A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Was she flirting with him?

  I quelled a slight feeling of jealousy. Water under the bridge and all that, Alf, I reminded myself. “Do you think you know what happened here, then?” I asked.

  Elise crinkled her eyes. “It’s early doors. I have a few ideas I’d like to pursue. There’s lots we need to establish, like who she was and what all these animals are doing here.”

  She knelt next to Delia and, much as George had done, reached out to feel the woman’s neck. “Have you taken all the photos you need of her in this position?” she asked George, and he stepped out into the hallway to ask the photographer.

  “Yes,” he said. “But we will need a few more when the coroner gets here.”

  “That’s fine.” Elise pushed the woman’s hair away from her face and scrutinised the neck and under her fringe before standing up again. “Alright,” she told George, her face serious. “Your coroner can come in and do what he or she needs to do. When the body is removed I’m going to need photos of the scene, and then I want every animal in this room categorised. They’ll need to be taken out one by one and stored somewhere else. I want to examine this room when it’s empty.”

  “No problem,” George said.

  “Great,” she rolled her shoulders back. “Has anyone found the mother yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not as far as I know.”

  “We need to get onto that,” she said. “And any chance of a cuppa? It’s a long way from London and I’m gagging.”

  George and Elise took to the dining room to make a formal announcement to the guests. They sketched over the finer details of what had unfolded this morning but were both firm in their instructions that nobody was to leave the inn under any circumstances until they had been interviewed. Even after that, they were to remain within the confines of the grounds and the building itself.

  As Charity and I cordoned off an area of the dining room near the new elevator to facilitate a little privacy, Gwyn apologised profusely to Kappa Sigma Granma about the disruption to the week’s activities, promising that normal service would be resumed as soon as possible. I raised my eyebrows at that.

  Poor Delia. Did nobody care about her?

  As subordinates, Ezra and Andy Borewick were tasked with interviewing the staff and all of the inn’s guests, although Ezra had the additional task of interviewing the ghosts. That was a first for me. Some witches can see ghosts, and some can’t, pretty much the same as ordinary people. I had a particular knack—for some reason that I’d never been able to fathom—of being able to summon ghosts to me, even those caught between two spiritual planes.

  George, of course, was well aware of the inn’s older inhabitants and, with a little prompting from me, had been able to see and converse with them, but that was certainly not true of everyone he worked with. Those who flatly denied the existence of spirits were not gifted with the sight.

  I sat down with Ezra first, so that he could take a statement from me. George and Elise had returned to The Snug to begin the laborious task of processing the scene. Being the nosy soul I am, I desperately wanted to follow them out there and watch what was going on. Instead, I repeated what I’d told both the senior officers already. Ezra took copious notes, writing down the gist of what I’d said.

  “She was a strange one,” I said. “She had allergies—”

  “How did you know she had allergies?” asked Ezra.

  “Mmm, she told me. When she arrived.”

  “Food allergies?”

  Ting.

  Ezra flicked his eyes over my shoulder. I turned around. The elevator had been called upstairs. The little brass arrow ran around the semi-circle on the iron panel above the doors.

  Ezra coughed and I faced forwards again. “Were they food allergies?”

  “No. To her pets, familiars, whatever they were.”

  “Did she say they were her familiars?”

  I cast my mind back. It seemed an absolute age. Had it really been less than twenty-four hours? “Erm … no. She didn’t call them her familiars, I don’t think. Is that important?”

  Ezra raised one eyebrow. “I’m asking the questions, Ms Daemonne.”

  Ting.

  I couldn’t help it. I had to look. A small doddery old dear called Tempestas Darkskull, a witch with the biggest and hairiest wart on her nose, shuffled forwards with the aid of a walking stick.

  Ezra coughed again.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Where were we?”

  “The familiars—”

  “Oh yes. No. She told me she was allergic to her animals and asked me to house them separately, which, although I hadn’t been expecting that many of them, I was happy to do.” Not strictly true, of course, but the customer is king. “I was frankly amazed by how many animals she had with her. I’ve never known a witch with more than one or two familiars, have you?”

