Witch Dust

by Marilyn Messik

  We said goodbye and I replaced the phone thoughtfully. Things were certainly acquiring their own momentum. All I had to do now, was make sure we staged just enough to fan the flames. Then the hotel could rest on its spooky laurels, reap the publicity rewards and Ophie and I could wend our way back to normal, or as normal as we’d ever been. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be too late to bring Adam back to his senses.

  “I think I should tell you, they’re changing shifts now.” Announced Gladys suddenly from behind me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I jumped and swung round to face her. Changing shifts? Was that, I wondered, a good thing. Did it mean unhelpful influences were on the way out and Delia was on her capable way in and, more importantly that Jonathan Harper wouldn’t be disappointed?

  “Who Gladys?”

  “Out there, in the garden.” She was facing the window, I looked out too. The efforts of my eager cleaning students had made visibility a hundred times better than yesterday and although it was only about 4 o’clock, darkness had fallen, but there must have been a security light triggered, because a whole section of the outside area was brightly lit.

  “See, behind that bush.” She said. I followed her pointing finger.

  “I don’t see anything.” I said.

  “Because they’re hiding.”

  “Why Gladys?” I enquired in kindly tones. “Why would you think they’d be hiding?”

  “To watch Bella.”

  “Bella?”

  “They take photographs all the time you know.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “Are these real people we’re talking about or um… others?” Gladys took a step back, meeting my eye for longer than usual in her indignation,

  “I’m not mad you know, of course they’re real people, they work for Simaxo.”

  “Who the hell’s Simaxo?”

  “Not who, what – it’s the company Bella nearly did that deal with. Everything fell through when there was all that London kerfuffle, but they still want to find out how she gets her results. I’ll tell you what it is, straight out, it’s industrial sabotage.”

  “Espionage,” I corrected absently.

  “I know what I mean.” She said.

  ***

  Bella, when questioned was sanguine,

  “My dear, they’re always there, nothing at all for you to worry about.”

  “But we can’t have men behind bushes,” I pointed out. “It’ll frighten the guests.”

  “Well, there’s usually only one at a time, anyway I thought that was what you wanted?”

  “I want spooks not spies.”

  “Well couldn’t they just be extras?” She suggested amiably, I sniffed,

  “Ghosts – with cameras and notebooks? I hardly think that’s going to work, do you?”

  “Actually, I feel rather sorry for them, out there in all weathers.” She said, avoiding my comment.

  “Why?” I asked. “They’re spying on you, trying to steal your treatments?” Bella laughed heartily, the buttons on the white coat straining desperately to maintain a hold across her expansive front. Winking, she adopted a remarkably accurate southern drawl, “Honey, what I got, ain’t nobody gonna steal! Anyway,” she added in normal tones, “They’re not very good.”

  I’d run her to ground in the annexe where mercifully, the colonic irrigation hadn’t yet started, although there was an anxious looking lady in the waiting room and some ominous looking equipment laid out next to a treatment table. Bella took my arm and pointed into the gardens.

  “Look, see what I mean.” Sure enough, right at the edge of the lawn, there was a polished brown shoe protruding from behind a laurel bush. Bella opened the window and leaned out, “Oy, Cyril.” She yodelled, “Shoe!” the brown shoe jerked and then was slowly drawn out of sight, perhaps he thought we wouldn’t notice it moving if he did it slowly. Bella chuckled and shut the window against the chilly night air. “Nice chap, retired policeman, I take him out a cup of tea from time to time, although he gets embarrassed when I do. “Problem is,” she paused to concentrate on fitting together two sections of the rubber tubing, whose purpose I didn’t even want to contemplate, “There’s not a whole lot for them to find – not if they lurked for a hundred years. Sandra, my dear, don’t give them another thought, they’ve been here weeks already, they won’t hang around indefinitely. We could have dealt with them of course, but I honestly don’t think it’s worth it. They’ll get fed up soon enough.”

