One Dark and Stormy Knight

by Hermione Moon

  We exchange a glance. She doesn’t want to ask whether I think Liza’s haunting the library, but I know she’s wondering if that’s the case.

  My throat tightens. I don’t want to think about Liza being dead. About Luke having to go through with this. I’ll never be able to forget what he did to me, but I have moved on. “Catch him, Immi. The murderer.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She smiles at me. “Can’t you do a spell or something and tell me who did it?”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.” I wish it did. People always think magic is done with a wave of a wand. The truth is that it’s all about changing the natural forces around us with the power of intention, which takes a great deal of concentration and skill. I can affect people’s emotions by using the food I bake to cast spells, but I can’t tell the future or turn people into amphibians. More’s the pity. Matthew Hopkins would make a great common toad.

  “I know,” Imogen says. “Come on, there’s something odd I want to show you.”

  She opens the door to the library. I tell Merlin to stay put, then go into the cool foyer. She follows me in and closes the door.

  Earlier, when I walked past, the place was full of SOCO in their white suits to ensure they didn’t contaminate the murder scene. Now, it’s mostly empty. A couple of officers stand at the end of the bookstacks, talking quietly, but it looks as if the reading room is empty.

  “So talk me through it,” Imogen says.

  I explain how I walked through the stacks to the end and called Liza’s name. “I thought I heard a sound from the reading room,” I continue, “so I went in there.”

  We go through. My heart is banging hard on my ribs. The desks surrounding where Liza was found have been moved aside, and presumably SOCO have examined them thoroughly. In the centre of the room, tape on the tiles marks the place where Liza lay, like a scene out of a detective series.

  We walk over to it, and I explain how I recognized her, then bent to check her pulse. “I couldn’t find it,” I say, my voice husky. “I realized she was dead.”

  “Okay.” Imogen’s voice is calm. “What happened then?”

  “I thought the murderer was probably still in the room, so I turned and fled back down the corridor and out through the main doors. I heard footsteps behind me, so I knew they were chasing me.”

  Imogen nods. “Anything else?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You didn’t stop to pick anything up, move anything?”

  “No. I went straight out.”

  “Okay.” She nods and walks behind the taped figure on the floor and studies the tiles thoughtfully, then glances over her shoulder. “Come and look at this.”

  I follow her and look down at the tiles. There’s a fine powder on the floor, like dust except it has a greenish tinge like powdered herbs, and in it someone has drawn a line, about twelve inches wide. Underneath that is another line with a semi-circle halfway along.

  “What do you reckon?” she asks.

  I frown. “Could it have been caused by someone moving a desk.”

  “Maybe. But to me it looks more like it’s been drawn with a finger. It’s neat and regular.”

  I nod. She’s right. I study it for a moment. Something is poking at my memory. I’ve seen it before, but not quite like this…

  “Come with me,” she says. She walks a few feet to the right, then drops to her haunches and points to more marks.

  “Another symbol?” I bend to examine it. This one looks like the letter W, but with rounded ends, not pointed.

  She stands, then continues around the room, pointing out another ten symbols. The next is an arrow. Then a V with a loop. Then two zig-zag lines, one on top of the other.

  And then I realize what they are. “Come with me,” I tell her.

  I go over to the stairs and up to the mezzanine floor that runs around the edge of the circular room. It’s several feet wide, enough for two people to pass. Bookshelves line the outer wall. On the other side of the walkway is a waist-high barrier. I lean on it and look down at the scene, and Imogen joins me. The symbols are just about visible, in a loose circle, around the place where Liza fell. Up here, it’s much clearer what they are.

  “They’re the glyphs for the twelve astrological signs,” I tell her. I point them out, starting with the V that ends in a loop. “That’s Capricorn.” I point to the two zigzag lines. “That’s Aquarius.” Then the two semi-circles back to back with a line through the middle. “Pisces.” I continue around the room, pointing out each star sign in turn.

  “Wow,” Imogen says in awe. “I’d never have guessed that.” She frowns. “What do they mean?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Is it something witchy?”

  “I really don’t know,” I admit. “Astrology does play a part in witchcraft sometimes. But I don’t know what this means.”

  “Well, thank you anyway, for deducing what the glyphs are. Even if I’m not sure why they’re here, I still know more than I did this morning.”

  “How did Liza die?” I ask Imogen as we walk downstairs, realizing I don’t know.

  “She was strangled with fishing line.”

  I stop walking and press my fingers to my lips.

  “Sorry,” Imogen says, “you did ask.”

  “I did.” I suspected she’d been strangled, but the fishing line surprises me, for some reason.

  Astrology and fishing… Briefly, I remember Cooper reading out my horoscope earlier. Not long ago, he headed off to go fishing with his dad. But I can’t believe it was he who murdered Liza. Cooper’s a sweetheart, fun and genuine, a lovely young man, and the thought of him murdering someone is laughable. I refuse to start suspecting everyone around me.

  “Do you think whoever did it will kill again?” I ask her. “Or was it likely to have been a one-off, a crime of passion?”

