by B G Denvil
“But,” Rosie disagreed, “I do get quite a few ideas, you know. Seeing things before they happen. When Little Piddleton’s problem started, immediately Mandrake was arrested.”
“But it never was a murder,” Peg pointed out, “just a silly accident. And Mandrake got himself out.”
“Which means,” Rosie continued, “that whoever arranged that, now knows he has to do something far stronger next time, and the next time, and the time after that. Especially if he wants us to get involved and suffer too.”
Both Peg and Edna suddenly sat forwards, almost bumping heads across Rosie’s lap, since she was sitting in the middle. “So,” said Edna, “you actually think Alice is behind this again? But she can’t be. What can a tiny bug achieve?”
“She’s not alone.” Rosie stared at her friends. “That daft sheriff’s assistant, who is now the sheriff, he’s gone exactly the way Boris went, and he’s got black splashes all over his walls. And we know the Godwin person was murdered, well, his poor little wife was in floods of tears when I found her.” Rosie, remembering, also sniffed. “And she said sad things, as if she knew she was about to be killed as well.”
“I refuse to believe it’s Alice,” moaned Peg. “She’s a teeny weeny little camouflaged beetle who can’t eat anything bigger than a grain of sea salt.”
Again, Rosie shook her head, which disturbed Twizzle. “She had swallowed the shadow side before. What if that’s the power now, and she’s got it back somehow?”
Edna had closed her eyes, and her hands were clasped tight beneath her chin. “That’s it,” she exclaimed. “It’s that wretched red cup we buried together with Boris.”
“Right,” said Peg. “We have to dig him up. I’ll ask Dipper.”
“We can’t give such an urgent and dangerous job to anyone else,” Rosie objected. “And besides, Dipper is only a seventeen. How’s he supposed to deal head on with evil?”
“We wait until this evening, and we do it ourselves,” said Edna, and they immediately accepted that this was the right thing to do.
The first twitch of excitement had already rebirthed and grew significantly by the evening. The August nights came late, but the stars peeped out by ten of the clock, intrigued to see what the three powerful witches were about to achieve. They were intrigued themselves, and had no idea yet what they might find.
Twizzle and the crows were fast asleep, and the bats had flown in their huge winged sweep as the night forced out the day, but both Cabbage and Dodger were sitting on the back porch, watching with curiosity.
“It seems to me,” Dodger informed his partner, “they’re taking a big risk here.”
“Perhaps not,” Cabbage told him. “They can protect themselves, you know. As far as wingless creatures go, these are fairly powerful.”
“Even averagely intelligent, do you think?” wondered the male owl.
“I believe so,” Cabbage agreed. “So I suggest we fly off to hunt. And when we return, we can see what’s left of them.”
On the ground below, Edna, Rosie and Peg clasped their spades, but were using more magic than muscular effort. Edna pointed her spade and ordered it to dig. She then let it go, and it immediately obeyed, first hovering over the grassy rise of the last grave. It poked its flat edge into the ground and began to upend the earth.
Rosie released her spade and pointed. “Help dig,” she told it. “But be careful. Stop once the body is uncovered.
With a nod, Peg pointed her spade and ordered, “Go and help the others.” Unfortunately, it seemed to have misunderstood, and with a hefty scoop, it gathered her up onto its large flat end, and with a joyful hop of success, it flew off towards the distant hills. Peg clung on, calling, “I shall be back soon. Carry on without me,” and promptly disappeared into the clouds.
Rosie sighed, but looked back down, directing her spade. Both the remaining spades dug fast, and gradually the small belligerent body of Boris Barnacle was uncovered. Edna bent beside the long space, peering down.
“Boris looks peaceful,” she sighed. “Even comfortable. But,” and she staggered upright, “there is no red cup. It has gone.”
“And,” said Rosie, “no signs of the veil there was originally on Boris. He’s peaceful with no black splashes. So, quite obviously, the dark shadows have passed on.”
“With the cup? In the cup? How much do we understand?”
