Blood, Sweat and Tiers

by Nancy Warren

  I knew the police were investigating the earl in Marlene’s death. Whether he’d simply lost his temper with her protests about the land and hunting laws or he’d shot her by accident, all the clues led back to the earl. He and Marlene had argued the day before she died. The cartridge used in his Purdey shotgun had been found, and it was a heavy load—almost two ounces when only an ounce was needed for birds. And then there was Katie Donegal’s confession. She’d seen the earl go out with his gun, wearing his hunting tweeds, around the time Marlene was killed.

  Most suspiciously, he’d changed clothes before the police arrived and lied when they questioned him.

  As I walked, I relived the last time I’d gone this way.

  I stopped in my tracks, recalling the moment I’d met up with Susan Bentley. She was walking Sly, which she did frequently, but could she have had some reason to wish Marlene harm?

  I couldn’t imagine why, but if I’d learned anything recently, it was that murder had a murky past, born in secrets, old wounds and unexpressed anger. Was there more to Susan’s dog walk than I’d realized?

  Martin, the security guard, roused my suspicions, too. He was never where he was supposed to be, leaving his post by the tent to wander the grounds, and he’d handled Marlene with an unnecessary brusqueness. We’d bumped into him wandering around on the night of the murder. What had he been doing there?

  But even still, the evidence pointing at the earl was compelling.

  There was part of me that felt bad for Benedict. He’d been so quick to defend his dad—about his hunting regime, about the type and weight of the shotgun’s cartridge. Of course he didn’t want to believe that his dad was capable of murder. Who would? But I had a gut-deep instinct that the earl would stoop to any treachery for his own benefit.

  Before long, the gamekeeper’s cottage came into view. I stopped for a moment and looked round, half expecting to see Marlene’s restless spirit wandering about the place, brandishing her binoculars, searching for the earl to give him a piece of her mind. If the image hadn’t been so tragic, I would have smiled—Marlene had enough spirit for this world and the next one put together.

  But Marlene didn’t appear. She’d made it safely over to the other side. I was glad—she didn’t deserve to be stuck. No, what she deserved was justice.

  I headed straight for the cottage, determined to find out how I could reach Mitty.

  It was my third visit to the cottage, and like the first time, when I’d accidentally stumbled across the building trying to stay out of the earl’s way, I heard muffled noises coming from inside. It was still too bright outside for any lights to be on, but I figured the sound was the TV again, blaring even louder than it was before. Arthur really needed to have his ears checked.

  I stepped off the path onto the springy green lawn and walked up the stone path to the front door. There was no doorbell, just a brass knocker. I took a deep breath and then rapped the door three times. I waited. And then I waited some more. Nothing. The sound of the TV was deafening, even from outside. Maybe the gamekeeper had ruined his hearing from all that shooting. I didn’t feel very sympathetic.

  I tried knocking again, harder this time. I waited another full minute and then began to worry. What if whoever had killed Marlene had it in for the gamekeeper too? Could Arthur be lying in that cottage, hurt?

  I went around the side of the cottage, hoping to peer in through a window or find the back door unlocked. I touched my purple amethyst necklace and quickly recited a protection spell, feeling a chill even in the afternoon sun.

  I returned to the side window I’d found on Friday, but the thick white netting was still drawn, blocking any view of inside. I tried knocking on the window, too, in the hope that maybe I’d be heard from here. But again—nothing.

  I moved to the back, where the baby grouse wandered freely in the sunshine. They were so sweet. I wished I could take all of them home with me and let them live a happy life far away from the world of shotguns. But now so wasn’t the time to plan a bird farm. I turned the handle to the back door, heart in mouth, half afraid of walking into Arthur’s kitchen, where he might be in trouble. Or cooking naked. Ugh.

