by B G Denvil
They sat as they had before, in a circle around the small table, but this time the table was bare without jugs of water or anything else.
“Right. I shall start,” said Edna softly. “Close your eyes, my dear, then listen carefully to everything you hear. No looking. Just hearing.”
Rosie knew her neck and shoulders were rigid, and tried to breathe deeply without worry or strain.
“Nothing matters, dear,” Edna continued. “You will not even understand some of what I will say. But I shall ask twenty-four questions, and you will answer whatever comes into your head. There are no wrong answers. Actually, there are no right ones either. Now,” and she clicked her fingers. Immediately Rosie realised she had relaxed so completely that she almost believed she was sinking through the chair and through the floor.
“Umm,” she said, although she’d had no intention of speaking, “I am entirely ready.”
“Good,” Edna smiled. “So, first question. You like numbered lists. So number one. Where are your primary feathers?”
It didn’t bother her, but Rosie felt this to be a rather stupid question. “I don’t have wings,” she said. “And my only feathers are up my nose from Dodger’s nest. My actual wings are my powers. But if you want a more relevant answer, then waddle and snot.”
“Excellent,” said Edna to Rosie’s great surprise. “An excellent answer. Now, number two. What would you do if someone tried to hit you?”
“Stop him,” said Rosie with a faint sniff.
“Good, good,” Edna said, scribbling with her finger in a sort of notebook enclosed in leaves.
Peg was busy nodding. “Now tell me how old you are, dear.”
“Twenty-four and a few months and several days, plus no end of hours and so on. But,” she concluded, “it’s of no importance whatsoever. Not only has my mother forgotten my birthday, but now I think I have as well. Besides, age is utterly useless for understanding anything. Idiots can be twenty-four too. They can be nasty, and they can be nice, and that’s far more interesting than how old they are. Most of the folk in The Rookery are way over two hundred, and every one of them is entirely different from everyone else. Power makes a difference, but years do not. Individuality is what makes a character, not age.”
She knew it was her voice and could hear it, but Rosie was sure she hadn’t said any of it. She tried to say so but nothing came out.
Once again, Peg took the turn. “Now then, where is Whistle?”
The voice inside Rosie’s head clicked again. “He’s inside Oswald, but he’s fast asleep. When I decide to wake him, he’ll pop back in. Then I’ll have Whistle when he’s awake, and when he falls back asleep, I’ll have Oswald. I shall know how to wake Whistle when it becomes important. Not yet.”
“Choose a number. Any number,” said Edna suddenly.
“Ninety-eight,” Rosie said off the top of her head.
“Really?” Edna was interested. “Right, who are your parents?”
“Alice and Alfred Scaramouch are my adopted parents,” Rosie replied, surprising herself. “Whistle chose them when he needed a mother and father for me. They were a poor choice, especially Alice, but then Whistle knew very little about parents himself having forgotten his own years back. My real parents are difficult to pinpoint.”
“Didn’t Alice and Alfred want you?” Peg wondered.
“Oh yes, they did indeed,” Rosie found herself answering. “Very much indeed.”
Peg turned to Edna. “That doesn’t make sense.’
“We must keep to the questions. Now, Rosie. Imagine three thousand and nineteen tulips from Holland, which you have never seen. Now imagine a collection of twenty-eight copper saucepans. They all suddenly fall into a river in Britany. So what happens to all the fish?”
“There weren’t any,” Rosie said impatiently. “Your hypothesis is absurd, and fish are sensible little creatures, so they don’t fit together. Your river is therefore a fantasy and fish do not swim in fantasies. Besides, I told you already, it’s ninety-eight. And the fish would be singing ninety-eight over and over again.”
‘Very well,” sighed Edna. “Multiply thirteen by a hundred and fifteen, then divide the answer by two and multiply again by seventy-seven. What’s the answer?”
“Ninety-eight,” Rosie said patiently.
“That seems accurate,” said Peg, counting on three of her fingers.
“Repeat after me,” Edna cut in, “Gold tassels.”
“Pirates and pillars,” said Rosie.