  “Flipping well hope so,” I grumbled as I left her to the tubes and the anxious looking lady. It was all going to be tricky enough as it was. We’d have the documentary people here, Jonathan Harper had left a message to say his paper’s photographer might stop by to take a shot or two and we couldn’t forget Harold and Morwenna. At this rate, we were going to be fielding more photographers than you could shake a fist at. I could only hope none of them were going to catch Bella practicing without whatever it was one should have, before sticking tubes up other people’s rear ends.

  I was hastening back into the main house, ticking off a mental check list of tasks done and intended, when my mobile buzzed in my pocket.

  “Sandy?”

  “Hi Murray, where are you, it’s very noisy.”

  “Hospital. Can’t talk long.”

  “Oh God, what’s happened? You OK? Adam?”

  “It’s Sasha.”

  “Sasha? What’s wrong?”

  “Knife wound.”

  “Knife wound?”

  “Don’t shriek like that, goes right through me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Rehearsal.”

  “Rehearsal?”

  “Sandy – I’m going to cut you off right here and now, if you don’t stop repeating every blinking word I say.”

  “Sorry. Just tell me, can’t you.”

  “Rehearsing, weren’t they? At the theatre. Determined to go on with him, she is.”

  “And?” I carefully avoided any repetition. I knew Murray in this sort of snappy, frustrated mood he would indeed cut me off.

  “The wheel routine.” He paused. I filled in my own gaps.

  “Murray.” I yelled. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “Stop him? Stop him?” Murray yelled back, “You know you can’t stop the stupid old sod doing anything he wants to – bleeding lucky I persuaded him to leave the blindfold off.” I flopped down on one of the green leather chairs near the reception desk.

  “Sasha, she’s not… ?”

  “Nah. went into her upper arm, the fleshy bit. Her own silly fault, she egged him on, insisted they do it. They’re bandaging her up now, looked a lot worse than it was, lot of blood, but it doesn’t even need stitches, they say she can go back home right away.” He snorted, “Except it’s not her home she’s going back to, is it?”

  “And Adam, he all right?”

  “No he’s not, he’s in a right old two and eight. She keeps saying it wasn’t his fault, that she moved. He keeps saying he’s losing his touch. Losing his touch, my arse!” He snorted more noisily this time. “Sandy, you’ve got to get Ophelia back home, before something goes seriously wrong and someone really gets hurt.”

  “I’m doing my best, but she won’t budge till I’ve sorted things out here.”

  “Well? Taking your time aren’t you?”

  “I’ve made a start.” I snapped, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “So how long d’you reckon – to get things straightened out I mean.” Straightened out wasn’t quite how I’d describe the interlocking series of events I was so busy choreographing, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea to go into details and further fray Murray’s nerves.

  “Middle of next week, I should think.”

  “Blimey O’Reilly,”
he muttered, upbeat as ever. “There could be people pushing up daisies by then.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  By the time I’d finished the call with Murray I was standing in the reception area, so I thought I might just as well stay there for a bit, and plonked myself down on one of the unyielding green chairs. This might be a quiet moment to try and get my thoughts in order and maybe prioritise, but what was missing were my lists. Ophie and Adam always laughed at them, but I maintain, once you’ve got something on paper, you’re halfway to getting it done. However, I’d put my notebook down and left it somewhere or other. In a little while I’d get to my feet again and hunt it out, but for now there was no-one around and I felt I’d earned the luxury of a few seconds without interruption, I rested my arm on the armrest, my head in my hand and shut my eyes.

  “What exactly is it you think you’re doing?” I kept my eyes shut, I thought I’d opted for no interruptions. “You really can’t just swan in here and turn people’s lives upside down, you know.” This obviously was an interruption that wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon. I opened one eye and squinted upwards.

  “Mr Heywood,” I said, “You, here again, how nice.”