Rosie regarded Edna. “Very little, I’m afraid. But since the red cup has gone, I’m assuming that’s the clue. I wonder if the shadow has moved into Dickon Wald. He was definitely affected.” She turned back to her spade, which now lay on the grass getting its breath back. “Sorry,” she told it. “Now you have to put all that earth back and try to make a nice flat top.”
“Oh bother,” muttered the spade.
But both spades were working hard when Peg flew back with the wind gusting, her cloak caught up in her hair and one shoe missing, still gripping the edge of the handle where it connected with the scoop. Arriving at the partially repaired grave, the spade tipped her off.
“Where was it this time?” Rosie asked her.
“Somewhere called Ethiopia,” Peg said, standing with a wobble. “Quite interesting.”
“Right,” Rosie said. “Back indoors to my rooms, please. I think I need to ask the toadstool, spoon and cup about Dickon Wald and Godwin Trout.”
Now well practised, it did not take long to set up, and Rosie hurried through the ritual of the water. Finally drinking the cupful, she swallowed, smiled with delight as the usual brilliance of refreshment spiralled through her. Edna and Peg watched on, intrigued to hear the answers.
“I know you are not able to answer the problems of mundane humanity,” she said quickly, “but tell me about the red cup and where it is now.”
“I take away the grave of Boris Barnacle,” said the toadstool.”
“I offer the human village,” said the spoon.
The cup summed it up. “The red cup holds the essence of many centuries,” it said. “Dark shadows have fought with the light ever since the wiccan began. The red cup has been used by darkness for drinking evil, just as we bring rightfulness. There is also a red toadstool and a red spoon – but these have been long lost. Whoever finds all three, could control evil for evermore. But I have no knowledge of their place, and nor has anyone else that I know of. The red cup, however, has found its way to the arms of the human sheriff, Dickon Wald. It was purposefully given to him.”
Rosie sank back against her cushions. “Why red? What is it?”
“Absorbent red cinnabar,” said the cup. “which is not evil of itself, but has absorbed all shadow forces over the centuries. And it has darkened, but not turned black, for the colour keeps it alive. Otherwise it would shrink and become part of the force. As it now stands, it is the safekeeping and not the force itself.”
Peg had sat up. Now she asked, “How did Alice get it, then?”
With a charitable sigh, the cup deigned to answer her. “It finds those who are ready for it. But it will move to another when it discovers a superior bed.”
Edna frowned. “But Whistle made you and the other silver vessels. Did he copy the red ones? What came first?”
“Neither,” said the cup. “When great good comes into physical metamorphosis, so its direct opposite must exist. Perfection always leaves the imperfections behind it. But this occurred long before our friend Whistle Hobb. He merely channelled the forces that already existed, in essence.”
“Cinnabar isn’t actually evil,” Rosie repeated to herself, “just as silver isn’t actually good. Only the vessels. But it certainly makes it easier for us to find and use.”
“And if we find this red cup and take it away from the human,” wondered Edna, “will he return to normal?”
“Naturally,” said the cup, who was somewhat disdainful to any who spoke without having first drunk from the toadstool and spoon.
“One last question,” Rosie asked. “Would finding the red cup help? Or make us turn wicke
d?”
“Neither,” the cup replied. “It would not greatly help, unless you also found the red mushroom and spoon. Then you could discover a way for evil to destroy itself. In the meantime, you might simply use the red cup to leave whoever it had most recently digested. But it could not choose to move to anyone without an existing propensity towards its evil.”
“It won’t be easy,” said Edna in a very small voice.
“Greatness and simplicity do not walk hand in hand,” said the cup with a superior air. “What is easy will crawl into invisibility. It is the charm of the difficult which shines large.”
“That’s all very well,” Peg muttered. “Everything’s easy for you. You just have to sit there.”
“Nonsense,” said the cup with a sniff. “Just try being a cup. It isn’t easy at all.”
