by B G Denvil
The gruff little voice from Oswald muttered, “Not rain, silly-billy-Rosie. Water. Any kind of water. But rain would be good. After all, this is England, isn’t it?”
Ignoring this interruption and with a wiff and a toowit, Dodger settled down to think. “Where would you guess,” he asked eventually, “in or out?”
“I assume you mean the house, but it doesn’t matter, because it could be either.”
“A large cup?” he said. “or a tiddly one?”
Immediately Rosie asked Oswald. The hat pin was more helpful than usual. “It is quite large,” Oswald said, “but no more than a breakfast cup of ale. All nice shiny silver, and inside on the bottom is a nice big ‘W’ standing for Whistle. Heavy too, being solid.”
“I think it’s probably in the kitchen,” Rosie sighed. “I’ve searched in so many places, and I can’t see my mother allowing anyone else to look after it. She’d want it under her thumb. I know she must have it, unless Whistle himself hid it before he was killed.”
“Silly idea,” sniffed Oswald. “Whistle needed it every day. No point hiding it away.”
“Kate didn’t have it,” Rosie said. “And it isn’t in my mother’s bedroom, unless it was in the last chest under the bed which I couldn’t open. Very possible I suppose. So either there or in the kitchen.”
“Not a problem,” Dodger lay his head on Rosie’s shoulder. “I shall discover this elusive cup. I shall befriend the glorious Cabbage. And I shall keep you safe.”
Rosie gave him a hug. She realised he was quite thin inside all those fluffy layers of feathers and down, and she asked Oswald to summon up some more pretend dead rats.
As the day grew warmer, Rosie started to doze. At once Dodger put his left wing over her, and she snuggled into the shadow. Both slept as the sun angled within the little wooden hollow, and soon everything was a shimmer of warmth.
Neither Edna nor Peg stopped to eat, drink or chat. They did not even fly, for such a fast way of travelling made it difficult to notice anything on the way. So the two women marched the stairs up and down in every direction. They questioned the bats, and they insisted on entering every single resident’s room. But although they had a good excuse, they were not always welcome.
Pixie was delighted to let them in. “I made this myself,” she pointed to the bed, four posts and a huge yellow velvet tester hanging above it. “Took me ages. I’m a seventy-six, so hardly useless, but the tester just never looked right. So I was determined to make it by hand. I’m exceedingly proud of the result. And my patchwork eiderdown, isn’t this beautiful?”
Gorgeous, on the other hand, was exceedingly shy and tried to explain why her room was practically empty. As a timid nineteen, she could hardly produce anything at all.
“Ask me,” said Peg. “I should be only too delighted to help.”
They moved on to the large Butterfield room, with a window so wide they could see half the garden. From there to Lemony who had transformed her room into a bright yellow mock bee’s nest for no obvious reason, but the smell of fresh honey was delightful.
“Honey?” She held out a jar. Both Peg and Edna were pleased to accept.
Most of the men’s rooms were considerably less tidy, although Mandrake’s quarters were a model of beautifully painted gloss. On the other hand, Ethelred, Montague, Boris and Percy were grubby, untidy and unattractive. Boris had a black ceiling and a few drips of black paint while Montague had all his precious clothes hanging from the ceiling in long rows. Percy was a little ashamed of his mess, but Ethelred was impatient, told them to hurry and get out since he was busy.
Having searched the entire house for Rosie, Peg and Edna proceeded to the stables. Dipper was out, but they looked in his room anyway. It was full of flowers growing in pots, under the bed, on two long shelves and on the window sill. Peg smelled the gush of wonderful perfumes and almost sat down there to breathe in some more. Edna, however, pulled her on.
They spent some time discussing the problem with the crows, but each one protested that they knew nothing and Rosie was certainly not hiding amongst them.
Finally, and with considerable hope, both Edna and Peg flew up to Alfred’s treehouse and knocked politely on the door. There was no answer, so Peg called softly, “Rosie, my dear. Are you there?”
