by B G Denvil
“Oh, gracious indeed,” Dickon hurried to answer, and gulped down his ale, “never a complaint, mistress. The village people see The Rookery as a home of great generosity. To open a place where old folk can live peacefully, and be cared for until the inevitable end, is a very moral idea, mistress. The sheriff and I approve.” He finished the last slurp of ale. “Until, of course,” he said as an after-thought, “a rather nasty murder takes place on the premises.”
“Naturally,” smiled Mandrake. “And of course we value your interest in that particular shocking affair. Got any clues?”
“Someone from the same home, I suppose,” Dickon mumbled. “But no special ideas, sadly. Old folk aren’t usually strong enough to do so much damage. Perhaps it could have been a witch.”
Everyone again stared, heads jerking up from their cups.
“A witch?”
“I’m not serious, of course.” Dickon smiled. “That was a joke. We all know there aren’t any witches or wizards around here.”
Three gentle sighs answered him.
“But you may remember,” Rosie said softly, “when you first visited The Rookery, it was because people had complained about the smell from the murdered man’s corpse. So people did complain.”
“Well, yes, indeed,” huffed Dickon. “But a very understandable problem, you know, considering that smell. Folk walking by, you see. But I myself am quite grateful, since it brought me to your home and has introduced you to me.” He gazed at Rosie with wide-eyed appreciation.
“You’re grateful someone got murdered?” asked Peg, managing a very sober voice.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” hiccupped Dickon, but Rosie patted his arm, assuring him they all understood.
It was soon after that Dickon put down his cup and pushed back his stool, smiling at Rosie. “Well, mistress,” he said, “I think it’s time I saw you back home.”
“Oh no, don’t worry,” grinned Rosie. “Peg and Mandrake will see me back. We all live in the same house, as you know.”
“But—” managed Dickon.
Peg shook her head. “We shan’t be here long, Master Wald,” she said. “It would make no sense for you to walk all that way when we shall be right behind you.”
“And I shall be there in the middle,” Mandrake added, “ready to protect the ladies should we meet up with a witch or wizard.”
With a highly disappointed smile, Dickon nodded, said goodbye with a particular little wave at Rosie and wandered out of the tavern into the outside twilight. Immediately Rosie flopped back against the wall, Peg flopped forwards against the table, and Mandrake smirked.
“Well, no need to worry about him,” he said softly.
“The man is a complete idiot,” exclaimed Peg, turning to Rosie. “Typical human. And you actually left The Rookery with him to come here. Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because my mother’s supper smelled disgusting,” confessed Rosie. “And besides, I wanted to know if he’d found out anything of importance.”
“He’d not notice it, even if someone told him in detail that he’d done it,” said Mandrake. “I doubt the boy has any more brain than Cabbage.”
“I’ll have you know that Cabbage is quite bright,” complained Peg. “But you’re right. We’ll get no useful information out of that idiot.”
“But it was useful,” Rosie pointed out. “Now we know he hasn’t any idea about anything.”
“Which is why we followed you,” Mandrake said. “We wanted to check him out.”
Rosie scowled and continued, “And it’s equally clear that Little Piddleton thinks we are just lovely old people in need of care.”
“In need of wine,” Peg contradicted her. “Let’s have a decent drink, and then we can fly home.”
Ten
Three crows sat at the end of Rosie’s bed. She woke and blinked. “Gracious,” she muttered, “am I that late?”
“We aren’t an alarm clock,” one crow objected. “This is a personal visit. May I introduce myself? I am Wolfy, and this is my partner Cuddles. “
“I’m Lucky,” said the third Crow. “I wanted to come too. This is my mum and dad.”
“We couldn’t get rid of her,” Wolfy explained. “But we came for a very specific reason.”
“I even left little Wobbles and Fips and Jolly and Tiger behind in their nest,” said Cuddles. “No one’s even sitting on them, let alone feeding them. They’ll be squawking their little bony heads off. We have to hurry back with a few strips of something or other. So we have to be quick.”