Rosie went alone to the village the following day. Peg’s brief trip to Ethiopia had left her with a slight headache, which refused to be magicked away, and Edna felt that Rosie would manage Dickon Wald better if she approached him alone. He had once asked her to marry him, after all, and must surely hold a memory of his attraction to her. She had, extremely briefly, felt an equal attraction, though now she was more inclined to despise him.
But having dressed in her Sunday best, not that she saved them for Sundays, she flew to the outskirts of the village and then walked to the sheriff’s office.
Dickon was at work. He sat at his small table, its unpolished surface covered in papers, and the walls behind him covered in huge black splashes. He sat with his head in his hands and looked far less wicked and far more confused, dishevelled and positively miserable.
“Good morning. Can I help?” Rosie said.
Sitting up with a jerk, Dickon faced her. “I’m busy,” he said as if he had never met her before. “I need no help, I’m perfectly capable of doing my own job. Who are you anyway?”
“Rosie Scaramouch, now Rosie Hobb,” she told him. “Don’t you remember me? We were friends once.”
“I doubt it,” Dickon said, with creases between his brows as though something smelled unpleasant. “I’m too busy for idle friendships. I have to arrest someone.” He stared back down at his papers. “If only I can remember who that is.” Suddenly aware that he had spoken aloud, Dickon looked up. “Don’t you stare at me, madam. I am an expert at my job, and it’s none of your business.” Then abruptly he brightened and smiled. “Good morning, Mistress Scaramouch. Or may I call you Rosie? It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you as always, Dickon,” she said, then, with both hands flat on the table, leaned towards him. “Dear Dickon,” she continued, “please call me Rosie as always. I was just wondering whether you knew who had killed Godwin Trout.”
He looked away, glowering at one of the black splashes which covered his wall. “I can’t talk about sheriff’s business,” he said with gruff anger. “How can I talk business with a woman from The Rookery? Besides, you won’t know Margaret Trout. So telling you she’s guilty won’t help any of us.”
“So you know Maggs killed her husband,” suggested Rosie, “but you won’t tell me?”
“Exactly,” said the sheriff, eyes back on his papers. “So go away. I’m telling you nothing.”
“I accept that,” Rosie smiled. “Tell me nothing of your business. But how do you know Margaret Trout did it?”
“I have no intention of telling you anything,” Dickon scowled back. “Naturally it is always the wife who murders the husband and the husband who murders the wife. And anyway, he told me as I found him dying. But I’m not saying a word about it.”
“Godwin died in your arms?”
“Who told you that?” demanded the sheriff. “Go away, go on, get out. I have business. Now I’ve remembered who I have to arrest, I have to hurry up and do it.”
“Do you feel unwell?” Rosie suggested. “Perhaps you should have a rest first? I assume you slept badly last night.”
“Did I?” Dickon was confused again. “I usually sleep well. But if I slept badly last night, then I should rest now and go and arrest the wretched woman afterwards.”
“You mean Margaret Trout?”
“Of course I do,” Dickon complained. “Now go away so I can sleep.”
Seven
A scraping of garden fronted the Trout cottage. Although the roof was in poor repair, the beams supporting the main structure were solid and so was the tiny hedge which made entering the property impossible for cows and sheep. There was a gate, however, which could be pushed open, leading to the cottage door. Although most villagers left their doors ajar during sunny summer days, the Trout door was fast shut.
Rosie knocked. The was a small brass bell shaped like a rabbit, and when no one answered the knock, she rang the rabbit. Still no one came, and so she pushed open the locked door with a click from her fingers and went inside, calling loudly. “Maggs, are you there? I’m not the sheriff.”
Hearing a hopeful whisper, Rosie peeped into the tiny solar. As she opened the door, the sun rushed in, and Maggs sat up with a smile of relief. It was obvious, however, that she had been crying again. The sunshine was reflected in the moisture on her face where the tears had streaked. Rosie hurried forwards and hugged her, both arms in a tight embrace. She had forgotten that her previous visit had been made as a cat, and therefore Maggs had no idea who she was.
“Tell me,” Rosie insisted. “I can help. Did you kill your wretched husband?”