No one answered, and so Edna opened the door with a finger flick, and the two women stepped inside.
The chaos within was similar to everything they had seen in Rosie’s room, and both Peg and Edna stepped back in alarm. The snug salon on the ground floor and the cosy attic bedchamber both lay in ruins. Some furniture appeared stuck to the ceiling or walls, as Rosie’s had been, and smaller items were scattered everywhere across the floor. But Alfred Scaramouch, neither living nor dead, was present amongst the mess.
He had clearly received some warning and had escaped before the intruder arrived. And there was, most certainly, no sign of Rosie.
A small brown rabbit was hiding beneath the upturned jug of water. Peg help it out. “Well, well,” she said, smiling, “I’m exceedingly sorry for whatever you’ve suffered and whatever you’ve seen. But I’m exceptionally pleased to find I have a witness. Now, tell me everything that happened.”
“Alfie went out in the middle of the night,” quavered the rabbit. “And he never come back again. I was waiting in the hope of a little breakfast. But then this fellow comes marching in. Strong, he was, and kept puffing sparks and flames, real terrifying so I hid under the table, but then the jug fell on top and I couldn’t get out. This fellow, he wore big brown boots, all scruffy like. In a big hat and a big cloak, so I couldn’t see no more. But he wrecked the joint, like you can see. Got more and more angry. Clearly he couldn’t find what he were looking for. Was ages here, but then he done stomped off. This place used to be so nice and calm and safe.”
“Well, not anymore,” said Edna between her teeth.
.
Seventeen
Extremely disappointed and even more worried, Peg and Edna sat on the long low bench at the back of the grounds and watched the daisies growing on Whistle and Kate’s graves.
At some distance, a long walk or a short flight, Rosie was bored stiff. Comfortable as the nest was, there was nothing for her to do except talk to a hat pin, a spoon, a toadstool and an owl. None of them had anything interesting or pertinent to say. Dodger spent most of the day asleep, and although Oswald was very helpful in summoning various feasts, he kept telling her it was too early to explain anything in detail.
“Just explain roughly then.”
“Pointless,” Oswald told her.
The spoon and the toadstool persisted in saying they had been made as a threesome, and without the silver cup, they could not operate properly.
“I give,” said the spoon. “He,” pointing to the toadstool, “takes. And then the cup fills with the answer.”
“Bother,” muttered Rosie with a yawn. “You’d think two out of three would be useful at something. It’s most frustrating. And all I’ve done all day long is peep outside, shift my position a hundred times and eat.”
“And talk endlessly to yourself,” mumbled the toadstool.
After a supper of dead rats and roast pork with spinach in cream and sultanas, Dodger became excited and hopped happily from one foot to another while ruffling his feathers and combing out his wings. Clearly wishing to look his best, the owl admitted he was going to visit Cabbage, hopefully before she went out hunting for herself.
“I have plans,” he said. “Just you wait and see. We owls are very wise, you know.”
She didn’t want him to go. It had been boring enough while he slept, but now to spend several hours entirely alone seemed like prison. From misery, she quickly moved on to greater despair, wondering how on earth she would manage to last several days like this. The thought of finding the silver cup was a wonderful hope, but she felt it most unlikely. But she smiled and waved Dodger goodbye and good luck. “Have fun,” she told him. “And don’t kill too many sweet
little animals.”
With the contempt it deserved, Dodger ignored this last remark and flew off into the night. The stars had not yet found the path through the clouds, and the sky remained misty and without drama. Rosie, with no other option, moved to the back of the nest, curled up again, shut her eyes and wondered if some nasty old witch or wizard had cursed her.
Curses weren’t easy, even for the shadow kings, but there had been stories of shocking curses laid on both the guilty and the innocent in the past. Hard things to lift as well, except by a good witch or wizard of somewhere in the eighties or nineties. Edna would be a valuable witch to have around, Rosie decided, and Peg was not too far behind. Yet Whistle, a wonderful ninety-one or more, had been the first to die.
