“You go on,” I said to Charity. “Plate something up for me, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Charity said and took my coffee and the wine glass from me.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The lights had been left muted in here to take account of some of the animals in their cages who would prefer the dark. Taking my time, I studied the animals in their various holding pens. Several dozen pairs of eyes stared back at me, some curious, some cross, some that seemed incredibly sad and some with neutral indifference. None of them made a sound.
“Hi guys,” I spoke softly. “Sorry to disturb you all. I wanted to check you were all okay.” I knelt down so that I could get a better look into all the containers. “Does everybody have what they need?” A rabbit with red eyes blinked at me, the remains of a carrot between its paws. I’d asked Ned to make sure everyone had been properly fed. “You have the requisite vegetables?”
A large white barn owl in an ornate cage wiggled its head. “You’re beautiful,” I breathed and stood up, moving closer to him. “Mr Hoo would like you.” I laughed quietly. “Oh, that rhymes. Mr Hoo would so like you! I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”
I moved along the row. A snake. A couple of rats. A tabby cat with one eye who curled and uncurled his tail as I approached. “Do you have enough water?” I asked. “Would you like some milk?”
That reminded me of the other cat I’d met at lunchtime. The black one with a green velvet collar and a shiny bell. Where was he? I retraced my steps, checking each cage and container and basket once more until, tucked in the corner and underneath everything else, I recognised the battered wicker carrier with the tell-tale yellow tag I’d stuck on it.
Cuthbert cat.
I bent low so I could get a look at him. “Hey, pussycat?” I sang. “Everything alright with you?”
He lay motionless at the rear of the basket. At first I thought he must be sleeping, but as my fingers made contact with the bars at the front and he remained still, I knew in my heart of hearts he wasn’t.
“Oh!” My deep gasp of pain sounded loud in the room. Did the other animals understand what had happened here? Is that why they were all so quiet? I fumbled for the lock and threw the cat’s gate open, reaching in to touch him.
I was far too late. He’d been gone a while.
I sank back on my haunches.
“Oh,” I said again, riding a wave of sadness. “I’m so sorry, little fellow.”
The room darkened as someone walked through the door, blocking the light from the hall.
“What are you sorry for?” Delia’s worried voice.
I blinked up at her. I couldn’t see her face; she was silhouetted in the doorway, her hair creating a frizzy halo around her head.
“Your cat,” I stumbled for the right words.
“My cat?” she repeated, stepping closer.
“I’m afraid,” my voice shook, “he’s died.” I felt bad because I didn’t know his name.
“My cat has died?” Her voice seemed oddly emotionless.
“Yes. I’m very sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” she asked. “Did you kill him?”
I sucked in a breath and frowned into the darkness. She didn’t really believe I’d kill her cat, did she? Why would she think that? “No, of course not!”
“Then why be sorry?”
I found myself lost for words. I shook my head. “Because I’m sorry that he’s dead,” I managed to say.
She took another step towards me and, slightly fearing for my own safety, I stood up. I could make out the features of her face now. Her pale eyes glowed with a strange light; her lip had curled with revulsion.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Not about the cat—”
“But—”
Her laugh rang through the small room, strangely hollow and entirely without humour. “I don’t have a cat.”
I blinked in confusion. “You don’t? Only … I plucked the basket off the drive this morning. He was among all your other animals.”
“That’s as maybe, but he’s not mine. I have snakes, rats, birds and several mice. I have a tarantula too, named Aranea.”
“But no cat?”
“No. He must have belonged to someone else.”
“Yes,” I slumped, miserable in the knowledge that somewhere in the main bar area, an unsuspecting witch was sitting, merrily listening to the Devonshire Fellows. I didn’t relish having to break the news again.
I rubbed my forehead and sighed.
“You haven’t found Cuthbert yet?” Delia asked. Her relaxed, unconcerned tone had started to wind me up.
“No, I’m sorry. We’re still looking.”