  It couldn’t be coincidence that the spell I’d most recently learned was an unlocking one. After a week or so of practicing opening my own kitchen door with my powers, it was time to put my new skill to good use.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sound of the TV coming from inside. But as well as the indistinct chatter of daytime TV, I found myself tuning in to another sound. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly. Maybe it was more of an energy than a sound, but it was a desperate energy. A sense of unease, of unrest. It was the same feeling I got when I came across unhappy spirits. Distress. Acute distress. My eyes snapped back open. I shuddered. Something was seriously wrong in there. I didn’t like Arthur, but if I could help him, I would.

  I closed my eyes again and tried to train my thoughts on opening the door. It was an old, heavy-looking oak door. Much thicker than any I’d tried to open before. Worse, the lock was much newer and pretty heavy-duty.

  Knowing someone inside was in trouble, I had to concentrate and not doubt myself. Silently, I called on my power and the deep, magic energy that drew so many witches to this area. Slowly, I recited:

  Earth, water, fire and air,

  Help me to get from here to there.

  Open this lock; let my wish be the key.

  As I will, so mote it be.

  The familiar energy surge began to rush through me, starting in the tips of my toes and working its way up and up until my hands felt as though they were buzzing with electricity. I turned my wrist, pictured myself turning a key in a lock, and then I opened my eyes. The door handle began to turn slowly, so slowly, but I kept my concentration locked, focusing everything I had on an image of the door opening.

  Finally, it swung open.

  I dropped my hands to my knees, trying to get my breath back and slow my racing heart. The energy rushed out of me, and I felt as depleted as if I’d just run a marathon (or how I’d imagine running a marathon felt).

  I filled my lungs, breathing in and out, in and out, until I felt strong enough to walk through that open door.

  I crossed the threshold, and just as I imagined, I walked straight into the kitchen. It was messy—dirty bowls and plates stacked in a haphazard pile by the sink. Toast crumbs on the countertop. But the room was empty.

  I followed the sound of the TV, exiting the kitchen and walking along a dim hallway. On the walls hung a series of oil portraits, similar in style to those I’d seen at Broomewode Hall. For a moment, I felt certain I’d find the portrait of the old countess and my baby blanket, but my mind was playing games with me. The portraits were all of men with similar features, Arthur’s grandfather and great-grandfather, I assumed, and one of a horse.

  I passed an empty living room, a dining room that looked dusty and unused. A pile of magazines and what looked like bills covered the surface of the old table.

  The sound of the TV grew and grew, and I followed its terrible blare until I reached a door that I figured opened out onto the side room whose window had been blocked with netting. My heart beat double time.

  The feeling of distress I’d sensed outside grew. Someone was in there.

  I steeled myself and then turned the door handle. Argh, not again. It was locked.

  I stared at the closed door. My energy was so low, would I be able to use magic to open another lock? You’ve got no choice, I told myself. Someone’s in trouble. Give it everything you’ve got left.

  I closed my eyes, and this time the power surge came much quicker, almost overtaking me. I began to feel wobbly, like I couldn’t control my own body. Stay strong, Pops. Stay strong. I swallowed hard and visualized the door unlocking. I stood that way, body shaking, hands fizzing with electricity for what seemed eons. And then I heard a click.

  For such a small sound, it had a big impact on me. I nearly jumped for joy. I was getting go
od at this stuff.

  The door was ajar. A door that had previously been locked. But I guessed they hadn’t figured on taking on a witch.

  Slowly, I edged towards the open door, afraid of what I would find inside.

  The sound of the TV was terrible, another soap opera, Australian this time, the actors embroiled in some kind of dispute.

  I tiptoed inside and almost gagged on the smell. The darkened room was oppressive, stifling, the atmosphere heavy with decay. I clapped my hand over my mouth. A thick layer of dust coated the air. I squinted and saw an old TV in one corner, its flashing colors casting strange shadows on the floor.

