DARK, WITCH & CREAMY

by HANNA, H. Y.

  “Yes, I saw it from my bedroom window. I’m staying at the chocolate shop and my room faces the hill and the woods behind the cottage. I woke up in the middle of the night and saw the glow on the horizon. It was just after midnight.” Caitlyn looked at the woman closest to her. “It had to have been a large bonfire—I wondered if it was some kind of special gathering?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss,” said the woman, avoiding her gaze. The rest of the women shifted uncomfortably and several began whispering to each other.

  “I think you must have imagined it,” said the postmistress. “Perhaps it was a dream and you woke up confused… That happens to me sometimes. Why, I remember once when I was on holiday down in Bournemouth—”

  “No, I saw it,” insisted Caitlyn. “It was exactly where you say the stone circle is. In fact, aren’t stone circles believed to be places of powerful magic? Perhaps it was some kind of pagan folk ritual—”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that around here,” interrupted the postmistress.

  “No, certainly not,” said the other woman firmly.

  The atmosphere was decidedly chilly now and several of the women were eyeing her in an almost hostile manner.

  “Oh.” Caitlyn looked around the group of women. She was puzzled by their manner. They had seemed so chatty, so interested in her background… then she realised that it was the mention of the mysterious bonfire that had made them clam up. Why?

  She cleared her throat. “Um… well, perhaps you’re right and I did imagine it.” She gave them all a bright smile. “I’ll head on over to the bakery now. It was nice meeting you.”

  Turning, she walked slowly out of the store, conscious of the eyes boring into her back as she stepped out into the street.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caitlyn entered the village bakery and her heart sank as she saw another group of women there—younger women this time—their heads together, talking furtively. Did the women in this village do nothing else besides gossip?

  The baker glanced up from the dough he was kneading behind the counter and dusted the flour off his hands.

  “What can I get for you, miss?”

  Caitlyn looked at him hopefully. She was desperate for a cup of coffee. “Do you do coffee?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, luv. Don’t serve drinks in here.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I’ll just buy something to eat first then.” Caitlyn approached the large display shelves next to the counter. It was a simple bakery, with no fancy pastries or cakes. There were country grain cobs and rustic loaves, accompanied by a few sweet buns and fruit loafs, as well as some savoury meat pies and sausage rolls. Caitlyn bought a Chelsea bun and bit into it eagerly as soon as the baker handed it to her in a paper bag. It was slightly stodgy and the cinnamon flavour was weak, but she was so hungry that she didn’t care.

  As she ate the bun, she couldn’t help hearing the tittering conversation behind her. It seemed like there was only one topic of conversation in the village: the women were busily speculating about the murder.

  “… do you think the police have any suspects?”

  “I passed Lord Fitzroy speaking to the inspector yesterday, down by the village green. It sounded like they’d just finished interviewing that South African chap. Hans Something-or-Other.”

  “You don’t suppose he did it, Angela?”

  “Oh no, my money’s on the wife. I always thought there was something funny about her. Looks all sweet and innocent, all ‘butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth’… but I’ll bet she’s a filthy little tart inside.”

  Caitlyn turned, slightly shocked, to look at the speaker, the one called “Angela”. She was a tall woman in her early thirties with an upturned nose and overly-styled, bottle blonde hair. She wore a fashionable shirt dress, belted at the waist, and was attractive in a superficial way, although her looks were marred by her sneering smile and the malice in her pale blue eyes.

  She leaned towards the other women and said, “And I’ll bet that Amy Matthews had help. Everyone knows she’s been spending time with that old woman at the chocolate shop—the witch. I think she got the Widow Mags to help her get rid of her husband.”

