by B G Denvil
Meanwhile, should Master Whistle Hobb be annihilated, then the entire estate of The Rookery shall automatically belong to Whistle Hobb’s designated descendent, unless that designated inheritance be that same personage as awarded to Master Whistle Hobb’s proven killer.
In such a case, the estate will be legally presented to the shire under the conditions stated above.
I hereby authorise every word within this document as undeniable legal imperative, and sign herewith.
The signature was large and very black, with the name Humbugnas Triampanze. The name was known to all as the first and only wiccan Lord of Rule, a wizard with a full and extraordinary one hundred, who was still alive somewhere, probably in some place utterly unknown.
With huge grins which were becoming almost fixed, Rosie, Edna and Peg all linked hands and nodded at each other with the satisfaction of the over eighties, having achieved the extraordinary.
And with a twitch of absolute delight, Rosie said, “So it always belonged to Whistle. It never belonged to my adopted mother at any time.”
“So why did he let her think so?” puzzled Peg. “Or was she somehow the designated relative?”
Rosie didn’t need to think about it and quickly shook her head. “Impossible. Mother – I mean my adopted mother – didn’t like dear Whistle, and I’m sure it was on her orders he was killed, even if she didn’t do it herself, which she might have done. She’s hardly a dainty little thing.”
“It will be interesting to see if she turns into a bug, or gets flown off to the High Wiccan Court and exploded.”
“It’s been a few weeks,” wondered Edna. “Whatever she deserves should have happened by now. Or perhaps,” and she lit up in smiles again, “the court is sitting without her being present. In which case something deliciously nasty will suddenly happen to her out of the wild black nothingness.”
“The sooner the better.”
“I think,” Rosie added, gaining confidence, “it’s time we got the silver out again.”
They lit two candles, then set up the toadstool, spoon and cup once more on the table, summoned a jug of cool clean water out of the air, and Rosie, this time with a hand as happily steady as a rock, filled each item with the water, and then drank. She felt the usual rush of exhilaration and a thread of burning excitement ran from her head to her toes.
“Where is Alfred Scaramouch?” Rosie asked, “and is he guilty of anything involved with these murders?”
After the prolonged taking and giving, and even though Rosie had squashed in two questions, the answer was clear. “He is in hiding with the owl known as Dodger.” announced the cup. “And no, he is entirely innocent of every crime, except that of not trying to stop her when he realised she had wicked plans.”
“Right,” said Rosie, “Who murdered Whistle?”
“Boris Barnacle, on Alice Scaramouch’s orders,” was the expressionless answer.
“And who murdered Kate Cooper?”
“Boris Barnacle on the orders of Alice Scaramouch.”
“And so who murdered Boris Barnacle?”
“Alice Scaramouch.” No one was surprised at the answer.
“It’s fairly clear at last,” said Edna. “She had dear Whistle killed in order to take over The Rookery. And she ordered the killing of Kate, because she had stolen some of Whistle’s belongings which Alice wanted. Then she killed Boris herself, otherwise he could have disclosed her orders, especially if he got caught himself. He was the only one who could know for sure.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Rosie frowned, “is why Alice and Alfred claimed to own everything while Whistle was still alive, and he never denied it. He quite cheerfully let them take all the rents and all the favours and never spoke a word about himself.”
“Ask the cup. Or ask your dear mother.” Peg wagged a finger.
“The cup,” Rosie answered, “is magic of a very superior quality. But none of them can explain things in death. It’s all yes or no, or him or her, or some other very simple direction.” She stood, smiling down at the others including the toadstool, spoon and cup just in case they felt insulted. “As for my darling mother – well – evidently I don’t have one. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m off to find my father.”
Twizzle raised one foot, “No paddling in the billabong,” he squawked, as Edna and Peg both wished Rosie goodnight.
After a twenty-four-year lifetime of feeling pathetic and no use for anything except cleaning up, Rosie jumped into bed, heard the strings creak beneath her mattress as they began to sing a faint lullaby and cuddled down to an extremely comfy sleep.