“Is that so?” Delia walked the line of cages and suddenly lashed out, striking at the cage holding the white owl. It tottered briefly on the edge of the basket beneath it. The owl inside fluttered its wings in panic and screeched. I rushed forward and caught the large cage before it fell.
“Hey! There’s no need for that!” I wrestled with the cage, struggling to right it, as the owl whipped around inside.
She lashed out again, knocking another basket flying. The cat inside this one meowed loudly as it made contact with the floor. Fortunately, the basket remained intact and the cat, while ruffled, soon settled again.
“Stop it!” I ordered but she only laughed in my face and threw herself at the remaining cages and baskets of familiars, obviously intending to cause as much disruption and chaos as possible.
“Alf? Everything alright?” Charity called from down the hall, her footsteps hurrying towards us. “What’s keeping you?”
Delia skidded to a stop, her hands mere inches away from the towering pile of crates, baskets and cages. I held my breath. Her fingers twitched and then she changed her mind, swivelling and running to the doorway instead, colliding with Charity and knocking her flying.
I carefully settled the owl and its cage on the floor and rushed to Charity’s aid. She grimaced as I reached her. “I’ve just been hit by a truck,” she moaned.
“No, it was a Delia,” I told her, reaching down to help her to her feet. “Which way did she go?”
“Into the kitchen,” Charity said, and with that we heard the back door crash shut.
“And into the grounds evidently.” I brushed Charity down.
“Brrrr. It’s cold out there.”
I glowered. I had no sympathy for Delia. She’d confirmed she was batpoop crazy. “Maybe it will give her time to cool off.”
It turned out the cat had belonged to a sweet witch by the name of Grace Windsor. I caught up with Gwyn and explained the situation, and she took it upon herself to break the news privately to her heartbroken friend before leading her up to her room to grieve behind closed doors.
I wandered through to the bar where the Devonshire Fellows had started on a song about contrary women who needed taking in hand. I could tell by the bemused faces of the powerful women present that on this occasion Luppitt and his friends had missed their mark. Once they’d finished their song, I rushed over.
“Let’s hear it for the Devonshire Fellows!” I called and began to clap. One or two people slowly joined in but I kept going and eventually, with some encouragement from Charity and myself, The Devonshire Fellows were able to depart the stage—or rather the corner of the inn where I’d hidden them—to almost-rapturous applause.
“We’ll take a quick break now,” I announced. “Please let Florence know if you’d like to order any more refreshments and we’ll bring them to your table.”
I made my way back to the bar to help pour more drinks. Behind me, conversation seemed subdued. Wasn’t anybody having a good time? What kind of a hostess was I? We needed to bolster the general mood.
“Maybe we’d better switch to more modern music?” I suggested to Charity, and she waved her mobile phone at me.
“How modern?” she asked. “I can play some tunes from my app, if you like? I’ll just Bluetooth them across to the music centre.�
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“How modern are we talking?” I asked dubiously. “Given the average age of our current clientele. I’m not sure Snoop Doggy Dog would be quite up their street.”
“Snoop Doggy Dog?” Charity teased. “What decade did you suddenly travel from?” She waved her phone at me. “I have an app on here that’ll allow me to access music from any era. So, what do you reckon?”
I glanced around at the tables and the ghosts on the periphery. I’d have to take an average. “I don’t know … erm … something from the forties, perhaps?”
“The nineteen forties?” Charity baulked at the idea.
“No, no, as you were. The eighteen forties.” I wrinkled my nose. “Of course the nineteen forties! Even Grandmama can’t remember the eighteen forties.”
Charity, a bit of a whizz on her mobile phone, quickly flicked through the options. She hummed and hawed before eventually making her selection. Glen Miller began to blast over the speakers. I reached out to turn it down a little.
“You know what they say if you have to turn it down,” Charity giggled.
I did know. “You’re getting old,” I finished for her.
A couple of witches looked up at the opening bars to In the Mood and began to wiggle in their seats, but I noticed several pull faces.