  She tips her head from side to side. “Liza wasn’t hit over the head with the first object at hand. I think the killer went there with the fishing line to kill her. It was cold and calculating. But was it the action of a serial killer who’s going to kill again?” She blows out a long breath. “I don’t think so. Don’t quote me on that, though.”

  I carry on walking down the stairs. “Are you going home now?” I ask her.

  “No, I’ll be heading back to the station to file a report and begin the investigation. I’m just going to take a stroll through the offices.” Her tone is nonchalant, but I know her better than that.

  “Checking out if there’s a tall, dark, and sexy exhibition officer working late?” I tease. She’s had her eye on Christian Wheeler since he started work at the museum earlier this year. She swears she’s not interested, but I’ve seen the way her gaze lingers on him when he comes into the café.

  “Not at all, and I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my professional behaviour.”

  I laugh. “I saw him earlier. I think he’s in his office. I’ll leave you to go and find out.”

  “No!” She looks alarmed. “Come with me.”

  “What are we, fourteen?”

  “He makes me nervous.”

  I chuckle. “I didn’t think anyone made you nervous.” Usually she’s so calm and in control. It’s strange to see her go to pieces over a guy.

  She scowls at me, but heads across the reading room floor to the museum offices on the other side, and I follow her, smiling.

  Chapter Six

  Sure enough, Christian Wheeler is in his office. Imogen stops in the doorway, and as I watch her observe him, I know she’s unaware of the way her expression softens and a slight flush appears on her cheeks. He has his back to us, studying a large pinboard on which he’s pinned various pictures of artefacts, printed articles, and handwritten notes. Christian helps a lot at the Arthurian Adventure, but his main job is planning the exhibitions in the museum.

  Imogen swallows, opens her mouth to say something, then shakes her head and backs toward the door. But I’m not going to let h
er get away with that. I clear my throat loudly, and Christian turns.

  “Oh,” he says, his eyebrows rising. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Hi, Gwen.”

  “Hey, Christian.”

  His gaze moves to Imogen. “Detective Chief Inspector.”

  “Dr. Wheeler,” Imogen says. Christian has a PhD, so the title is correct, but it’s a bit formal. She’s terrible at flirting, but then she is technically on duty, so I suppose I should give her a little leeway.

  “Are you working on a new exhibition?” I ask, hoping to cover for her.

  “Yes,” he replies, “on the Tudor period.”

  “Oh, that’ll be great.” Glastonbury Abbey has such a fascinating history. During the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the abbey was suppressed. Its treasures were seized, the monks dispersed, and the last abbot, who refused to submit to King Henry, was hanged, drawn, and quartered. It’s a fascinating part of history, and although my first love has always been the Dark Ages—the period when the Romans left Britain, the time of Arthur—I’m also interested in many other parts of English history.

  I’m excited about the exhibition, but Imogen doesn’t say anything, and I hold in my enthusiasm. She studies Christian thoughtfully. He studies her back.

  “What can I do for you?” Christian asks.

  I can see why he makes Imogen flustered. He’s a smart guy, rather serious, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He has a habit of looking over his scholarly, dark-rimmed glasses at you as he waits for you to answer a question, and if I didn’t know him better, I think I’d get flustered too. But I’m always in the museum and the library so I get to speak to him a lot, and I’ve learned that his sense of humour is dry rather than non-existent, and that he has a kind heart. He was very good to me when Mum died, and he helped me with the paperwork for the shop, for which I’ll be ever thankful.

  “I’m just making a final sweep of the premises,” Imogen says. “Making sure nobody’s thought of anything else that might be helpful.”

  He perches on the edge of the desk. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, but nothing’s come to mind.” He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it happened while I was in my office. If only I’d heard something, or decided to leave a bit earlier…” He runs a hand through his hair. He would have worked closely with Liza, so it’s not surprising he’s upset.

  “You weren’t to know,” Imogen says softly. “You can’t blame yourself. None of us can. All we can do is try our best to find out who did it.”

  “Yes,” he says. “And I’ve heard you’re the best officer to get to the bottom of things.”

  She doesn’t know what to say to that, and just stares down at her boots. Christian’s lips curve up. He likes her. I wasn’t sure before, but as he looks at her now, his eyes are warm. His gaze slides to me, and I can see he’s amused at how flustered she is.

  She lifts her gaze and studies him for a long moment. Then she says, “Do you go fishing, Christian?”

  He tips his head to the side. “What’s this about? Am I a suspect?”

  She opens her mouth to reply, but at that moment footsteps sound behind me, and a female voice says, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy.”

  Mary Paxton owns the local florist. Although she’s only in her late thirties, she doesn’t dye her hair, and draws her salt-and-pepper locks back in a loose ponytail. She’s wrapped up against the cool spring breeze in a smart black coat and woollen gloves. She’s also carrying a bouquet of beautiful spring flowers, tied with a large pink bow.

  “That’s okay.” Christian stands to take the bouquet from her. “Thanks so much for delivering this. I would’ve come in to pick it up.”

  “It’s no problem,” Mary says. “I was passing.” She gives me and Imogen a small smile. “Good evening.”

  “Hello, Mary,” we both say.