From within the squeeze, Maggs seemed bewildered. “Are you a new sheriff’s assistant?” she murmured. “Or were you Godwin’s friend? I suppose not, but I feel I’ve met you before.”
“In the Juggler and Goat, perhaps? But it doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened to Godwin.”
She looked up as Rosie released her. “No, I didn’t kill him, though I often wished I could.” Maggs had started crying again. “I come from the market two days ago and stopped in amazement. For Dickon was kneeling out on the cobbles, with Godwin in his arms. Godwin was covered in blood. At first, I thought Dickon must have done it, and I ran up to them. Godwin’s eyes were fluttering like a sick cow’s, but then he flopped and went sort of limp. Dickon looked up and shouted at me.”
“He accused you?”
Maggs nodded. “He did. I remember exactly what he said, because it was so crazy. He said, ‘Your poor husband says you killed him with the kitchen knife and some rope. My dear friend Godwin is dead, but he accused you first. And after I arrange to have him buried in the church grounds, I shall arrest you for brutal and indefensible murder.’ I didn’t go to Godwin’s funeral. He was a horrible bully of a man anyway. But ever since I’ve been expecting Dickon to march in and arrest me.”
“How,” demanded Rosie, “could you have killed him when you were out at the market?”
“I was standing there, staring at both of them with a bag of salads and roots, and a chicken to roast. I’d walked home just that moment.”
“Perhaps he thought you were in the house; you’d killed Godwin, and then you’d filled a bag with market stuff and nipped out the back door to come around from the road.”
“I promise I didn’t,” Mags continued, sobbing.
“Dickon is – not very well,” said Rosie. “He’s capable of anything at the moment, including hanging you without trial.” She thought a moment. “I wonder if I ought to do something crazy myself.”
“Don’t – oh, please, please don’t drag me off to Dickon. I’m not guilty, honestly I’m not.”
Rosie shook her head. “Can you go to live with your brother at the farm? Would he protect you?”
“He would,” and the tears poured again down her face. “But his rotten wife wouldn’t. Poor dearest Alid probably doesn’t know, but I think his wife must have had an affair with Godwin in the past. Anyway, she hates me. She’s so mean behind Alid’s back, I’m sure she’d run and get Dickon at once. That horrible Joan is as nasty as Godwin was.”
Rosie saw the problem looming clo
ser. After her years with Alice as her supposed mother, she felt a deep sympathy with Maggs. She knew her husband had beaten her daily.
“I’m surprised you didn’t murder Joan and Godwin both.”
“I thought of it,” Maggs whispered.
“So,” Rosie said, trying to decide, “have you any friends who could hide you? What about travelling to another village? Another town?”
The crying hadn’t stopped. “I have no friends, because Godwin used to scare them off. I’ve thought of running away, but where would I go? If I had the time, I thought of selling this house and taking the money to live somewhere else. But Dickon could come any minute. So do you think I should just head towards the hills, take nothing with me and run?”
“I suppose not,” Rosie said. “Not safe for a penniless girl, too scared to face her sister-in-law.”
Maggs hung her head. “Living with Godwin has made me terrified of everything. I can’t think for myself anymore.”
“Then,” Rosie decided at last, knowing she would be criticised by every single inmate at The Rookery, and would probably deserve every word of it, “You had better come with me.”
Maggs stared. “You mean it? You work at that old people’s home in Kettle Lane, don’t you?”
“I own it,” Rosie told her. “And I’ll keep you safe from the idiot sheriff, with no trouble at all. But you’ll have to keep – well – sort of private. I mean our lodgers wouldn’t like to be watched.” She knew it would most certainly not be easy, but remembered what the silver cup had said about what was easy, and what was not.
Maggs had already rushed into her arms. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
Such as refusing to see that the whole place was full of witches and wizards. “There’s a tree house,” she said. “It was built by my father some years ago, but now it’s empty. Very comfy, very cosy. But hard to climb into and hard to climb out of. “I’ll help you in and bring you food, but Dickon could never find you if you stay there.”