“Oh dear. You can please some of the people some of the time …” I ran through a few options. “It might be an idea to take a straw poll,” I suggested. “Perhaps see what sort of thing people would like to listen to.” I reached under the bar where I kept a pad of yellow Post-Its. “I’ll go around the tables and see what people would like.”
The first table I visited wanted Gerry and the Pacemakers. The next table wanted Madonna. Onnalee wanted Lady Gaga but Phyllis asked for something ‘classy’. “Dusty Springfield,” she suggested. I decided not to ask what her grandson would prefer—no doubt he was an orchestra-worthy violinist or some such, even more talented than Niccolo Paganini—and added Dusty to my list.
Within ten minutes I had garnered an impressive playlist, and Charity had begun to queue them up on her fancy-schmancy device. While some choices elicited a less than favourable response from some of the gathered witches, for the most part everyone was very good-natured and soon the bar was ringing with the sound of several dozen altos and sopranos singing Son of a Preacher Man.
Yes, it was.
I awoke with a jump, blinking into the dark, trying to work out what time it was. At some stage in the night I’d kicked all the covers off and now, with the window open so that Mr Hoo could come and go as he pleased, I shivered with cold. I reached out and grabbed the quilt, pulling it over myself and snuggling underneath.
Maybe Mr Hoo had disturbed me. It couldn’t be time to get up yet. I yawned and wriggled and settled into a cosy spot.
Meeeee-aow
Was that a cat?
Meeeee-aow.
It sounded awfully close. Not outside. Inside my room. I opened my eyes.
Meeeee-aow.
Something light of foot jumped up onto the bed beside me and patted the duvet down. It twisted around a few times before curling up next to me in the crook of my legs.
I reached out, stretching to where the creature had settled … and found nothing except thin air. Whatever it was shifted impatiently. I pushed myself up on one elbow and reached out again. My fingers found nothing, but my legs could definitely sense something there.
“What is that?” I mumbled, considering turning the light on.
Opting against it, I lay back down. I wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the thing, whatever it was, had started to warm me up.
I wriggled about and closed my eyes.
Rrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrr. A low growl to my left, near the door. Not particularly menacing.
There was a dog in my room?
Rrrr-rrrrrrrrrr.
“Will you shush,” I hissed. He’d have the whole inn awake in no time.
“Arf!” The dog barked sharply in my ear and I sat up hastily.
“What is going on?” I demanded in a loud whisper, and this time I reached for the cord of my lamp and switched it on, blinking in the sudden light. A small dog, a Jack Russell, stood by my bed wagging its tail as though its very life depended on it. It looked friendly enough. I reached out and again, my fingers found only air.
A ghost.
And now, when I looked down at my knees I could see the translucent outline of a black cat, very similar to the one that had passed away downstairs.
Ghost familiars.
“Smashing,” I said. “Couldn’t you both have stayed downstairs with the others though?”
The dog wagged his tail so hard, I worried he might take off. “I have to sleep,” I told him.
He scampered to the door as though he needed to go out. “Definitely not,” I told him and switched the light back off.
Rrrrrr-rrrrr, he growled.
“No,” I told him. “Sleep first, walks in the morning. G’night.”
“Morning, Miss Alf. Coffee?” Florence trilled as I entered the kitchen a few hours later.
“A bucket, please.” Taking a seat at the table, I pulled a plate of toast towards me. Just after six and Charity had yet to appear. Monsieur Emietter and Gwyn were poring over a list. The chef looked puzzled and my great-grandmother appeared to be trying to explain something to him in her own French which, while a zillion times better than mine, still wasn’t fluent.
“Oui. Oui.” Monsieur Emietter shrugged, with gallic stoicism I thought, and rather than throwing anything at anyone, he pulled a tray of eggs towards him and began rapidly breaking them into a large glass bowl.
“Problem?” I asked Gwyn.
“Not really. I was just going through the list of breakfast requests.”