  Ezra’s cheek twitched. “It didn’t put you out at all? All these animals?”

  I sat back in my chair. What was he suggesting? “Mmm, no.”

  “You don’t sound certain. You said earlier you thought people found her difficult. Did you find her difficult?”

  Ting.

  I cast a distracted glance over my shoulder. The elevator wound its way back towards the ceiling once more.

  “Ms Daemonne?”

  “Yes. No. Well, kind of.”

  Ezra’s pen hovered over his notes. “Which is it?”

  Ting.

  I rubbed my forehead, irritated by the sound of the elevator. Its cheerful call was always followed by a whine or a whirr, depending on which way it was travelling. The rhythm of it was starting to grate on me. “I found her oddly and unnecessarily aggressive, if the truth be told. She was one of those people who are thoughtless in what they say and what they do.” I told him about the final encounter we’d had the evening before. “She ran off and I didn’t see her again after that.”

  “Where did she go?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. She ran off in the direction of the kitchen and the back door. From there she could turn left, walk in a north-west direction. Speckled Wood lies at the end of the back garden. Or I have chickens—ghost chickens—out there, and there are a couple of large sheds, a greenhouse, a few outbuildings.”

  “You might show me around a little later if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “How was Ms Cuthbert with your other guests?” Ezra asked.

  I gestured around at the witches, gathered together on their tables, no doubt gossiping about the unfolding events of the day. “She had a knack of putting everyone’s backs up.”

  Ezra nodded and wrote that down. “Do you think everyone is going to say the same? That Delia was aggressive and difficult?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  Ting.

  My fingers curled into claws in my lap. I had to take steps to get rid of the elevator. There had to be a way.

  “Did you overhear anyone threatening Ms Cuthbert at all?”

  That was an easier one to answer. “No. Nobody.”

  “Alright, Ms Daemonne. Thank you. That will do for now.” He checked his watch and wrote the time on his notes. “I may need to ask you a few more questions later …”

  Undoubtedly, I thought.

  “… but for now, that’s all.”

  I breathed in relief, aware of the tension I was carrying. Ezra’s cool questioning had me feeling like I’d done something wrong.

  “If you could ask your housekeeper …” he scanned his notes, “Florence, is it? Florence Fidler? Do I know that name from somewhere?”

  “The Great Witchy Cake Off?” I suggested and stood up.

  “Of course!” Ezra’s face lit up. The man obviously had a sweet tooth. He and Florence would get on very well.

  I smiled. “I’ll get her to bring you a snack.”

  Ezra beamed, practically dribbling at the idea. “I’d be honoured.”

  Ting.

  I whirled about in annoyance.
Given half a chance I’d have throttled whoever walked out of that darn elevator at that moment. The doors slid elegantly open, but there didn’t appear to be anyone inside.

  I frowned and stepped forwards, cocking my head to peer inside.

  Mr Hoo waddled out, without a care in the world.

  “Excuse me?” I bent over him and he craned his little round face up at me.

  “Hoo—oo?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s up?’ Why are you taking the elevator?”

  “Hooo-ooo-ooo. Hoo.” He wanted to sit by the huge fire in the main bar.

  “What about the fire in my office?” I asked.

  “Hoo-ooh!” Not lit. “Hoooooo.”

  Oh.

  “But you don’t need to use the lift,” I pointed out. “You’re a bird. You have wings.”

  “Hoo-oo.” He couldn’t deny that.

  “It’s lazy,” I said.

  “Hoo-oo-oo.”

  “You cheeky blighter.” Mr Hoo jumped into the air and soared gracefully across the bar to the large wing-backed chair next to the fire. He liked to hang out there on chilly afternoons.

  “Ah, Ms Daemonne?” Ezra prompted me.

  I’d forgotten about him. “Oh yes. Beg your pardon. Florence,” I reminded myself. I nodded and walked away.