Lucky was looking very pleased with herself. “I’m the grown-up daughter,” she said proudly. “I help with the new little brats. They’ve all broken out of their shells now, and just think of food, food, food. I like Fips best. She makes a racket like the others, but at least she says thank you once she’s swallowed everything.”
“What’s so urgent?” Rosie pulled the sheet up under her chin. “I might have a few strips of something myself under the bed, if you hop down and have a look. The bread was so over baked for yesterday’s breakfast, I stuffed it away. Help yourselves.”
Wolfy and Cuddles sent Lucky to hop beneath and find it while they spoke of other matters.
As she watched, Rosie asked, “Do you know how Splodge is getting on? My father was looking after him. Or her. I can’t tell the difference at that age.”
“Her,” said Cuddles, “and she’s getting on very well. I won’t say your father makes a very realistic crow, but he’s a good father.”
“I know,” Rosie sighed.
“We were especially friendly with poor Whistle,” Wolfy said. “Not only do we miss him dreadfully, but we hoped to find some of his special belongings. Useful stuff, you know. Not money or boring things like that. But a bit of helpful magic.”
“Did you want a reminder? A souvenir? Then you don’t want me,” Rosie pointed out. “It was Kate who cleaned the room. By the time I went back in there, nothing of Whistle’s was left.” Then she thought of what Peg had bought from Kate. “However,” she admitted, “there are two of Whistle’s magical belongings Peg got from Kate, and paid too, so I can’t give them to you. I can only tell you about them. Anything else important, I’d bet my mother has it.”
“But I believe that you have – ?” asked Cuddles.
“A silver spoon, too large for a proper spoon,” Rosie admitted, without the slightest intention of showing these items, “and a sort of pretend silver toadstool. Just a little thing with silver dots etched on it. But they aren’t mine, so I can’t give them to you.”
Lucky hopped back up with three long curly crusts in her beak. Wolfy nodded to Rosie. “We have no wish to take the silver from you,” he said. “But we think we should warn you. These, and a few others, of Whistle’s special and precious invented items should not be used unknowingly. They could be – ”
“Dangerous,” finished Cuddles. “Especially that nuisance of a toadstool. Put it in a box and leave it somewhere hidden.”
“Why?” Frowning, Rosie leaned back on the pillows. The silver objects were strange enough to have been used for something, and Whistle was powerful enough to have invented objects for a special purpose. Those items had certainly not been purely decoration, so the crow’s words did not surprise her. Yet when she had briefly examined them, nothing interesting had occurred. She said, “But Whistle wasn’t a dark wizard. He was kind and helpful. I even remember him coming to my power test when I was ten.”
“Well, he would have, wouldn’t he?” demanded Wolfy.
Cuddles hopped closer, and her voice was unusually soft. “We are trying to help, you know,” she said with a faint clack of her beak. “We knew Whistle well, and we want to help. Please just remember our words.”
This startled Rosie even more, and she sensed something almost frightening at the back of the unusual warning. So she sat up and faced all three crows. “Thank you for coming,” she said, smiling wide. She decided she couldn’t hug them, in spite of Cuddles’ name, bu
t she added, “I suppose you don’t have any idea who did this horrible thing to Whistle?”
But they shook their heads, preparing to fly off with her stale crusts. But Wolfy waited on the window sill, and turned, whispering, “Whistle had a particular interest in you, Mistress Rosie, and so do we. If anything bad happens, you just let us know. And in the meantime, if you could find Whistle’s silver cup, larger than your average ale cup, of course, it might solve some mysteries.”
Rosie was left perturbed, filled with curiosity and just a little scared. She didn’t understand how anyone, especially anyone as clever as Whistle, could possibly have had any special interest in her, and with the crows, it seemed plain ridiculous. Her mind whizzed. Knowing herself to be an ordinary fifty, none of this extra attention made any sense at all.