“Perfect,” smiled Edna. “Now, repeat after me again. Bristles and badgers.”
“Otters and ovens,” Rosie murmured, “plus ninety-eight. You can subtract one from ninety-eight and still arrive at the answer ninety-eight, but the otters won’t know how to put it in the oven.”
“You’re doing very well, my dear,” Edna told her. “Only a few more questions, and it will be all over.”
“I’m happy to carry on,” Rosie smiled.
“Good,” said Edna, her voice falling to a virtual whisper. “So tell me about the dark.”
And Rosie began to explain.
Twenty
She was still under the spell when Rosie began to explain the shadow side,
“There are two systems by which darkness can inspire a wizard or witch,” she said, her eyes still firmly closed as she relaxed in the chair. “Some wiccan folk are born dark. They are the evil ones and are not too difficult for another wiccan to recognise. But then there are those who have some magical power, but with little idea of what to do with it. They are simple, even kind, and invariably weak. A strong shadow can easily manipulate such a wizard. This is inclined to bring out the wizard’s own light side, but deny it sustenance, so that the brain becomes detached. The result is simple, although it can take several months or even years to create the full result. Then the wizard is assumed, even by himself, to be kind but excessively stupid. On the other hand, the shadow can be triggered, and the simpleton should turn dark as the night. His brain returns, and he will search for actions to satisfy his desire for cruelty.”
She paused and Peg asked, “Is that Boris Barnacle you describe?”
“It was,” Rosie nodded. “But no longer, since the wizard is dead,”
Peg stared, and Edna asked, “In retaliation? Did he fight with someone who got the better of him?”
“No,” said Rosie. “His death was planned.”
“Who by?” Edna whispered.
“Alice, naturally,” said Rosie.
Peg ran from the room and slithered down the stairs. Edna clapped loudly, bringing Rosie out of the trance, and taking her hand, flew with her down to the room normally occupied by Boris.
His door was open, and already Peg stood there in silent horror. Parts of Boris were scattered across the floor and huge streams of blood were running from one part to another, oozing between the floor boards and collecting around the head. The head itself, face down, was cracked and a number of black globules had leaked out. Where pieces of his body had been removed, it seemed not only unnecessary, but frenzied.
“The shadow side?” Edna whispered. “But clearly not of Boris himself.”
“Alice,” muttered Peg.
Which is when Alice strode from the kitchen and surveyed the stinking mess on the floor. With both arms upraised and hands fluttering, she began to scream. The echoing cry continued for some moments, and everybody from every room in The Rookery came running, flying or creeping to see what on earth had happened now.
“Oh, not again,” sighed Montague.
“Well, this one won’t be missed,’ said Mandrake.
Nan Quake, who rarely left her bedroom in spite of her respectable seventy-five, stared down at the ghastly sight, and her scream joined Alice’s. Inky and Julia both pushed through the growing crowd and stood in absolute disgust. Inky dropped the pair of shoes she had been holding and screamed too, although with a higher tone. Nan’s scream was much deeper. Julia Frost simply burst into tears. Inky’s shoe
s had landed in a pool of blood, and she refused to ever to wear them again.
Toby stepped backwards into Dandy, and both swore at each other. Harry Flash started crying as well, while Ethelred got the hiccups and hurried off.
In the middle of this, Rosie sat on the bottom step of the nearby stairs and tried to remember and make sense of what had been happening up in Edna’s room. Edna herself leaned back against the wall without expression, while Peg rounded on Alice.
“It was you,” she accused. “We know it was you.”
“How dare you,” Alice screeched. “Indeed, I know who it was. Not me, of course. This was Alfred. My wicked husband. I know it, he murdered them all. He was looking for something though I’ve no idea what that was.”
“A silver cup?” suggested Peg.
Alice turned as red as the blood on the floor. “What nonsense. I’m telling you; Alfred did this. I’ve had to live separately from my husband for years since he was so vicious. I forced him to live as far away as possible, or I knew he might hurt our little Rosie. Indeed, have you seen what he did to her bedroom? He had some idea about precious objects he could sell, so he killed Whistle. Then Kate and now this. I am so frightened of him.” She finished with a gulp, pointed at the pieces of Boris and returned to the scream.