  “Too-wit,” Mr Hoo called after me. “Too-wit.”

  Impossibly annoying owl.

  Several hours later and Mrs Cuthbert had still not been found.

  I’d sent Finbarr, Ned and Zephaniah into Speckled Wood to look for her. They knew that area of the forest better than anyone, and I had high hopes they’d spot some signs of her. She’d slept in her bed overnight, so she couldn’t have gone far.

  George had sent a PC down into the village to enquire at the café, the post office and at Whittle Stores as to whether anyone had seen her. He’d also asked me to pass on her address and so I wearily climbed the stairs to the first floor, intending to scan through my paperwork and the databases we maintained on the computer.

  I pushed open my office door and pulled up sharply.

  The twisted iron frame of the elevator dominated the centre of the room. It had nicked the corner of my desk, knocking it sideways, and the leaning tower of paperwork that was a permanent fixture of my personal space had been scattered all over the floor.

  “What?” I dashed forward. “No!”

  I rattled the ironwork, but to no avail. The elevator was as physically permanent here as it was downstairs.

  Ting.

  The wooden top of the elevator appeared in the hole in the floor and moved sedately upwards.

  Ting.

  It didn’t stop, it simply tinged to let me know it was passing through. I tipped my head back to watch it disappear through the hole in the ceiling.

  Ting.

  It halted on the floor above. Footsteps walked into it.

  Ting.

  Here it came again.

  Ting.

  This time it stopped. I stood back as the door open. Tempestas Darkskull hobbled out. “Alright, my dear?” she asked in a tremulous voice. I recalled that she was both hard of hearing and very short-sighted.

  “Yes,” I returned, because really, what else could I say?

  She gazed about herself in evident confusion. “This isn’t downstairs, is it?”

  “No, erm, I mean, it’s downstairs from the second floor,” I spoke loudly and slowly so that she could hear me, “but it’s not downstairs-downstairs on the ground floor. This is my office on the first floor.”

  “Ah! My mistake.” She cackled merrily. “Wrong floor.” She retraced her steps, literally walking backwards to get back inside the lift. She thrust out a bent thumb and jabbed at a button then waved her walking stick at me. “Cheery-bye, my dear!”

  “Cheery-bye,” I echoed.

  Ting.

  The doors drifted slowly closed. With a click and a whirr, the elevator disappeared through the hole in the floor.

  “Seriously?” I muttered and squatted down to start gathering up my scattered paperwork.

  Ting. Click. Whine.

  Ting.

  The doors opened again, and Phyllis Bliss blinked at me.

  “Hello Phyllis,” I said, without standing up.

  “This isn’t the second floor?” She held out a hand to stop the doors closing automatically.

  “No. This is my office. On the first floor.”

  “So I see,” she said. “Goodness me. It could do with a tidy up.” She dropped her hand.

  I couldn’t fault that observation. “Indeed.”

  “I don’t know how you can work in that sort of chaos. You know, my grandson—”

  The doors closed.

  Ting.

  I crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at the elevator.

  By dinner time I’d managed to create some sort of semblance of order in the office, and the papers had been re-stacked neatly enough. I’m not saying that I’d grown used to the incessant rumbling, whirring, clanking and tinging of the elevator, but certainly popping a pair of earbuds on and listening to some Cocteau Twins—vaguely reminiscent of a choir of wonky inn ghosts singing sweetly and tunefully in the dead of night—had provided some light relief to the situation. My cheek muscles hurt from the benign smiling I’d been doing every time the doors opened and someone mouthed, “Oops, sorry! Wrong floor!” at me.

  Knowing that I’d be needed downstairs for the evening dinner service, I reluctantly turned my music off and began shutting down my computer systems.

  Ting.

  Puffing out my cheeks, I pivoted to face whatever distraction was heading my way this time.