  The other women squealed in delight.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Ooh, Angela, that’s—”

  The door to the bakery opened and someone stepped in. The conversation ceased as suddenly as if someone had pressed a “Mute” button. Caitlyn glanced up. The new arrival was also a young woman in her early thirties, but very different to Angela. She was soft and pretty in that “fair English rose” kind of way. Her pale blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders and she was dressed in a simple cotton dress that, although slightly dated, flattered her slim figure. But the thing which drew Caitlyn’s eye was the ugly bruise on the side of her face. It was just turning from purple to a yellowy-green and looked very painful.

  “Oh my goodness, what happened to you?” blurted Caitlyn before she could stop herself.

  The young woman flushed. She fiddled with her hair, trying to bring it forward to hide the bruise. “Nothing. I… I had a slight accident, that’s all.”

  There was a burst of sniggering from the group of women behind them and the young woman flushed even more. She hurried up to the counter and said to the baker:

  “Can I have one of your granary loaves, please? And two of the fruit rolls as well.”

  The baker wrapped up her purchases, then rang up the till and held out his hand for the money. The young woman groped in her pockets, then went pale.

  “Oh! Um… I-I’m sorry… I think I might have left my purse at home. Could you keep these aside for me and I’ll come back later with the money—”

  “You know, we’re honest folk in this village, Mrs Matthews,” a voice called out. It was the tall woman named Angela. She gave a contemptuous sniff. “We don’t go around asking for things without paying for it.”

  The young woman went bright red. “I’m sorry… I do have the money, really! It’s in my purse… I just left it at home… oh, I—”

  “Here, let me pay for it,” Caitlyn spoke up. Angela’s hostile attitude towards the young woman annoyed her, not to mention the malicious twittering from the other women in the background. She pulled out a few coins and pushed them across the counter.

  The young woman turned to her. “Oh no! No, you mustn’t! I can’t let you—”

  “Don’t worry, it’s only a few pounds. Honestly.” Caitlyn gave her a friendly smile. “In return, perhaps you could tell me where I might get a cup of coffee?” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I’m more of a city girl than I thought. I need my morning caffeine.”

  The young woman hesitated, then gave Caitlyn a shy smile. “Actually, my house is just around the corner… If you’d like to come back with me, I’d love to make a cup for you?”

  “You’re on!” said Caitlyn impulsively.

  She didn’t really know why she was going off to have coffee with a stranger but there was something about the young woman that she warmed to. This must be Amy Matthews, the murdered gamekeeper’s wife, she realised. And from the look of that bruise, it seemed that the gossip in the post shop was right—Matthews had been beating his wife. Which certainly gave her a strong motive for wanting him dead… but somehow, Caitlyn couldn’t believe that this timid girl in front of her could be a murderer.

  They left the bakery together, ignoring the stony stares from Angela and her friends, and walked through the village to a small cottage on a side street. The place was cramped but scrupulously clean and an attempt had been made to make it as cosy as possible. There were hand-knitted rugs and cushion covers on the faded old couch and some framed photos arranged on the windowsill, including one showing a swarthy-looking man holding a shotgun which Caitlyn assumed to be of Stan Matthews.

  A burst of colour came from the vase of wildflowers standing on the sideboard, next to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that was filled with books. C
aitlyn was surprised. Somehow, from what she had heard of the gamekeeper, she didn’t think he’d be the type of man to read much. Perhaps it was his wife who was the bookworm?

  “Wow, you must be a great reader,” said Caitlyn with a smile, gesturing to the bookshelf.

  “Oh, actually, most of those aren’t ours. The bookshelf was here in the house when we moved in. I’ve added a few books of my own but it’s been great having all these other titles to choose from. I don’t get much free time but when I do, I love reading.”

  “Me too,” said Caitlyn, eyeing the bookshelf with envy. Some of the volumes on the top shelf looked almost antique, with leather-bound covers and gold engraving along the spine.

  “Please take a seat,” said Amy Matthews, giving her a shy smile and indicating the couch. “How do you like your coffee? With milk? Sugar?”

  “Black, one sugar please,” said Caitlyn.

