Wine, Witches and Song (The Everyday Witches of Wildham-on-Sea Book 1)

by Molly Milligan

So it was quite a surprise to see a ghost there in really old historical dress.

  He looked like a Tudor, though I was no expert. He had the baggy breeches and tights familiar to me from films, and a puffed up jacket with tabs along the waist. He reached out one hand to Charlotte.

  She could not see him. She started to half-run away from her brother, and Vin fell back. He obviously decided it was not worth pursuing her.

  The ghost looked at Charlotte, but then he let his hand drop, and he turned away from her.

  And he followed Vin, instead.

  I was still walking slowly but I stopped. Charlotte had gone one way, and the ghost had gone the other, following Vin. It would have been nice if it had been the ghost of Will Howlett, doing a proper Banquo at the feast to pinpoint the murderer, but it wasn’t, unless Will had habitually dressed up in historical clothing, which I doubted. Still, it had to mean something.

  “Good evening, Jackie,” said a male voice behind me and I jumped guiltily.

  “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  Ian Martinet smiled. “You writer types are always lost in your own worlds, hey? Head in the clouds.”

  I didn’t really put myself in the suffering-creative-artist category. I was a journalist, hitting word counts and deadlines, a slave to the job rather than the muse.

  But he wasn’t hanging around to hear my explanation. He was already looking past me, politely moving on. He went on after Vin, and did a little jog to catch him up and talk to him.

  The ghost had shimmered to one side.

  And Ian looked around, and he didn’t look at me, and I knew that he was seeing the ghost too.

  But Ian wasn’t magical. Was he?

  I TOOK CLARE’S ADVICE regarding work. Saturday morning saw me up early and sitting at my desk. I hadn’t checked my emails for a few days, so I brewed up some nice fresh coffee and worked my way through them, answering as many as I could right away.

  I prided myself on my efficiency and that meant I was never really short of work. Over the years, I’d built a good working relationship with many editors in the homes-and-lifestyle field of magazines, and I was considered to be a reliable and safe pair of hands. I couldn’t afford to let that slide. There were always up-and-coming writers hungry to replace me.

  There were a few potential leads throbbing away in my inbox, and some replies to queries I’d sent out when fact-checking. I had a pot-boiler of a story on the go about the work of country house gardeners, which wouldn’t be ready until after spring, but I could do a little more work on that now I had some more information.

  I was deep in my work when I slowly became aware of someone knocking at the front door. I was annoyed. I clicked the save icon a few times – just in case once was not enough – and went to discover Gloria bouncing around on my doorstep.

  I hesitated. I had been appalled and ashamed at her behaviour to Clare the other day, and Clare was my oldest friend. I couldn’t believe that Gloria had been so blithely insensitive. I had to say something, but I wanted to be tactful. I ended up not saying anything. I stared at her while I tried to organise my thoughts.

  She stopped smiling, and put her head on one side. “I messed up, didn’t I? You don’t look happy. You didn’t look happy when I came to see your friend with you. I got that wrong.”

  Well, she was a witch too, but even if she didn’t have any psychic powers, I think she’d have picked up on my annoyance.

  I had to speak plainly. I decided that I was too old to mess around, these days, with mealy-mouthed words. “You did get it wrong. You were rude and patronising to Clare. Have you any idea what living with chronic fatigue syndrome is like? Or any chronic health condition?”

  And she said, “No, I don’t, and I guess it showed. I don’t have a clue. I should say sorry.”

  “Not to me.”

  “No, I mean to Clare. But I am not going to burst in on her again. I might send a card but I don’t know what’s appropriate. It’s my ... thing. Can I come in and talk about how to make it better again?”

  I would have been the one in the wrong if I said no. So I let her in, and she tried not to flit from thing to thing as I led her into the main room. “Sit down anywhere,” I said. “Wherever there’s a gap.”

  “Was it because I went there without an invitation?” she said. “Some people are funny about that.”