  Tempestas Darkskull again. Except this time she was stark naked. Her long grey hair tumbled over her pale shoulders, her wondrous weathered body, with all its glorious scars and wrinkles and skin folds and blemishes and warts and all, on show for anyone—or me at least—to see.

  She cocked her head, regarding me the way a blackbird might cast its wary gaze at a hungry cat. “Oh, it’s you again, Alfhild. I thought I’d hit the right button for the ground floor. Am I late for dinner?”

  Out of habit I checked the time, even though I knew exactly what time it was. “Noooooo. Not yet.”

  “Jolly good.” She held the doors for me. “Will you be joining us?”

  “Erm, yes.” I waved my hand in an abstract way. “Did you forget—?”

  She peered down at her bare-naked self and did a little jig. Parts of her moved that I really didn’t need to see. I adjusted my gaze. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Is there a dress code?”

  “I, erm, no. To be honest, there isn’t.”

  “Excellent,” she smiled. She shook her walking stick at me. “Well come on in here, if you’re coming downstairs. We’ll get out at the right floor this time,” she said. “Hurry, hurry. I’m famished.”

  I took the stairs.

  Delia’s body was removed from The Snug later that evening while most of my guests were chowing down on either a pan-fried sea bass with a mint and pea dressing, boiled potatoes and an asparagus mousse, or a three-bean chilli for the vegetarians.

  Or plain toast with a smattering of dripping and a Farley’s rusk on the side in one case.

  I know, I know, don’t even go there.

  Zephaniah had returned from Speckled Wood without any positive news. I instructed him to keep everyone topped up with their beverage of choice while I checked on the detectives. George, supping on the umpteenth cup of coffee of the day, appeared weary. So, too, did Elise. She conferred with Ezra down the corridor but looked up as I approached.

  “We’re just about done with the body,” she told me, “and tomorrow I’ll need to get in there for a closer look at those animals.”

  “Alright,” I said, wondering if she thought one of the animals had killed Delia. That seemed unlikely to me. Of course I’d heard of animals who could perform magick, usually basic stuff, but I’d never seen one with my own eyes.

  Elise stretched
and groaned.

  “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” I asked. “Only, I’d offer you a room here but we’re completely full.”

  “Ezra has booked us into a hotel in Whittlecombe,” Elise answered.

  “The Hay Loft?”

  Ezra nodded. “It was called something like that, yeah. Modern, clean.”

  Pfft. “Oh. It’s nice and close at least,” I said. “We’ll see you bright and early then.”

  “You will,” Elise agreed. “No word on Mrs Cuthbert yet?”

  “No.”

  “She has to be a person of interest right now. I believe George—DS Gilchrist—has drafted in extra officers to look for her.”

  “I hope they find her,” I mused. “It’s going to drop below freezing overnight.”

  “Peculiar, isn’t it?” Elise mused aloud. “I wonder where she could have gone.”

  One of the scene technicians came out of The Snug. He glanced from George to Elise. “We’re ready to move the body now.”

  George nodded. “We’ll take her out the back. There’s a private ambulance waiting for her there.” He acknowledged me. “I’d hate to put your guests off their dinners.”

  I clasped a hand to my chest, feeling genuinely hurt by his insinuation that life was carrying on as normal. What did he imagine I could do? The entire contingent of Kappa Sigma Granma had been ordered to stay within the grounds of Whittle Inn until the police had finished with them. Most of them were elderly. I had to ensure they had sustenance else I’d have more than one body to deal with.

  He noticed the gesture and shook his head, a tiny movement that signalled an apology.

  “You know I’m happy to feed any and all of you.” I indicated the kitchen. “There’s plenty to go around.”

  “It smells delicious,” Elise enthused. “We might take you up on that.”

  Increasingly grumpy, George huddled deeper into his coat. “Brrrr,” he said. “Has someone left the back door open? It’s freezing in here.”

  I placed a hand on the radiator. Cold to the touch. The heating had gone off again. It never rained but it poured. “Can you excuse me for a minute?” I asked. “I need to attend to my boiler.”