  As the gamekeeper’s wife disappeared into the kitchen, Caitlyn wandered over to the bookshelf, unable to resist its allure. She ran her fingers along the spines, pulling out a few at random. Then she paused as she pulled out a slim book entitled Myths and Legends of Tillyhenge. It looked like an amateur publication—something a local historical association might have put together, maybe for the tourists. She flipped it open and her eyes devoured the words on the page:

  There are many stone circles and standing stones around the British Isles, including Stonehenge, the famous site which has fascinated people for centuries. But equally mysterious is our very own stone circle here on the outskirts of the village of Tillyhenge. Believed by some to be the frozen forms of medieval warriors turned to stone by a sinister spell, it is said that they awaken each night at the witching hour and return to their human form—however, any who dare lay eyes on them during this time will be blinded forever.

  Other legends speak of the power of the stones and the dangerous consequences of trying to move them. One farmer who tried found himself plagued by screams in the night until he returned the stone to the circle. It is also said that it is impossible to count the stones. Those who try always arrive at a different number, no matter how many ways they count them.

  The stones are believed to be a traditional meeting place of witches since ancient times, due to their mysterious power and pagan origins…

  “Are you brushing up on some local history?”

  Caitlyn jumped. She looked up to see Amy holding a tray containing two mugs and some ginger biscuits. She had been so engrossed in reading that she hadn’t noticed the other woman return.

  “Is this yours?” asked Caitlyn.

  “No, that one belonged to Stan, my husband. Actually, it really belonged to James—Lord Fitzroy, I mean—who gave it to Stan so that he could get familiar with some of the local beliefs, but I don’t think Stan ever read it.”

  Caitlyn said awkwardly, “Er… I’m sorry about your husband. I heard in the village… and on the news… It must have been a horrible shock for you…”

  Amy Matthews looked at her silently for a moment, as if trying to decide what to say.

  “It was a bit of a shock,” she said at last. “But it wasn’t a bad one. In fact—” she gave Caitlyn a shame-faced look, “—if you’ve been in the village any length of time, I’m sure you’ll have picked up the local gossip. You must have heard about my husband beating me. I… I suppose it was silly of me to try and pretend earlier in the bakery.”

  “No, I can understand,” said Caitlyn quickly. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry—”

  The other woman gave a bitter laugh. “You’d be the first in this village! No one can keep their noses out of other people’s business. Anyway, I don’t care who knows. I’m glad Stan is dead—glad!” She looked at Caitlyn defiantly. “He made my life a living hell. You don’t know the number of nights I’ve lain in bed, battered and sore, praying that Stan would have an accident while he was out in the forest… So I can’t say that I’m sorry he’s dead!”

  Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably. The fierce emotions from the other woman surprised her and she was reminded of the gossip in the post office shop. She stole a glance at Amy Matthews. She had thought the gamekeeper’s wife too weak and timid to be capable of murder but now she wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Um… do the police have any theories about the murder?”

  Amy shrugged, sinking down on the couch next to Caitlyn. “They’ve been asking a lot of questions around the village. They came and questioned me yesterday. I told them that Stan had his supper at six o’clock as usual, then cleared off to the pub and stayed there all evening, like he usually does. I was bracing myself for him to return, drunk and reeking of alcohol as usual, and probably looking for someone to punch…” She shuddered at the memory. “Then I must have fallen asleep because, the next thing, it was morning and I heard that they’d found his body…”

  She looked at Caitlyn, her eyes dark. “And do you know what my first thought was? I was relieved! Relieved that there would be no more nights where Stan would come home and give me something like this.” She indicated the nasty bruise on the side of her face.

  “Did he do that just before he was killed?” asked Caitlyn.

  Amy nodded. “The night before. We… we had a fight. He was angry that I had gone to see the Widow Mags again.”

  Caitlyn’s ears pricked up. “The Widow Mags? You mean, at the chocolate shop?”