As planned, she woke before dawn, ready to achieve everything she desired.
Now able to fly wherever she wished, Rosie folded her skirts around her ankles and sped off towards the yew tree where she had been hiding only a few days past. She discovered the hole in the yew tree disappointingly empty of all but feathers, fluff, the occasional mouse and rat bone, and plenty of moss, twigs and old leaves. It actually smelled damp.
Clearly Dodger was no longer at home, even though this was the right time of day when he should have been fast asleep in his cave.
Aware that he had proclaimed a desire to live with Cabbage, even though she had thought he only meant for a night or two, Rosie flew back to The Rookery.
Flying on her own power came as a very different and remarkably pleasant experience. The wind blew through her hair, yet seemed quite friendly. The dawning sun waved good day. Rosie felt carried, as though sunshine, breezes, even rainbows, were all massing together to float her wherever she wished to go.
She certainly wished she’d been able to do this as a child as the experience would probably have seemed even more thrilling, and then, as she descended on the thatched roof, Rosie remembered doing exactly that. She had flown from the kitchen, where she was helping her mother, up to her father’s tree house. But her father had trembled and told her this wasn’t safe, and she shouldn’t do it again. “Oh no, my dearest darling Rosie, if she sees you, your mother will kill us both.”
When she had returned to the kitchen, Alice had greeted her with a great slap on the cheek, a punch to her nose, a kick to her stomach and had then grabbed her by the hair and swung her around the room almost dropping her in the fire.
“Don’t you dare ever do such a thing again, monstrous brat,” Alice had roared at her. “If I ever catch you flying again, I shall cut off your arms. Do you hear? And then the werewolves will come out of the forest and eat you all up.”
Alice supposed Rosie had never dared try again, and surely whatever capability had then remained to her would have been blocked by the fear of such a threat.
Rosie decided that if Alice was ever turned into a bug, she would stamp on it.
Quickly finding the passage beneath the thatch into the small separate rood cavity, Rosie clambered and peered through the gloom to where Cabbage and Dodger were snuggled together in a flying fluff of lost feathers. They both awoke at her arrival, but neither seemed displeased.
“Oh, my dear Rosie,” Dodger said, ruffling his neck feathers.
Cabbage, who was sitting looking in the opposite direction, simply turned her head right around. “Mistress Rosie,” she said. “How sweet of you to visit.”
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Rosie said, although this wasn’t true as she had fully intended to, “but I have a few extremely important questions.” She sat cross-legged on the fluff and grinned at the two owls who now seemed about the same height as herself. “Could you please tell me,” Rosie began very politely, since it was well known that being polite to owls was imperative, “where you actually found the silver cup you so kindly brought me when I shared your nest. Was it the last trunk under my mother’s bed?”
“Indeed it was,” Dodger told her.
“Thank you,” said Rosie. “And would it please be possible, if not too boring for you, to explain what else was in that same chest?”
“Ah,” Dodger said with a flick of one
long ear, “I cannot promise that I noticed everything, mistress. The silver cup was on top, you see, and so I did not need to rummage. Certainly there were papers, being old parchment, for they lay beneath the cup. I am also quite positive I saw two other cups, one being red metal with a peculiar smell, and the other being copper, much larger, with impressions of flowers and letters engraved both out and in. The copper cup was truly beautiful, and I considered it surely made by a very talented engraver. However, the red cup, which sat in one corner within the chest, seemed somehow unpleasant. The smell was rancid, and I did not want it anywhere near my beak, so I was extremely glad you wanted the silver cup and not the red one. I am sorry I cannot remember any other item, for I doubt I saw any others.”
A little bemused by the two other odd cups which had been described but she had certainly never seen, Rosie then asked, “And please, do you have any idea where Alfred Scaramouch is, who was always called my father, and used to live in the tree house out there? He was the one who brought me to your nest that night.”
“Indeed I do,” Dodger whooped owl-like. “That gentleman has been my friend for many years. Now being somewhat fearful of what may happen, he has taken up residence in the roof just next door. He frequently comes here for a bedtime discussion, and then sleeps the night here while we fly off to hunt. But when we return and wish to sleep, he goes next door and stays with the bats.”