One or two of the more sympathetic witches rallied around to comfort Alice, giving her a slight hug or two. Nothing really affectionate, since no one actually liked her.
Looking up at the still fussing crowd, Rosie said, “Not my father. It was him who came to me three nights ago. Poor darling, he can’t fly, but he managed to scramble through my window to warn me I was in danger. He never said who from, but obviously it wasn’t him or he would have killed me there and then. He helped me hide, and then he disappeared.”
“There you are, then,” Alice roared. ‘He got rid of you – knowing exactly where you were, in case he wanted to come back and kill you off. But in the meantime, your room was unoccupied and ready for him to go in and search for valuables and take as long as he liked. Then he did the same to his own room, just to make him seem more innocent.”
“Pooh,” said Rosie. But she had no proper answer.
Edna answered for her. She pointed one very long finger, and everyone saw as a huge blue flash exploded from the end. “Tell the truth,” she ordered. “Who killed Boris Barnacle?”
Alice went white. She swayed, but was unable to escape the spell. She gulped, croaked about a sore throat and then suddenly blurted out, “Me!” and shuddered. “But only this one,” she shrieked. “Not Kate. Not Whistle. Those weren’t me. I think they were him.” She waved a cold hand at Boris’s pieces. “That’s why I killed him.”
“Then why on earth say it was all my father?”
Alice stared around, wiped her nose on her apron and shouted out, “I have to go. Nearly time for supper.” And she ran towards the kitchen.
Montague had wandered off, but Mandrake marched to the front door. “This is a job for the sheriff,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
“Oh, bother,” said Peg.
“No matter,” said Rosie, remembering Dickon Wald.
Rosie was asleep again when the sheriff’s assistant arrived. Clearly he was quite pleased to be back and knocked politely on the front door even though it was open. Mandrake beckoned him inside and led him to the chaos in Boris Barnacle’s bedchamber. With one brief glance, Dickon turned away, fisted his hands and shut his mouth with a snap. Clearly Dickon felt quite sick, and heaved, but managed to hold it in.
“No need to investigate the remains,” Dickon said quickly with a gulp. “A nasty brutal death. Someone must have hated him indeed. Clearly male, clearly strongly built with a vile temper. Now, which of your residents would you say fits that picture?”
“None of them,” said Mandrake. “Possibly the owner, who is definitely female.”
“No, impossible, no delicate lady could do such a thing.”
“I suppose you’re not married,” sighed Mandrake.
“I should like to speak with Mistress Rosie,” Dickon said, avoiding any view of the mess on the floor. “She’ll be able to tell me everything I need to know.”
Mandrake laughed. “I’ll get her,” he said, “but she’s already accused her mother.”
“Nonsense,” declared Dickon. “I shall wait in your meeting hall.” And, remembering where this was, he strode off in the opposite direction to Mandrake.
It was quite some time before Rosie joined him, and she looked glassy-eyed and still half asleep. “You want to know about Boris?” she asked.
“You must not, under any circumstances,” Dickon told her, his hands on her shoulders in protective fashion, “go anywhere near Master Barnacle’s bedchamber,” and stared earnestly into her eyes. “You must not even go close. It is a crime of the worst sort. Now, my dear, if you’ll forgive me for calling you that,” and he led her to a couple of the more comfortable looking chairs, “who do you suppose is capable of such an evil and brutal murder?”
“My mother,” said Rosie, retrieving her arm from Dickon’s grasp.
“No, no,” Dickon said, a little concerned. “I presume you’ve recently had an argument with your mother, and so you feel a little cross with her. But this is the ugly work of a malicious male. So can you help me with a possible culprit?”
Regarding him with little remaining sympathy, Rosie sighed. “I have no idea,” she said. “We’re all very nice people here. It must have been someone from the village.”
“And have you any reason why this gentleman might have been killed? Was he wealthy?”