  “Clare is not funny about anything,” I said. “But yes, it is hard for her when she has to deal with new things, sometimes. She only has limited energy and that’s for mental and emotional things as well as physical things. She needs to prepare for social events because they take it out of her.”

  “Perhaps we could do a healing spell!”

  “Actually, I do, regularly, and it keeps her topped up, but it won’t and can’t cure her. And it is with her full knowledge and consent,” I added ominously.

  “Maybe my magic would be different.”

  I sighed. “If you want to do this, you need to speak to her about it.”

  “Of course! I never do magic without the subject’s permission. Well, hardly ever. Unless it’s an emergency. Which this is not.” She smiled brightly. “Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up.”

  It was not cleared up. But I decided not to make it into an ongoing feud. Life is short and I don’t waste time with such things. I had said my piece and Gloria was clearly contrite.

  They were never going to be friends, though.

  Meanwhile Gloria was looking around my long, comfortable sitting room. There were large windows that looked out over the sea, and one glass door that led to my office space. Gloria got up to look out of the windows, which was a natural thing that most people did, but she also peeked into my office space, which most people did not do – at least, not as blatantly as she did. She really did have no sense of manners.

  “Oh, you’ve left your computer on!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m working,” I said.

  She turned to me, aghast. “Today? It is Saturday, Jackie!”

  “Yes, and why aren’t you in your gallery?” I asked.

  “Because I have staff now. Well, I have employed a Saturday girl. Cora Dickens? Do you know her?”

  “Yes, she’s about ninety-five and not really a girl,” I said.

  “Oh, hush, it’s what’s inside that counts.”

  That was true. Cora was a sprightly, energetic woman who had more energy than many younger “girls.” “Anyway,” Gloria went on, “I’ve only popped out for a bit, to see how she gets on without me. And I also came to see if you’d heard any of the latest news about the murder!”

  “I haven’t caught up with the news yet. Because I am working,” I added.

  Apparently hints needed to be much more obvious to make any impression on Gloria. I revised my earlier idea that she might have had some psychic insight into other people’s feelings. Or maybe she did know what I meant, but simply didn’t care. She said, “I don’t think it’s on the news yet! That’s why I came over. Danny told Helen who told Cora that some early information is back from forensics, and the poor man was bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument covered in leather!”

  “Danny? Helen?”

  “Danny who is a cleaner in the police station whose wife Helen is friends with Cora’s neighbour.”

  “You’ve only lived here a month.” I was impressed.

  “I know, but I listen to people.”

  “Hmm.” I bit my tongue. You listen to gossip, I thought, not what’s underneath. Then the obvious thing struck me. “It’s the book!”

  “What book?”

  “There was a book found in Vin Paston’s bedsit by the police, and he said it belonged to his sister Charlotte, and she agreed, but it was really old and probably bound in leather, because they were, weren’t they, in the past? Someone was seen – by a jogger – carrying a square object. I bet it was Vin. And he obviously battered Will to death with it. Wow. Case closed.” I shook my head in disbelief. “What a totally bizarre thing to
do. So it was Vin after all.”

  “And then to pile all those stones on top of him! Even more bizarre. Why was any of this done?” Gloria said.

  “I just don’t know.” Charlotte was the link, I thought.

  We stood there for a moment, in silence, both looking out of the window at the grey-blue sea. Eventually, I said, “Have you seen any ghosts hanging around lately?”

  “Er, no. Why?”

  “I saw one following the Pastons. Something really strange is happening, and I am not supposed to be involved but I can’t help it. I know the police are dealing with it, but they can’t do anything about magical activity. I am not sure if I’m going mad, or...”

  “Or if there really is something supernatural happening.” Gloria came up to my side and put her arm around me in a sisterly hug. “You are not mad, I am sure of it. We’ll solve it together! What about Clare?”

  “She’s not magical,” I said.