“Oh dear.” Rosie wondered where she could hide him in a more comfortable and cleaner manner. “I’ll go and see him,” she said. “And thank you so very much for the information. You’ve been so helpful.”
Returning to Edna’s rooms, Rosie found both Peg and Edna dozing in their chairs, and so quietly tiptoed off downstairs to her own room, now so magnificently improved. Here, she wondered if she might doze too, but there was something else she wanted to do first.
Bending over her glorious new rug, she cupped her hands together and made up her own brand-new spell.
Twenty-Three
With her precious new creation cradled between her hands, Rosie flew quickly up to the roof cavity within the attic where the colony of small black bats were sleeping. They looked very peaceful, row upon row of little furry upside-down black objects hanging from the rafters. But beneath them was an extremely smelly carpet of guano, which covered the entire floor in various lumps of various sizes. Not quite as attractive as a Turkey rug
Alfred was cuddled in a corner with a slight slit of view through the thatch right beside him. He was entirely covered in guano and smelled no better than the rest of the space. He also appeared to be dozing.
Rosie crept to his side, tried not to breathe in the stink, and whispered, “Daddykins, it’s me, Rosie. I’m quite sure the danger is past. Would you like to wake up?”
He woke gently with a flick of his eyes and a sweet smile. “I’d like to think the danger finished, my dear,” he told her, voice little more than a grunt. “But sadly, not so, my dear.”
“Well, Alice is still around,” Rosie admitted. “But she can’t do much, because there’s the new resident Edna who is extremely powerful, and Peg too, who isn’t exactly weak as you certainly know. And I’ve accused Alice of murder. She’s denied it, of course, but she keeps very much out of the way, hoping it’ll all blow over I expect. Boris is dead. He did the first two killings, didn’t he?”
Her adopted father went red and looked very ashamed, saying only, “Umm.”
“I know you know,” Rosie explained. “But I honestly don’t blame you. I bet you’re frightened of Alice, just like the rest of us. Well – me, anyway. And you only knew because you couldn’t help hearing it while she was plotting and planning. And you tried to save me – and it worked. I’m safe, and so are you. She thought she should kill me too, didn’t she?”
Alfred nodded, still bright red amongst the shadows. “Umm,” he managed.
“But she isn’t my mother,” Rosie continued. “And you’re not my real father, though I’ve always loved you. So where did I come from, and why did Alice want to adopt me?”
“Oh dear,” Alfred murmured. “I never understood half of it, you know. I knew it was Alice who wanted certain things and made them happen. I know a little about why. But we were only together for a very short time, you see. It was a love-spell, and I begged her to marry me. Silly old twit, I was. I should have guessed it was a trick. But she liked having a husband. I soon learned not to like her, but I liked being liked. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of. So when was I actually adopted? How old was I?”
“Such a sweet little baby,” Alfred said with a smile that made his crimson flush disappear. “Tiny and quite adorable. A few weeks, perhaps. I’m not sure. Very young indeed.”
With her own soppy smile, Rosie drank this in. Then she took a large breath to avoid the smell and asked, “Do you know anything about a large cup engraved with beautiful flowers and stuff? And maybe a small red cup that smells disgusting?”
This time Alfred shrank back. “I know nothing about the red cup,” he said with an unconvincing shiver. “But the decorated cup is yours, my dear. Most beautiful, probably even valuable. Whistle Hobb presented it to you on the day of your adoption.” His smile also seemed to be engraved. “You stretched out one tiny little plump hand, and touched the cup as he gave it to you. And he said, ‘There you are – she accepts.’”
“You liked Whistle? So what was he to me?”
Rosie had asked her ultimate question, but Alfred went suddenly quiet, The red flush reappeared. He muttered, “I don’t know,” and looked guilty. Rosie had already discovered that her adopted father was a very bad liar.
