something to cry about. Something to make her want to punch him in the stomach. Now Rosie even wondered if she had a dark side herself. So she stumbled off to bed and cried herself to sleep.
Having first undressed, Rosie had deposited Oswald on the table beside her and wished him a goodnight. But she had left the retrieved papers, the silver toadstool and silver spoon, and the wrapped handful of her mother’s money all hidden within or under the bed.
And as she slept on, dreaming of a miserable future, of dark monsters hiding in the shadows, and of bats flitting down to bite at her neck, she heard nothing of the chatter starting around her bed. Rosie did not, therefore, have any idea that the spoon, toadstool, papers and coins carried on a prolonged conversation in her sleeping absence.
Chapter Fourteen
“Come on then,” Oswald said as the sun rose on the following morning. “Wake up, sleepy head. Time to get up, time to face the questions.”
The urgency of his call startled Rosie awake. She regarded the hat pin with surprise. She now always wore Oswald on the neck of her smock, but he rarely spoke to her and generally seemed uninterested in everything going on around them. Now, however, he waited only until she had yawned and stretched, and he then began to relate what had been discussed while she had slept that night.
“Reckon you’d better listen to me,” he told her. “We don’t know nothing about the new murder. Not our business. But Whistle was my master. He made me. Made the spoon and the cup and the toadstool too. Not to mention all them papers. He liked parchment best, I reckon. Personally, I think paper is better. They’re building a paper mill somewhere or another, I think. It’ll start getting easier to get hold of soon. Cheaper too. But I reckon ‘tis irrelevant. What matters is my master was mighty clever at making magical things.”
“Goodness me,” mumbled Rosie. “Are you telling me I should buy paper? I still haven’t found the cup.” She dashed into her clothes with a click of her finger and thumb, brushed her hair with another click and pinned the hatpin on the neckline. “Now I’m supposed to go down and do some work.”
“We need to talk first,” Oswald insisted. “Have you ever seen a kitten?”
Rosie stared down at her feet, wondering if the hat pin was even more stupid than she had originally supposed. “Lots of kittens,” she said patiently. “I love kittens. I always sort of feel I can talk to them. But I only see them in the village. We can’t keep cats here because of all the bats and the birds. Most of the cats I see are strays, poor little things, but a lot of the villagers keep them as pets, and the farmers keep them to get rid of mice and rats. But when they have babies, some of the farmers put them in a sack with stones and throw them in a river. I was so upset when I heard that, I cried for three days. Once I rescued one of those sacks and spen
t all weekend marching around Piddleton finding old ladies who would adopt one of them. I wanted one to keep in my bedchamber, but Mother wouldn’t let me. So now,” she shook her head, “what on earth are you trying to tell me?”
“Oh, nothing,” sighed Oswald. “’Tis clear you ain’t ready yet.”
“No, not for cats, rats, murder or mayhem,” Rosie replied, and hurried down the stairs to collect water, make beds and serve breakfast.
Everyone had now heard of the second horrible murder, and there was no other subject discussed over the breakfast table. They all agreed this had been a shocking act of deliberate cruelty. She was only a maid, after all, and a sad little twelve at that.
“Lowest I ever met,” Mandrake said, shaking his head at such a number. “Twelve! Hardly counts as a number at all.”
“And the gardener is only a seventeen.”
“But he works hard,” said Percy. “Slogs away every day, he does. Just needs a bit of seventeen to keep him going.”
“Boris isn’t much more,” whispered Montague, but everyone waved their hands at him and turned away.
“I wasn’t much concerned when Whistle went,” said Ethelred, quickly changing the subject in case anyone pointed out he was only a thirty-seven. “He was about three hundred years old and the most powerful among us. He could look after himself.”
“Obviously not,” added Peg.