  “I’ve been seeing Mrs Goodkind. You and I need to talk.” He said. I shut the eye again.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “She’s told me what you’ve got in mind to put in motion and I must register my disapproval.” I opened both eyes this time and stared at him, what a pompous ass. And what exactly had she told him?

  “Your disapproval?” I queried.

  “Indeed.”

  “And what business is it of yours to approve or otherwise?”

  “Mrs Goodkind is my client, her welfare is therefore my concern. Now, I’m sure you mean well.” He said, his tone indicating quite the opposite. “But you obviously haven’t thought things through.” I stood abruptly, so we were almost toe to toe. He didn’t show any signs of backing up, so I took a side-step. He had on an old-fashioned, dark gray waistcoat, to match his suit, complete with fob watch and chain – affected or what?

  “Not,” I said, “That I think it’s anything to do with you, but I’m simply getting the hotel some much needed publicity, before it’s too late.”

  “You’re playing with fire.”

  “Isn’t that a tad over-dramatic?”

  “Can’t you see, the last thing needed here is publicity, what d’you think’s going to be made of the family, not to mention Gladys? Once some clever filmmaker gets her in his sights, she’s going to come across at best, as completely batty and at worst as… as…”

  “Are you saying she’s not batty?”

  “Eccentric, certainly. But what’s that to do with anyone else? And what about Felicia – they’ll love her, won’t they?”

  “Don’t be silly, there’s no need for them to even meet her.” I said firmly. He grunted in exasperation and pushed his glasses back up on to his head, allowing him to better pinch the bridge of his aquiline nose with thumb and forefinger, a gesture I interpreted as a sign of extreme frustration.

  “I can’t make up my mind whether you’re naïve or just plain daft.” He said. “Don’t you know the way they work – these documentaries? They flourish on sensationalism. What do you honestly think they’re going to be more worried about – your well-being or their viewing figures?” I made to interrupt, but he didn’t let me, “And Mimi,” he said, “Exactly how are you going to keep her under wraps? Don’t you see the risks?” He didn’t add ‘You stupid woman’, but he might just as well have done.

  I never respond well to criticism, and certainly not from someone with no business making it. I was close to losing my temper, despite the fact I’d had more than enough practice at keeping emotions well under control.

  “I’ve made you angry.” He said, then unexpectedly, “Good. What are you feeling now?” A few well-chosen, barbed responses that I was formulating, lodged in my throat as I stared at him. I felt honesty at this point was the best policy,

  “That I’d like to pulverise you.”

  “And could you?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re part of this family too – with all its ‘foibles’ – give that some thought.” And he swung on his heel and headed out the front door.

  It took me longer than I would have liked to calm down, following my encounter with the annoyingly meddlesome solicitor. There was no doubt he’d stirred up some unpleasant speculation – although nothing that hadn’t already occurred to me during the last few days – it was just that hearing that voiced by someone else, was a little alarming. Even more alarming was exactly how much he did or didn’t know about the family and their funny ways. I resolutely shoved all these clamouring questions to the back of my mind, where they could buddy up with a whole group of other things I didn’t want to think about now (or indeed in the foreseeable future), I had more pressing matters on which to focus.

  To reap maximum benefit from our journalistic visitor there were a few things I had to sort out before he arrived, and I felt Polly Malone’s opening night was a matter best handled by the only person round here I could rely on – me. However, I needed some props so I thought before tackling the family meeting, I’d tackle Elizabeth.

  “What d’you want with a cap then?” She said, eyeing me suspiciously. I’d run her to ground having a cuppa in the kitchen, where Gladys was bustling about like a thing possessed – which she might very well have been. Also present, sipping tea, humming quietly, dunking a chocolate digestive and intermittently jotting things down in a tattered open notebook, was a lugubrious looking individual who stood and formally shook my hand when I came in.

  “Alfred.” He said. I nodded,

  “And I’m…

  “Ophelia’s girl.” He supplied. “I know, been hearing quite a lot about you.”