  “But she is sensible, and very clever. Cleverer than me, with those books she was reading! I only know silly stuff. And maybe she needs something to occupy her time. You know, bring her out of herself a bit.”

  “That is not how it works,” I said wearily. If everyone could be cured by a bit of exercise and positive thinking, we’d have no need for the NHS, I thought.

  “Having a project is good for anyone,” Gloria insisted. “I do need to get back and see how Cora is getting on. But don’t you worry! You’re not mad. We’ll solve this, just you see. Now you go steady on this weekend working nonsense, and make sure you take some time off for yourself, okay? Pop over to the gallery any time! I have some very soothing paintings.”

  I had one friend telling me to work and another telling me not to. I just smiled politely.

  Gloria let herself out.

  I opened the window and listened to the sea. It sounded just the same as usual. But the air was different, somehow.

  I leaped back and closed the window with a bang. Something was out there and I felt a warning ring of danger. Something was looking at me.

  That was a new feeling for me. I’d been a witch ever since my powers unfurled within me at the age of thirteen – one of the milestone ages at which magical talent often reveals itself – and though I’d felt unsure, nervous or anxious from time to time, I’d never previously felt threatened.

  I shook my head and strode around my sitting room a few times, and then rang my sister.

  “The book!” I said as soon as she answered.

  “What about it? And hello to you too.”

  “What about the murder weapon?”

  “Oh, we think it was a heavy wooden object that was in a leather sack. People often wrap weapons up to disguise them – baseball bat in a bag, that sort of thing. Maybe a shovel in a sports hold-all.”

  “Of course it wasn’t!” I said frantically. “It was the bloody book! A heavy object bound in leather? It’s obviously the book. Tell me you’ve got it in for analysis.”

  “We sent it away. But we sent it to historians, not forensic scientists.” Bernie’s voice faltered as she explained. “Oh god. I’ve been so focused on the details, I have forgotten to step back and see the bigger picture.”

  “You’re tired, that’s all. And maybe I’m wrong.” But I am not wrong, I thought. “I still think this is all to do with Charlotte and Vin, somehow.”

  “You’re right, if the murder weapon is the book. Thank you. I’ll chase that up right now.”

  “You’re at work?”

  “Of course. No leave now until it’s all over.”

  “You’ll burn out.”

  “Then I had better work quickly before I do.”

  “Is your husband looking after you?”

  “He is,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Thanks, Jackie. I’ve gotta go.”

  Everyone was dashing away from me today – Gloria and now Bernie.

  It was a sign. I really did have work to do.

  I got back to it, and I concentrated pretty well, considering that I felt something was watching me with intent the whole time.

  Chapter Five

  I was convinced that the answer lay with Vin or with Charlotte. And most likely with Charlotte.

  That conviction took a tumble on the following day.

  I met up for a leisurely Sunday lunch with an old journalist friend. Sandra and I kept in regular touch. We were both divorcees of a certain age. She was merrily dating her way around Norfolk and beyond, while I had decided to withdraw from the fight and spare my daughter the embarrassment of a desperate mother. Not that Scarlett had ever expressed such a thought – in fact, she often encouraged me to “get out there” and had even constructed a dating profile for me on one of those websites.

  I’d made her delete it.

  It wasn’t the right thing for me, but Sandra was having an absolute ball. She worked for the local newspaper where I had also served my time. Now she was doing the work of about three people, what with staff cut backs and redundancies, but she played as hard as she worked, and we looked forward to our regular lunches and dinners where we could catch up with gossip.

  This Sunday we were in a pleasant out-of-town gastro pub which had been expensively furnished in tweed and tartan and wood, and even had the obligatory shaggy dog roaming around the bar area, begging for pork scratchings.

  Sandra was about as magical as a bit of plastic, and didn’t really know about my talents, unlike Clare. We were superficial friends – long-standing close acquaintances, really. We got on really well but had never been to one another’s houses. We talked about everything and nothing, including the murder case, but she hadn’t heard anything to add to the investigation. She would have told the police straight away if she had.