Still thinking of such matters, Rosie eventually wound her head into boring loops and gradually fell asleep. She was dreaming of comfy mattresses, nice clean tables and warm blankets when she woke suddenly.
Two owls, huge-eyed were gazing down at her from the opening. Behind them was a vast shining silver moon, and in Dodger’s beak was a shining silver cup. Rosie sat up in such a hurry, she bumped her head and twisted her ankle but could hear Oswald complaining from beneath her chin.
“You found it? Miracle upon miracles. Oh, you wonderful marvellous beautiful birds. Thank you, a million times over.”
Dodger and Cabbage seemed to think Rosie had gone a little mad, and both stared down at her.
“Your directions were excellent,” Dodger informed her. “I made the acquaintance of this admirable lady Cabbage, and explained the situation. She quite understood since she had been a friend of your early wizard-loss and told me about the recent chaos. She explained it had been unwise to enter the house for days, and therefore she was content to accept my company. I then recounted your need for a silver cup, which might be in a chest under the bed of your estimable parent, the official owner of the establishment. We were able to enter her room through the window, and since she was still in the kitchen, we were quick to pull out the chests from below the bed. With both beaks together, we had little trouble except on the second, which was too heavy. But, in any case you declared that the probable chest was at the end, and we were quick to open it.”
“Really? I couldn’t find the spell. What did you say?”
“Oh, the usual rubbish,” Dodger said. “Clearly this woman is no great spell-maker. Just that twaddle stuff. ‘Tie me up tight and hide me from sight, Open at your leisure, there’s nothing to measure. Just say please and I’ll open with ease.’”
Rosie actually felt a little annoyed with herself for not having remembered this age-old spell, but she leaned forward eagerly and took the cup from Dodger’s beak. It was surprisingly heavy. Leaning back down again, she rubbed her hands carefully across it, thrilled to have it at last. It seemed doubly precious. Finally, she set it down between the spoon and the toadstool, and was delighted all over again when they all seemed to wake and began to dance together, bobbing and bouncing up and down, whirling around and generally welcomed the newcomer with silent glee.
Leaving her to her own business, which both owls thought most peculiar, Dodger and Cabbage flew up into one of the higher branches and chattered together. It appeared to be love at first sight.
Rosie meanwhile took a very deep breath, “Have you a name?” she asked the cup, trying not to start her own questions too abruptly.
The following silence echoed, but eventually the cup began its own discussion. “I have no name,” it announced. “A pointless accessory. You are girl. I am cup. This is spoon, and that is toadstool. Outside are female owl and male owl. What more do you need? It is true you all claim names, since you value your individual identity, but I have no wish for such childish nonsense.”
Hurrying past all this, Rosie asked, “Do you know of the recent terrible problems at The Rookery? You must surely know your wonderful maker Whistle was brutally killed by someone we haven’t yet discovered.” She leaned very close, as if frightened the essential answer might escape her. “Do you know who killed him?”
“Yes,” said the cup.
A trifle disappointed at receiving just that one word, Rosie asked, “Who?”
“Man,” said the cup with the same refusal to use names. “Not too tall. Not too fat. Not too slim. Not too intelligent. A red doublet beneath a red and gold coat over blue knitted hose. Not a pretty sight. Brown boots, heavy and unclean. Dark shadows within.”
“His hair?” she asked, already worried.
“Short, off the ears, nondescript. Not pale. Not dark.”
“And how did his boots fasten?”
“Old cords. Pale in colour but grubby.”
The cup’s answers were clear and concise, but he had described her father, and Rosie had to gulp and bite her lip to stop the tears. She sank back and regarded all three of the silver items which evidently Whistle had made himself and had regarded as important. Perhaps essential. “I have to explain something,” she said, trying to hold back the sniffs. “I was told I was in danger and had to come and hide. Is that true?”
“Which?” said the cup.
Now she wanted to hit it. “I know it’s true I was told this,” she said patiently. “But is it true I was in danger?”