But she accepted his lie. As she now had other ways of finding out everything. So Rosie patted her father’s arm. “I was hoping you’d come back down and take over Boris’s room,” she said. “I’ve made it clean itself up and those black splashes have gone. It’s got a big hanging basket of lilac and bluebells and different sorts of blue flowers that don’t exist here yet, but they won’t ever die, and they all smell wonderful. I’ve put in new bed coverings and pillows, so none of them have anything to do with Boris, and they’re all much nicer than his anyway, and there’s certainly no blood left. His memory is completely gone from every tiny little scrap.” Rosie watched his face for signs of dislike or worry, but Alfred appeared quite excited. “Of course, I’ll clean up your tree house too,” she promised him, “but since you can’t fly or get your own nice food, I think you should use our nice big room downstairs most of the time. Perhaps you can go back to the tree for holidays.”
“What a happy idea,’ he said, scrambling to stand. “I thank you so much, my dear. You’re very kind, even though now you know I’m not your real father.”
“You’ve been my real father for twenty-four years,” she smiled. “And that feels good enough.” Rosie didn’t add that since he had spent most of the time in the tree house, she hadn’t seen him anyway.
But as she pulled something out of her apron pocket and held it out to him. He stared in wonder. He reached out, wiping one trembling finger over its surface. Rosie handed him her gift. It was a large ball of glass, and in its centre, imbedded but shining through, was a small glitter of silver stars.
“Is it what I think it is?” he breathed.
“Yes indeed. It’s a Luck Glass,” Rosie said. “You can ask lots of questions, and the answers show up in pictures. Sometimes it will even bring what you want. Ask for something important, and within three days you may get it. And just sit it by your bed, and it will bring a gentle mist of luck into your life, chasing away some of the bad luck that everyone gets. It won’t do miracles, but it will do quite a lot. With the telling and the giving and the protecting, it will bring new feelings of safety and happiness into your life.”
“That surely is a miracle.” Alfred gazed lovingly both at the glass ball and at Rosie. “What a remarkable young woman you are, my dearest. And you are nearly of age now. Luck may come to you too.”
But R
osie shook her head. “I’m only twenty-four, Daddykins,” she reminded him. “It’s almost another year before I turn twenty-five.” And this time it was Alfred who shook his head.
“No, no, my dear. Has your mother told you wrong days and years for your birthdate all this time? Yes, I can guess she had a reason for that. But I have to tell you this, Rosie dearest, though I beg you not to tell your mother that it was me who told you. But your real birthday is at midnight, the sweet starlit witching hour, on the eighteenth of June. And this year, at midnight on that day this year, you will turn twenty-five, the moment when you become an adult wiccan and receive the blessing of the Great Lord of the Law.”
The confusion fogged around Rosie once again. “Why on earth didn’t Alice want me to know my real age? But for so many years she hid my powers too, and had me blocked. Suffocated. She wanted me as her daughter, but she wanted me weak and pathetic. It seems so daft. But then again, now I know she’s such a terrible person, I suppose I’m not surprised at anything. And receiving my coming of age will be so wonderfully exciting.”
“I am sure it will be glorious,” Alfred said. “We are mostly hundreds of years old, so very few of us remember turning twenty-five. Your celebration will be a rare and delightful experience for all of us.”
‘Twenty-five. Ninety-eight. Twenty-five. Ninety-eight.” Rosie repeated these important numbers to herself with pride. She held out her hand, grinning, since previously she had needed someone else’s hand in order to fly herself. Now Alfred took her hand, and together they few down to Boris Barnacle’s room, and Alfred stood gazing with enormous pleasure. It was now a grand room, and totally changed. So he rested his new Luck Ball on the little table beside his bed and flung his arms around his adopted daughter.
From Boris’s room, Rosie walked directly to her adopted mother’s. Few had seen Alice since the accusations, Boris’s death and the day’s interviews by Dickon Wald. Her scowl had occasionally been noticed in the kitchen, walking outside and even stalking the corridors. But she had produced neither breakfast nor dinner, neither supper nor any drinks and snacks. Indeed, she had almost disappeared. Rosie was sure the woman was planning something unpleasant, but still had no understanding of why.