  But she did have some other interesting news for me.

  “Hey, we got a green inker the other day.”

  “Ooh, fab, do tell,” I said. We were onto the dessert course by now. Neither of us had any space for cheesecake but that didn’t mean we weren’t giving it a good go anyway. “One of the usual nutters?”

  “This one is anonymous.”

  A green ink letter referred to one of the more lunatic letters a newspaper received. Every paper has a coterie of regular correspondents who are, I have to say, somewhat divorced from reality. And given that I am saying that as a witch, so people could legitimately say I’m pretty soaked in green ink myself, then you know how bonkers these letters can be.

  “What was it about?” I asked.

  “Ron and Mary Thompson at the folk music club.”

  I sat back and nearly dropped my fork. Their names had come up recently. Ron had followed Will Howlett from the pub that night. “Really? I know they are a strange pair, but what is the letter actually about?”

  “Fraud,” Sandra said. “But without a shred of evidence, of course. Basically the letter accuses them of fraudulently obtaining money for their home improvements.”

  I picked my fork up again. “That sounds riveting. Not. Someone has a grudge against them.”

  “For sure. But it has got me thinking. Do you remember when Mary was ill, a few years ago?”

  “Yeah. It got in the paper back then because Ron set up that fundraising page,” I said. “The whole community got behind him. It was heart-warming.” Everyone loved a nice fuzzy human-interest story about the triumph of the spirit, didn’t they?

  “That’s what the letter writer is complaining about. He or she is saying that Mary was never really very ill, and all the alterations they made to their house were using those donations that people had given in good faith.”

  I cast my mind back. I remembered Mary looking thin and frail, and I remembered how distraught Ron was.

  But I also knew they lived in a lovely large house that had been renovated and extended extensively.

  “It’s spiteful sour grapes,” I said. “No wonder the letter writer was too cowardly to sign their name to it. It was a while ago; it would have been news if the fundraising was o
nly last week, but it’s not. What do they expect you to do about it?”

  “They said they hoped to see the letter printed and a full investigation into their past actions. They also hinted that one other person knew the full truth and – and here’s where it gets interesting...” Sandra paused for effect until I threatened to steal her cheesecake. “Okay, they say that the other person who knew everything about the fraud was Will Howlett.”

  “Ooh.” A shiver went up my spine. “And now he’s dead.”

  “Yup. I wouldn’t have mentioned it but for that extra detail. What do you think to that?”

  “It is interesting but no, I still think it’s sour grapes. It sounds unbelievable. Basically this letter writer is trying to cast guilt on Ron – not just about the fraud, but by somehow implying that Will was killed because he knew about it. Come on. Who gets killed over something like this?”

  “Well,” said Sandra, “it depends on if the fraud is true and if it is, how deep it goes, you know? If he’s capable of this fraud, what else has he done? You know that people go to any lengths for money.”

  “Wow. You’re not going to look into it, are you?”

  “We are certainly not going to print the letter,” she said. “But yes, sure. I’m going to do a little bit of digging around. The letter was hand-delivered yesterday but no one saw who did it. They have to be local, though.”

  “Hand written?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Printed. Guess the font, and I’ll pay the tip.”

  “Too easy. Papyrus.”

  “Bingo. Is there a handbook or style guide for crazy letter writers? Anyway, it’s time for coffee.”

  “I am not sure I want one.”

  “You have to,” she said. “Because I’ve eaten too much and I’m not capable of walking yet and if we don’t order anything else, they’ll want us to move. It’s getting busy in here.”

  The pub was filling up and now a small party of senior citizens were crowding into the place. We ordered our coffees and watched the general chaos as they all tried to pick the best seats around the table that had been reserved for them. It seemed to be more complicated than a seating plan in a primary school classroom.