Once up and dressed, Rosie hurried downstairs for her usual jobs, making the beds, three heavy buckets of water and setting the table for breakfast. On the verge of arriving late, her mother glared in disapproval, and Rosie knew she’d have to avoid her for the rest of the day, or she’d end up being ordered to scrub floors, wash windows and dust every corner. Dusting was an especially hard job at The Rookery as it was important not to injure any of the resident spiders, and try not to ruin all their webs.
For today, Rosie had very different ideas, and once she’d finished her breakfast she ran straight back to her bedchamber and retrieved the silver toadstool and large spoon from their hiding places. She was already wearing the ruby hatpin, and hoped the entire and interesting collection would give answers.
A little wooden table sat in the corner of her bedchamber, and she sat next to this, laying out the two silver objects in front of her, and then waking hatpin Oswald with a gentle rub.
“Please,” said Rosie aloud, “I’m feeling a little titchy bit upset. Odd things keep happening to me. I thought I was being good wanting to find who killed Whistle. Mostly because it was terrible and wicked, but also because I liked Whistle. I didn’t expect easy answers, but I would greatly appreciate it if any of you could explain what’s going on.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, girl?” demanded the toadstool, and its spots glimmered gold.
“Perhaps I am.” Rosie was cross. “But it’s Whistle I’m trying to help. Well, it’s a bit late for that, but you know what I mean.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” said the toadstool. “I don’t even know who you are. I only ever speak to Whistle himself, and I prefer it when he’s in a good mood.”
It was the spoon which interrupted, speaking more genially. “Now, now,” it said, flashing blue across its large silver scoop. “I know you miss our master, and so do I. But this is the girl. Remember?”
“Rosie?” boomed the toadstool.
“Keep your voices down,” objected Oswald from Rosie’s collar. “Say what you can, and say it softly.”
It seemed the toadstool was now rather ashamed of itself. “Rosie,” it muttered. “Mistress Rosie herself. Well now, I apologise. But it isn’t my fault, you know. I can’t see. No eyes, all my spots are ears.”
“I have both,” said the spoon with a superior air. “My scoop is my eye, and I have ears up the handle. And, I may say, I am a generous and giving spoon. I can give when directed. I bestow, and that is my name, Mistress Rosie. I am Bestower Brim.”
“How do you do,” said Rosie, wide-eyed.
“I’m just as important,” insisted the toadstool. “I take, but only where there’s too much. What I take, I give to Bestower, and then he can give it to someone else. And I am Mush Mutter, although I dislike being thought of as a mushroom. How do you do, Mistress Rosie.”
“How do you do.” She couldn’t imagine what to ask. Taking and giving were vague talents and made very little sense. “But what did Whistle ask you to give or take away?”
“This and that.”
“Hard to explain,” added Mush.
So Rosie asked Oswald. “I wonder if you can tell me more? What am I supposed to do now? And who on earth killed poor Whistle?”
This had not been a wise question, since the hat pin, the spoon and the toadstool all burst into tears. Rosie sighed and packed the silver objects safely away, deciding to search for the silver cup, as advised by the crows. There were only two places she could think of, and one was the kitchen where she didn’t want to go. Instead she hurried up all the stairs to Whistle’s two large rooms. With Peg living close by, Rosie was quiet. She decided she had to avoid both Peg and her mother. For once, she felt the freedom to do exactly as she wished, and stop everyone going on about her, instead of concentrating on Whistle.
Although Alice had decided not to advertise these rooms yet for occupation, they had been sufficiently tidied to making finding a single thing most unlikely. Both large, the rooms would bring in excellent rent for her parents, and Alice intended on taking two more lodgers, with one bedchamber each.
“Twice the money. And just think, two more friends,” Alice had said, though she had not really made friends with a single occupant so far.
So Rosie scurried inside and began a flurried search on her knees. There was nothing under the bed, nothing under any stool or chair, nothing under the two tables and not a single item left on any shelf. Rosie looked on the window sill, on the candle sconces, lifted the squashy cushions on the chair and even lifted up the three Turkey rugs. She found nothing. Her knees ached from crawling, and her back ached from bending.