  Amy nodded again, her eyes sparkling. “Yes! Have you tasted her chocolates? They’re amazing! I wandered into the shop a few weeks ago when I was just walking around by myself, feeling down. I had a bit of money to spare and I thought—what the hell, Stan would just drink it all away anyway—so I decided to treat myself to some chocolates.”

  She saw Caitlyn’s look of surprise and said, “Yes, I know. Everyone in the village is terrified of the Widow Mags. They say that she’s a witch, that her chocolates are enchanted by dark magic. But she was kind to me. I mean, she was a bit stroppy to start with, but then it was as if she somehow knew about Stan and… and everything. I don’t know how—she didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her—but I got the feeling that she knew, you know?”

  Amy leaned back against the sofa cushions, her eyes growing distant as she relived the memory. “She gave me some chocolate truffles that she had been making—she said they were a special batch. Well, I don’t know what she put in them but they were incredible. They made me feel… I don’t know… braver somehow. Empowered. Like I could do anything, like I didn’t have to live in fear anymore. When Stan raised his hand to me that night, I laughed in his face.” She chuckled at the memory. “I don’t know who was more freaked out—him or me!”

  She sighed. “I went back to the chocolate shop again after that, whenever I could—whenever Stan wouldn’t know about it. But I think someone must have been spying on me and told him, because he came home livid, the night before he was murdered, and told me that if I ever went back to the chocolate shop again, he’d beat me to within an inch of my life.”

  Amy sprang up, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh! Listen to me babbling on about myself! Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you—”

  “No, not at all!” Caitlyn assured her quickly. “I’m staying at the chocolate shop myself, actually, so I guess you could say I’m a fan of the Widow Mags too.” She grinned. “I’m definitely a fan of her chocolates!”

  Amy laughed. “They are delicious, aren’t they? So you’re staying with her? Is it comfortable? I always thought the cottage looked a bit… well… run-down.”

  “It is a bit basic,” Caitlyn admitted. “But I’m managing okay.”

  “Well, if you want somewhere else to stay…” Amy said shyly. “I’d be very happy to have you here. We have a second bedroom. It’s very small but the bed’s fairly comfy…”

  “Oh, thank you.” Caitlyn smiled. “I’m all right for now but thanks for the offer.” She paused, then said, watching the other woman carefully, “By the way, I saw something strange from my bedroom window last night.
It looked like someone was lighting a bonfire at the top of the hill behind the cottage—just where the stone circle would be.”

  Amy looked blank. “A bonfire? Really? I guess I wouldn’t know—as you can see, I’m facing the other side of the village.”

  “I tried to ask in the village post shop this morning but I got the feeling that people didn’t want to talk about it. I thought maybe it was because I was a stranger—a visitor to the village. Perhaps it’s something that locals keep to themselves?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t tell me,” said Amy with a bitter laugh. “They never talk to me in the village—they just talk about me behind my back. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a ‘newcomer’ or if it’s something else.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  Amy shook her head. “Only a few months. We used to live in the much bigger village on the other side of the Manor. Huntingdon Manor,” she added when Caitlyn looked blank.

  “That sounds like something from a Regency romance,” said Caitlyn with a grin.

  Amy laughed. “The reality is closer than you think! Lord James Fitzroy, the owner of Huntingdon Manor estates, owns most of the land in this area—including the village of Tillyhenge.”

  Caitlyn stared at her. “What? He can’t own the whole village! I thought that ancient feudal system had died out.”

  “It has in most of England but there are still pockets where it exists. Oh, not that James behaves like a feudal lord or treats us like ‘serfs’ or anything! He’s really just a landlord, you know, and we’re all his tenants. But he’s very generous with the terms of our leases and he does a lot to improve the conditions in the village and our general quality of life. He really cares. And he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. During the harvest, he’s out there in the fields next to the men, with his sleeves rolled up, helping out. The old Lord Fitzroy would never have done that! He was quite a snob but James is a really decent chap. And very handsome too,” she added, grinning. “I think half the women in the village are in love with him.”