  “What sort of a cap you talking about?” Interjected Elizabeth. Actually, she had me there. Although I’d put together quite a solid story on the misfortunes of poor Polly, Charley hadn’t asked, and I’d neglected to decide, quite when this had all taken place. I thought I couldn’t go wrong with around 1910, and then wondered if it ought to be a bit earlier, I didn’t want any records being checked for authenticity.

  “Old-fashioned housemaidy sort of a thing?” I asked hopefully.

  “Mob cap, she means.” Put in Gladys, as she whisked past at speed.

  “You don’t need a cap.” Elizabeth looked me up and down, I’d changed from my jeans into the black skirt and white shirt she’d given me “It’d look proper daft, you’ll do as you are.”

  “No, no, it’s not for serving dinner. It’s for… something else entirely.” She pursed her lips. “Elizabeth,” I said, in the voice I use to deal with Ophelia when she needs to be taken in hand. “It’s a very simple question, have you or have you not, got something I can use?”

  “Well there’s a load of old tut in the cupboard next to Felicia’s room,” she said grudgingly, “You’ll likely find something there. Mind you don’t disturb her though.” I nodded, reflecting as I trotted upstairs, that Felicia was disturbed enough already.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  In my experience, the average mind can accept only so many knocks in the course of a day, before it begins to recalibrate and take the entirely unexpected, manfully in its stride.

  With Harper, J. booked in for dinner that night, I’d insisted on family back up. So when Roland came down to dinner, later that evening, in black fishnet tights, high heels and a not-too-far-above-the-knee-to-be-sluttish, black leather skirt, I simply blinked hard once or twice.

  He’d topped the skirt with a baby-blue angora jumper, tastefully beaded around the neckline, a blond, chin-length, feather-cut wig and skilfully understated make-up. I had to admit he looked lovely although I did think, as they descended the stairs pausing, all t
hree of them on the bottom step for a moment, like the Supremes taking a photo-call, that maybe they’d misinterpreted my instructions which I’d thought were quite clear – bring on the cavalry, I’d said, not the bloody cabaret.

  Bella had swapped her white coat for a figure hugging little black dress, and there was a lot of figure to hug. She’d added a pair of hanging earrings, which would put any decent chandelier in the shade and the mass of black curls, piled high on her head was anchored with an extravagantly jewelled pin. Ophelia had opted for a mid-calf, full and floaty chiffon skirt in deep brown, her normal teeter-high heels, a long-sleeved, cowl-necked gold lurex top and enough Chanel No. 5 to rock you on your heels.

  As all three sashayed past me into the candle-lit dining room, I made a firm grab at a gold lurex arm,

  “I wanted,” I muttered through smiling lips, “For you to make like normal guests, what the hell is Roland playing at?” Ophie grinned widely,

  “It’s just what we used to do, when we were kids, Bella and I would dress him up in our clothes – Etty hated it.”

  “So, what? He’s a cross-dresser?” I asked. She pealed with laughter,

  “Goodness me no my darling, nothing half so exciting I’m afraid – just an inveterate practical joker, did I not mention that about him?”

  “That and a few dozen other things.” I hissed. I let go her arm and she followed her two dining companions, as an unflustered Elizabeth ushered them graciously to a table in the middle of the room.

  Devorah and Henry were already in situ at a table in the far corner, although both a little sulky. They’d been sitting there from 7.45 but were only being allowed a bread roll and dessert, on account of the fact that Gladys, and whoever she was working with tonight, had under-estimated on the lamb. I’d decreed therefore, that they had to appear to be at the end of their meal, when Jonathan Harper was just starting his and once he’d seen them, they could leave. Whilst I appreciated we didn’t exactly present a bustling restaurant on a peak night, it was the best we could do, and I hoped the explanation re the cancellation would cover. I also prayed he wouldn’t want to eat in again tomorrow night, I was running low on extras.