  And that’s when I saw him: an old man in a rumpled half-made bed, his shoulders and head propped up against a dark headboard. He was wearing a stained brown dressing gown, open at the neck, and the grease of his gray hair, swept back at odd angles from his temples, caught the light of the TV. His cheeks were stubbled and hollow, and there was a small cut on his chin. He stared at me in mute horror. And then I realized I’d seen that face before. The very first time I’d met Arthur, an image of him as a father, playing with a young child, suddenly popped into my brain. The vision had surprised me, as Arthur was brandishing a shotgun at the time, and I’d wondered why such a tender scene had come to me. But now I could see that I’d been wrong. The image wasn’t of Arthur as a father, playing with his son. It was Arthur’s father.

  “Mitty?” I whispered.

  Chapter 19

  “Mitty?” I repeated. “Is that you?”

  The old man opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “Mitty,” I whispered. “It is you. Can you move?”

  The man shook his head ever so slightly. He looked to be in pain.

  “I’m going to get help. Right now. Don’t you worry. Let’s get you out of here.”

  I ran down the corridor and out through the back door. But I hadn’t thought it through—who was I running to? The nearest building was Broomewode Hall, and I wasn’t about to run straight into the arms of a murderer.

  I reached for my cell phone and then remembered I’d plugged it in to recharge. I couldn’t believe I’d been so brainless.

  What to do?

  This wasn’t an emergency that required an ambulance. I felt I needed to get some advice and local support. This was going to require some delicacy.

  Susan Bentley was also closer than the inn. I could get her advice. She knew the area better than I did and hopefully would know the right person or organization to call. Besides, two witches were better than one.

  I picked up my pace, turning onto the path that led to the farm. But suddenly I heard a man calling my name. Had the help come to me? I stopped and spun around. But what I saw sent shivers of fear through me. It was Arthur. And in his arms was a shotgun pointed straight at me.

  I was frozen to the spot.

  “Stop right there, missy. Think you can break into my property and then just run off?”

  I held up my hands in a sign of surrender, and he laughed. “There are laws against trespass, you know. You’re as bad as those twitchers. Think you’re above the law?”

  Even though I was terrified—having a shotgun pointed at your heart will do that—I was too furious to be sensible. “It’s against the law to keep your poor father locked up and sitting in his own filth. How could you do that?”

  Arthur’s face dropped, and his features twisted. It was the first time I’d seen him without a flat cap on, and his tufts of pale brown hair were sticking out at angles. All the softness around his brown eyes had disappeared, and I could see now that the sloping shoulders that I’d first thought had made him appear humble were actually the stance of someone hiding something, their body caving in under the weight of a secret. A terrible, dark secret.

  Arthur still hadn’t shifted his aim, and I was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He took a step closer. Talk about toying with a beast. I was beginning to regret my outburst.

  Come on. Think. What could I do to walk away from this? Surrender and plead with him? Or make a run for it? I’d seen Arthur hunting, and I didn’t fancy my chances against his aim. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think he did, either. No doubt he was trying to work out what to do with my body if he killed me.

  The cry of a hawk echoed through the sky. I looked up. It was my hawk. Even as I felt its power joining mine, Arthur began to curse the bird and angled his gun away from me and up to the sky.

  “NO!” I screamed.

  The hawk circled wildly, still screeching a high-pitched warning sound. His beautiful wings were stretched to their greatest span, the chestnut feathers fading into white, tail jutting out. His legs were poised, ready to attack, black talons glinting in the sun.

  “Why did you kill Marlene?” I shouted, trying to bring Arthur’s attention away from the hawk and back to me. “I know it was YOU.”

  He lowered the gun so it was once more pointing at me.

  I knew I had to stay steady and firm. Don’t lose your cool now, Pops. I swallowed and in as level a voice as I could manage, considering a gun was pointing at me, said, “I just can’t figure out why. Did Marlene find out that you’re keeping your poor father locked in a room? Have you been pocketing the money the Champneys have been paying for him to live in an expensive home?”

  As I spoke, I tried to concentrate my energy on the shotgun. Surely if I focused enough, I could move the weapon? But I couldn’t summon the energy. Was I depleted from my double door-opening trick earlier? On top of that marathon of baking today?