“Oh, yes,” lied Rosie with a faint smile. “He had a large wooden chest full of coins. He’s been collecting it for years, working so hard for that reason. If you find someone with a chest like that, then it’s obviously the killer. But the chest might be rather hard to open.”
“Locked, I assume,” Dickon asked. “We should discuss the situation a little more fully, mistress. Would you care to come to the Juggler and Goat with me for a light meal and some ale? I’m sure it would be a great help to me.”
“Umm,” said Rosie again, “trouble is, I’ve promised to spend the evening with two friends here. Old ladies, you know, who get rather lonely. But I think you should do a search for the money chest. Perhaps start under my mother’s bed.”
“Dear, dear, you really have had a strong disagreement with your poor mother today,” Dicken said, trying to reach for Rosie’s hand again. “But I promise, no female, especially past a certain age, could ever have committed such a horrible act.”
Pulling her hand away again, Rosie managed a smile, meanwhile wondering what on earth she had found attractive about him before. She decided that the attraction must have been for the tavern and not the man. “This isn’t the first murder here,” she said as he nodded. “So have you got any rough and greedy men wandering around in Little Piddleton? Or perhaps already in gaol? Or someone who used to be poor but has got suddenly rich?”
“Perhaps if you’re not free today, then what about tomorrow at the tavern for a chat?” Dickon pressed.
“Maybe tomorrow. If you can think of possible killers in the village.” He was thinking deeply as she stood. “Well, sorry, but I’m going back to my friends upstairs. Are you going to question everyone like you did last time? In that case, don’t forget my mother.”
Dickon stood as she did, pushing back his chair and clutching her hand. “Tomorrow at the Juggler and Goat, then. At five of the clock? May I come and collect you?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Rosie said, pulling away but relishing the thought of good ale and a sumptuous supper. “Good luck with the interviews.”
Edna and Peg were waiting for her in Edna’s pleasant second room, and Rosie flopped down beside them on a rather stiff little wooden chair. Edna patted her hand. “The sheriff’s assistant is rather stupid, my dear, but that’s a very good thing. It means we can all get on with our own lives without the law interfering. I have n
o idea what the actual sheriff is like.”
“He sleeps a lot,” said Peg.
“What a blessing.” Edna turned to Rosie. “Now, you may remember what was going on before we were called down to see what was left of Boris. I do hope you realised what was going on.”
Rosie remembered a dozen completely crazed questions, and her own completely crazed answers. “Then I remember you asking me about the shadow people,” she said softly. “I know I said quite a lot, but you had me under a special spell, didn’t you, because there’s no way I actually knew any of that. But I said Boris was one of those very weak little wizards who got infected with shadows by someone horrible. The weak ones can’t resist, can they? I was so scared for my father.”
“No strong magic,” Peg said, “but clearly he cares for you very much. That would save him from the shadows, even if nothing else could.”
“But Boris didn’t escape. And what about my mother?”
“Ah, yes.” Both Edna and Peg leaned back in their more comfy and cushioned chairs and smiled, hands in their laps. “Your mother is clearly another split wiccan, just like Boris. Not quite as weak on the good side, and a good deal stronger on the darker. She must have been turned some years back, but not before you were born, because I cannot believe Whistle would have chosen her as your adopted mother if she was heavily shadowed. And he would have known, you know.”
“The me under your spell,” Rosie said, “was quite sure. She knew it was my mother.”
“Your adopted mother.”
Rosie was shaking her head as she tried to remember everything else. “The spell, and what you were doing, and those funny questions,” she said, “that was all strangely familiar. But how can it be?”
“Quite simple, my dear,” Edna said. “What you vaguely remember happened around fourteen years ago when you were tested. I was there, you see. I helped with the test. Whistle was also there, taking an interest, of course. We all expected a high score. But sadly, it came out only as a fifty. That puzzled us, but we had to accept what came up, or we would have been accused of cheating. But I have always wondered if someone blocked you, someone very strong indeed who might have put a spell – even a curse – on you as a very young child. That would have smothered your skills and made you appear far weaker.”