Finally, Rosie stood, yawned and prepared to leave, when a very high-pitched voice squeaked out, “What about me?” Rigid, Rosie looked around. “Over here,” squeaked the voice. “I’ve been hiding for ages. It’s most uncomfortable.”
Tracing the call, Rosie rushed to the bed and rummaged beneath the eiderdown at one side, where everything was tucked tight. There she was able to pull out a somewhat crumpled piece of parchment. “Gosh,” she said, “you actually hid? How clever. Are you important?”
“Important? I’m jolly well essential,” said the parchment, insulted. “Now, roll me up carefully and put me in your apron pocket.”
“I don’t suppose,” asked Rosie hopefully, “you know where the silver cup is? I was told that’s terribly important too.”
“Alice Scaramouch,” said the parchment. “I’d guess it has to be her. Probably has taken it and uses it for her evening wine. It won’t poison her, but you have to get it back.”
“That won’t be easy,” Rosie mumbled, did as asked with the parchment and hurried from the room. On her way back down the stairs, Oswald stuck his pin into her chin, and Rosie almost tripped. “What? Have I left something behind?”
“Loads,” scolded Oswald. “A quill pen and invisible ink under the pillows. A pair of shoes that take you flying when you’re too tired to do it for yourself. They’re on a top shelf at the back, so high you can’t see them. And…”
But just as Rosie was about to object and ask Oswald why he hadn’t told her all this when she was inside the two rooms, she bumped into Peg. It seemed that Peg was about to object as well.
“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” said Peg. “I spoke to Kate again and offered more bribes. Coin, a warm cloak – that sort of thing. She’s promised to tell me what she can remember finding in Whistle’s rooms, whatever she kept and whatever she knows your mother kept.”
“We asked her all that before,” said Rosie.
“A little extra bribery goes a long way,” said Peg. “And she’s a poor little thing. Only a twelve. Can barely click her fingers.” She thought for a moment. “Mind you, that’s probably because she uses them all the time for picking her nose.”
“Oh dear, alright,” Rosie sighed. “I suppose I ought to tell you, I went back to search Whistle’s room one last time, and I found a piece of paper who insists she’s important.”
“Show me,” said Peg at once. As Rosie pulled the parchment from her apron, Peg snatched it and began to read. Her face lit with purple anticipation, and finally she beamed. Having rolled it once m
ore, she then handed it back to Rosie. “Keep this very, very safe,’ she said. “I can explain when we find a few more things. In the meantime, don’t show a soul. Keep it hidden.”
“I don’t have so many special places for keeping stuff hidden,” Rosie complained. “My room is only a single. Wouldn’t you like to hide these things instead of me?”
Peg waved both hands at her. “No, no, my dear. It’s you they all want to stay with. Shoved in my room, they’d start running around and making nuisances of themselves.”
“I spend half my life absolutely puzzled,” Rosie objected. “Number one, puzzled, confused, muddled and not understanding. Number two, a big quarter I spend scared.”
“And the last quarter?”
“Number three, working my knees raw and my back broken.” Rosie sat where she was at the top of the old staircase. “You’re understanding more than I am. Won’t you start explaining at least some of it?”
Peg hovered mid-air, just above the lower steps. “I understand bits here and bits there, and being a most powerful witch, I know the river is starting to flow. But I’m afraid I could never explain it to you, Rosie dear.”
“Because at just fifty, I’m too stupid to understand?”
“As it happens,” smiled Peg, “I don’t think you are a fifty at all, my dearest. But that’s something else I can’t explain.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Rosie. “I can’t fly. I can’t polish things with a click of my fingers. I can’t understand magic runes, like those on this parchment, and I can’t do any special spells. No disguises, no curses, no blessings and not even good dreams on call.”
“You flew right up into the clouds, and stayed there,” Peg pointed out. “That day on the beach proved what you’re capable of. And how do you wash and get dressed every morning?”