Here, the spoon interrupted. “I hate to interrupt,” it said, unmoving, “but talking to cup alone is not in your best interests. As the giver, I should give a little good advice. We need water first. A little lubrification will bring cup to his senses and he will be far more explanatory.”
“But,” Rosie said, feeling even more dismal, “it isn’t raining.”
“No, no,” said the toadstool with a small snort. “Just water.”
“Clean water,” the cup insisted. “Streams around, no doubt. Rain water collected in pots. As you wish. Then fill the spoon and drink it. Fill the toadstool through its etched holes and drink it. Then fill me with nice sparkly water and finally drink it. Have a belch or whatever you wiccan folk liked to do after gulping water, and then you can ask whatever comes into your small head. Depending on the question, toadstool will take, spoon will give, and I shall collect and explain the answer.”
Then Dodger poked his head back in to see what was happening. “Sun up in a few moments,” he pointed out. “Dear Cabbage and I will now return to the thatched home you call The Rookery, and I shall stay with my dear Cabbage for the day’s sleep. I’m very fond of thatch and even more fond of Cabbage. You may stay here in peace. Do you wish me to carry a message to anyone at your home?”
“What a wonderful idea,” she told him, brightening at once. “Yes, please. Two witches, one short, one tall. Peg and Edna. And tell them where I am. But please, oh please, don’t tell anyone else. Don’t even tell Peg or Edna if other people are listening. If the message can’t be utterly private, then I’d prefer you to say nothing at all.”
He nodded with a bristle of feathers. “I shall indeed. And, dear friend, do pop up to the nest in the thatch one day. Darling Cabbage and I would love to meet you again.”
The faint line of promised sunshine had painted the horizon. The few stars blinked out. The great round moon, an important symbol to the wiccan folk, was westing behind the hills. The barely visible crack between sky and land widened as the sun attempted to slide further up.
Rosie watched as the two owls, great wings spread wide but utterly silent, flew out into the streaks of pink and lilac. Then as the owls disappeared into the distance, the pink turned scarlet and the lilac turned golden. A vast parade of colours lit the eastern sky, and Rosie leaned back. She knew without words that everything was going to be alright.
For a moment she closed her eyes, then opened them again and stared down at the three silver objects on the moss beside her. “Do you know,” she asked softly, “where there’s a stream or a pond? A lake? A river? I don’t know any around here.”
With a small rattle, the toadstool shook its spots. “No idea, lady,” it said. “You want answers, you’d best go and look.”
Disappointed, she realised that at risk of being seen and spoiling everything, she had to go back in the direction of The Rookery and visit the well. But then she realised she had nothing in which to carry the water once she’d brought it up. She could, perhaps, take all three objects with her and fill them with water while actually beside the well, but this would be an even greater risk. She could not only be caught by the killer himself, but would lose her three precious silver items.
There was no answer in her mind, and she stared around, could not think of a thing, wondered if she could make something out of old wood, doubted it and, feeling stupid and helpless, began to cry. The beauty of the sunrise after the sight of the full moon had brought her a shiver of magical happiness. Now she felt the absolute opposite, for she knew herself to be ridiculously powerless, could not use the silver objects she had wanted so much, even though she now had them. What was more, the affectionate hugs from her father blurred back into her mind.
Yet he was not her father at all. What was more, he might well be the murderer.
A faint call interrupted her depression. “My dear Rosie, are you there?”
“Can you see us, dear?”
She knew both voices and rushed to the opening, leaning out with a huge smile down at the two little faces staring up from so far below. One short woman with a tiny white cap and a few straggles of white hair beneath. The other’s face had disappeared beneath a richly feathered hat.
“I’m coming,” Rosie called. “Oh, thank you and bless you, and you’re both just wonderful. I’m coming.”
Eighteen
“And we still don’t know who, why or even a proper what.”
“We shall sit in a circle, my dear, here in my room, just where dear Whistle sat to create his wonderful spells and devices. What better place?” Edna had set up three chairs around her small table, and on the table sat the silver cup, the toadstool and the spoon. Between them was a large earthenware jug full of cool clean water.