  I don’t know her well, but about six months ago, just before my mother died, I had an interesting conversation with her that led to us having a closer connection. She came into the café, ordered a latte, and took a seat at a table in the corner. While Cooper was preparing her drink, she started dabbing her eyes with a tissue, clearly upset. When I took her coffee over, I noticed a library book sticking out of the bag by her feet. Its title was Understanding Cancer. I sat opposite her and asked her gently whether she wanted to talk about it, and after looking shocked that I’d noticed, she finally started talking. She told me her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. At that stage, my mum was also very ill, so the two of us were able to talk about the difficulties of caring for a sick parent, brought together by our emotional hardship. My mum died just a few weeks later, and Mary came to the funeral and gave me a lovely hug and helped at the wake, handing out food and washing up afterward.

  There’s an awkward silence. Christian is looking at Imogen, frowning. Her cheeks have flushed. I think she’s embarrassed by the questions she felt she had to ask, and she’s also shaken by the flowers he’s had delivered. It’s obvious what conclusion she’s drawn from them.

  She clears her throat. “Well, thank you, Dr. Wheeler. Please let me know if any details come to mind.” She turns and walks from the office.

  Christian looks at me and gives a long, disappointed sigh. I shoot him a smile, say goodbye to Mary, and head out.

  “You’re wrong,” I tell Imogen when I catch up with her in the reading room.

  “About what?”

  “I’m sure those flowers weren’t for a woman,” I tell her. “Or at least, not for a love interest.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She opens the library door and walks out briskly.

  I sigh and catch the door, then exclaim as Merlin slips through and runs past me. “Here, boy,” I call, turning to follow him. To my surprise, he stops in the middle of the bookstacks and stares.

  A person is standing in the shadows. I open my mouth to say something, but the words refuse to come as I realize who it is.

  Liza.

  A heartbeat later, she vanishes.

  Merlin barks, then huffs a big sigh, as if he’s exasperated.

  My heart bangs against my ribs, and my chest heaves with rapid breaths. I blink rapidly to clear my vision, half-expecting her to reappear, but she doesn’t. The bookstacks remain quiet, motes of dust dancing in the shaft of late sunlight coming through the high window.

  “Hey.” Imogen’s voice behind me makes me jump. “You coming?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Are you all right?” She frowns. “You look like you’ve seen a…”

  “I did.”

  “What?”

  “I saw Liza. Standing just there.” I point.

  Imogen stares. “So Luke was right—he definitely saw her.”

  “Looks that way. The weird thing? I think Merlin saw her, too.”

  “That is pretty weird.”

  “Only I could have a psychic dog.”

  We both study the area, half waiting for her to reappear, but it remains empty, quiet and cool. Merlin trots past us and goes out the door that Imogen’s holding. We exchange a glance, turn, and follow him out.

  “Why is she still here?” Imogen asks. “Why hasn’t she… you know… passed on to wherever you go when you die?”

  “I don’t know.” I feel edgy and upset. I clear my throat. “About Christian…”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” she says.

  So we walk in silence, Merlin trotting quietly at my heels until we reach the café.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell Imogen. I feel tired and overwhelmed emotionally. I just want to be alone with my thoughts.

  She stops and turns to me with a pained expression. “I’m sorry, Gwen. It’s just, well, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I can’t let myself be distracted by all this nonsense.”

  “I know.” She’s running a murder enquiry. She had to ask Christian those questions, even though she really likes him, knowing it was going to annoy him. What a ter
rible position to be in.

  She comes over to me and hugs me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “You, too,” I tell her.

  “Are you closing up now?”

  “Yeah. I’ll just sweep the floor and wipe the counter.”

  “You want me to stay? I don’t like leaving you alone.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “You said you didn’t think we had a serial killer on our hands.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Even so.” I smile and ruffle Merlin’s ear. “Merlin will take care of me.”

  “Of course he will, you sweet boy.” She drops to her haunches in front of him and kisses the top of his head, and he licks her face. “You little darling. You look after Gwen, okay?”

  She straightens and gives me a last smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, see you.”

  Delia’s locked the café, so I unlock it and let myself in, then lock it again behind me. I wave to Imogen as she gets in her car, and watch it drive away.

  Phew, what a long day. But I still need to go through my routine. I put on the radio, get my broom, brush the floor, then wipe down the counter. My head’s buzzing, and I feel a little jumpy, but I put that down to what happened in the library earlier. I wish I knew more about the astrological signs or why her ghost is haunting the library, but my magical skills are limited. I bake cookies that make people happy. It’s not rocket science.

  I lean the broom against the wall and switch off the light. The café is in semi-darkness, lit only from the light that’s on in the break room behind me. I turn to give one last look around.

  And then I stop and inhale sharply. The blue eyes are back behind the visor.

  I freeze, staring at the suit of armour from across the room. The light from behind me is shining directly on the knight. I’m not mistaken. There’s definitely someone inside the suit.

  I wait, my heart pumping furiously, to see if the eyes vanish. This time, though, they don’t.

  After about thirty seconds, I walk around the counter and stand with my back to it, facing the knight. The eyes are still there, watching me. He doesn’t move, though.