  But as my words sank in, an expression of bitterness spread over Arthur’s face. “Judge all you want, but I needed that money,” Arthur admitted. “I got into debt starting my own company: The Great British Game Bird Hunt. I saw all the money the earl was making off a baking show.” He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe it. “Contests over cakes and pies.”

  “It’s not as easy as you make it sound.” And I had the sore back and feet to prove it.

  “I was going to put on game-hunting holidays, starting here in Somerset and then expanding across the whole country—Yorkshire, the Orkneys, you name it. Guests could come for the day or long weekends, and everything would be perfectly arranged for them. I’d set up trainings, the shotguns and cartridges, have a driver chauffeur them around, and then they could stay at the inn. I was even going to get the pub to cook the game we shot. I had the whole thing worked out. I’m not going to be the earl’s gamekeeper for the rest of my life. I’ve got ambition.”

  “What happened?” Because from his outraged demeanor, it was pretty clear something had gone wrong.

  “Name it. I ordered the latest shotguns from a specialist supplier abroad, cost a packet they did. But they got stuck at customs. Didn’t pass some stupid import law. and they held onto my guns and said they were going to prosecute. All of a sudden, I had the law coming after me. And the legal fees to sort the whole sorry mess drained every penny I had.”

  He stopped to get his breath.

  Oh, cry me a river.

  “And I spent money on an advertising firm who charged me an arm and a leg, then said there was no market. Thieving swine.”

  “You’re stealing the money meant to keep your father in comfort.”

  “You don’t understand!” He was so mad, spittle was gathering in the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t grow up in Broomewode, always in the shadow of your father. Oh, good ol’ Mitty. Isn’t Mitty a fine fellow. Best gamekeeper we’ve ever had. Hope you’ll turn out to be half the man.” He spat on the ground in disdain. “Like he was a bloody saint.”

  I shook my head. “So you stole his hard-earned pension money, pulled him out of a good home, and let him rot in a stinky room.”

  “My pa doesn’t know where he is anyway, so what’s the difference? I take him meals three times a day. He’s got the telly. We were getting on just fine until that old biddy came nosing around the cottage. Demanded to know where he was. She’d tried calling his old care
home, and they told her he hadn’t lived there for months, that I’d taken him away. Marlene was always sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Said she was going to the earl.”

  Oh, Marlene.

  “I told her I’d moved him to another home a bit farther away, and she demanded to know where it was. I told her to mind her own business, and she started banging on all the windows. Like she knew he was inside. I tried to stop her by talking reasonably. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  He stopped, wiped his brow, and then straightened again and looked straight at me. “She was going to cause trouble. She was like all the vermin who come on the estate. We get rid of ’em.”

  I shook my head. If anyone was the vermin, it was Arthur. “But you didn’t use your own gun, did you?” I said.

  At this, Arthur pulled himself up to his full height. “I’m not stupid,” he spat. “I didn’t want this thing traced back to me. So I used what I had on hand.”

  “And that was the earl’s shotgun.”

  Arthur raised one eyebrow. “Aren’t you a clever little baker? It’s one of them. Had the day’s guns in my cottage, ready to clean. When Marlene started hollering and yelling outside the door, I grabbed the earl’s shotgun.”

  He laughed, and the sound caused my body to seize up in fear. “I’m a much better shot than he is. I never miss.” I sensed the hawk was hovering but kept my gaze steady on Arthur, who took a step toward me. “Now, we’re going to take a little walk, you and I.”

  “So, you can shoot me and hide my body?”

  “I don’t have time for this. I’ve Pa’s dinner to do.”

  The hawk screeched and swooped down, his talons aiming straight for Arthur’s exposed head. But Arthur didn’t seem in the least bit worried. In slow motion, I watched as Arthur pulled the gun snug into his shoulder and aimed it straight at me, one finger moving to hover the trigger.

  I was frozen to the spot.

  “Goodbye, vermin,” he said.