“I thought we agreed that to save too much hassle we’d stick to a fairly simple breakfast,” I said, nodding at Monsieur Emietter who was evidently about to prepare scrambled eggs.
“That’s as may be, Alfhild, but people do have dietary requirements.”
“What’s wrong with scrambled eggs?”
“Some of my friends don’t eat eggs.”
“Okay.” I munched on my toast.
“Some don’t like butter or milk, so they want the eggs scrambled but without butter or milk.”
“Right.”
“Some prefer poached eggs. Some have asked for fried.”
“Hmmm.” This had been exactly what I’d been trying to avoid.
“And some people want eggy-toast, or soft-boiled eggs with soldiers. I think we have to offer the full range of egg dishes, Alfhild.”
“I see.” I cast a wary glance at Monsieur Emietter. “And our evil-tempered chef doesn’t mind?”
Gwyn smiled sheepishly. “I told him he could have Florence to help and that you would lay the tables in the dining area instead.”
“Oh.” I returned my half-eaten slice of toast to my plate. “I guess I’d better get on with it then.”
“I’ll send Charity to help you when she comes down,” Gwyn called.
“Yes, do that,” I said, as I reluctantly left the kitchen.
Florence floated after me. “Oh, Miss! You forgot your coffee.” I turned and took the mug of morning nectar from the air between us. She’d gone to the trouble of using steamed milk, bless her. I do love a frothy coffee.
“Thanks, Florence,” I said.
“Oh, think nothing of it, Miss. I’ll make you some more toast once all the guests have had their breakfasts.”
I made my way through to the bar clutching my coffee and set it down on the nearest table. I’d pulled the thick curtains closed the previous evening as I always did, and the fire had not been lit in here as yet, so the room was dark. The sun wouldn’t be up for at least another hour and a half.
I fumbled around on the wall for the light switches and flipped them up one by one, childishly enjoying the snapping sound they made and the soft tinkle as each of the lights flickered into action in turn. Then, steeling myself, I took a
deep breath and turned to greet the task that awaited me, clearing the tables of any debris left over from the previous night and laying them up for breakfast. It shouldn’t have been too onerous a task as we’d left the tables in position after dinner the previous evening, meaning I wouldn’t have to move the furniture.
Except something had moved the furniture for me.
Tables had been upended and chairs scattered to make way for a huge wooden box-like contraption in the middle of the dining area.
“What—by all that’s magickal—is that?” I asked aloud, moving out from behind the counter and slipping between the tables to get a closer look.
The wooden box must have been six feet wide, six feet deep and eight feet high. It had been encased in some kind of twisted iron lattice structure that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, a height of around fifteen feet or so. I craned my head upwards. Was that a hole in my ceiling?
“What the dickens?” I reached through the ironwork to touch the box. Solid. “I don’t understand,” I wailed. Inching around the contraption, I quickly realised I’d been looking at the reverse of it. Once I’d arrived at the front it all made perfect sense.
Perfect sense, in a manner of speaking.
It was an elevator. A Victorian or Edwardian elevator crafted from the finest polished walnut and ironwork. I pressed the shiny brass button that called it and the doors sprang open. Inside, the floor had been carpeted and the walls furnished with Art Nouveau designs on inlaid panels, and brightly coloured glass insets.
“How—?” I spun around, seeking any of my ghosts who might have been haunting the shadows. Nobody in sight. Highly suspicious.
I pressed my lips together in fury. All that fuss about climbing the stairs yesterday, and then an elevator turns up in the middle of the room?
“Gwyn?” I called sharply, half expecting her to remain hidden. She had a habit of hiding away when things started to get a little challenging.
“Gwyn?” I repeated, louder this time.
She apparated beside me. “Hold your horses, my dear. I was priming myself for the day ahead.” She wore a long black skirt and a white high-necked blouse, fastened with a glittering green brooch. No doubt this was her bagatelle outfit. “What can I do for you?” she asked, smoothing her hair into a sleek silvery chignon.
A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 6