by Syd Moore
‘Really?’ said Karen with more energy this time. Her other eyebrow whizzed up to match its sister.
She was looking more interested than a woman of the cloth ought. ‘Sorry, a Michael Bublé lookalike,’ I added and watched her features sag slightly. But not enough, if you asked me. ‘All the village ladies of a certain age are wetting themselves.’ I managed to stop myself from adding ‘literally’.
‘Yes,’ said Karen with a quick intake of breath. ‘I can imagine. How much are tickets?’
‘I think it’s sold out. Sorry.’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not for me. I have a friend who …’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘Do you want a drink? I’m getting a white?’
‘I’ll have a cup of tea if it’s on offer,’ she said quite properly.
I fetched our refreshments then went off to make small talk with some of the other guests: villagers, forensic experts, eco-protestors and police, all of whom had something to do with Anne and Bartholomew. Seemed appropriate that they should come along and I think in some way they all felt that it was important to pay their respects and see the last part of their story told.
Before I could say ‘More tea vicar?’ Sam had trotted into the room wagging his phone at me. I wondered if that meant it was time to wind up the wake and get the decorations in.
‘Put that down,’ he said and pointed at my glass. He could be such a puritan at times. And a very bossy one at that.
‘No,’ I said. It was my habit to dig in my heels and object even if it was possibly illogical. I didn’t like taking orders from members of the patriarchy. Who does? And sometimes it was important to make that point. Of course sometimes it was not. And sometimes my choice was dangerous and stupid and a little bit life-endangering. But, you know, a girl’s gotta kick against the pricks. Quite often they didn’t even realise they were being one.
‘Sam,’ I said, holding on to my glass. ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to be stone cold sober to take the cobwebs down.’
He rolled his eyes and hissed, ‘It’s Monty.’ Then he pointed at the phone. Sure enough there on the screen Montgomery Walker’s name and number was boldly displayed.
Monty was our contact in the Occult Bureau in MI5, or possibly MI6. I wasn’t sure which – I’d never been good at maths. Anyway, he ran some kind of secret department which looked into weird stuff, so of course there had to be a connection to the Witch Museum, didn’t there? I had discovered that my grandfather Septimus had done work for them, but in more of a freelance capacity. And my family had been on their radar for quite a while, for varying reasons. Seriously, this year had been a TOTAL revelation. You have no idea. And Monty had been a bit of an enabler in that regard.
‘So?’ I said. ‘Hello Monty,’ scintillating conversationist, that I am.
‘He wants to talk to us,’ said Sam.
‘No kidding,’ I said, still a bit sore about the wine-ceasing instruction.
He screwed his eyes up. ‘Office, now!’ Then he turned on his rather smart Cuban heels and sped off in that direction. He’d dressed up for the burial in a black suit and tie, which I thought was kind of decent of him really. He looked good in them too. If he didn’t then I’d have given him more of a mouthful. At the same time, it was fair to say that I was beginning to understand the curator better and cutting him a bit of slack accordingly. Whenever he was fixated on something it used up all his mental energy and didn’t leave any brain space for manners and cordiality and other such trifles. I guessed whatever Monty had told him had pressed his buttons and piqued his interest. Which was all rather ominous.
With a sigh, I clip-clopped over to Vanessa. I was wearing a pair of new black heels which hadn’t had an outing so far. They looked utterly breathtaking – all shiny patent leather with little straps at the sides. Though they were putting my toes through hell. When I reached the pop-up bar I eased one foot out and rubbed it while I asked our mother-anddaughter hospitality team if they could hold the fort for a mo. Which they could of course, so I hobbled around the museum for a bit till I located Sam in the office-cum-diningroom-cum-staff-room-cum-kitchen-cum-reception.
He was sitting at the long table currently laid for tea and had plonked his mobile in the middle of it.
‘It’s quite important,’ Monty was bleating tinnily through the microscopic speaker. ‘You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was.’
I tucked my skirt between my legs (I’m a lady, right), got my feet on the table, then prised off the black stilettos.
‘Bad luck to put new shoes on the table,’ said Sam.
‘Not that you believe in any of that superstitious nonsense.’
I shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ And chucked them on the rug. Then I directed my voice to the microphone. ‘What’s up, Mr Walker?’
‘Hello Rosie,’ he said. I could imagine him at his desk, which I had never seen, but pictured vividly whenever I heard his phone voice. In my head he was settling his elbows on racing-green leather, twirling a fountain pen in his fingers, in front of elegant bookshelves crammed with learned tomes, himself all suave suited and booted. Just like Sam was now.
‘He needs a favour,’ said my nearest and dearest and then made a circling gesture for me to get my feet off the table. Did I tell you he was bossy?
I continued in my refusal to bow to the patriarchy and transferred my gaze to the phone and the imagined office at MI5. ‘A favour?’ I repeated.
Now that was a thing. A thoroughly interesting thing.
See, I was considering delving deeper into the nature of my mother’s death. My biological one. My Dad’s sister, Celeste. And possibly my father’s too. Whoever he was. Not the person I called ‘Dad’, who was my uncle. I told you it was complicated.
But I wasn’t getting far and had an idea in my mind which might require the help of our friend in Intelligence. All of which meant that really, we, or at least, I, certainly should be ensuring we kept Monty sweet.
‘What kind of favour?’ I asked, smiling hard so you could hear it in my voice.
Despite the fact he was sitting down Sam put his hands on his hips, which meant he was a little put out. Though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe he had already said no.
‘A kind of “drop what you’re doing favour”,’ Sam interjected flatly and then tutted.
‘Indeed,’ said Monty. ‘We have a bit of a situation in a village not far from you.’
‘Haven?’ asked Sam.
‘No. Not that village. Damebury. Some poor old chap’s met his end.’
Sam’s already deep frown got even deeper.
I made an ‘eh?’ face at the phone. ‘Not being funny, Monty, but people pop their clogs all the time. That’s why we’ve got the police and hospital and coroner’s department, right?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The sibilance in his voice made the speaker crackle. ‘This one’s rather different. They’re saying it’s natural causes. A trick-or-treat prank that got out of hand. But, well …’ Monty paused. ‘Some people on the course …’
‘The course?’ I interrupted.
‘Residential writers retreat,’ Sam whispered.
‘Yes, that’s right. Indeed,’ Monty chimed in down the line, the audio balance of his voice restored to parity. ‘Some of the participants believe that not to be the case.’
My turn to frown now. ‘Well, they should take that up with the police then, shouldn’t they?’
Monty hesitated. ‘There are a few of them that believe he may have intentionally been, er, scared to death.’
‘Really?’ I said, surprised to hear Monty voice it like that.
‘And,’ he continued. ‘It sounds like their theory is being given short shrift by the local constabulary who favour natural causes. A coronary.’
Yes, well with mounting paperwork and budget cuts you could see how that might be preferable.
Sam took his hands off his hips, leant forwards over the table and tapped it. ‘But you’re calling us Monty,’ he said. ‘Which
I presume means you also have doubts that the death isn’t as straightforward as the police might think.’
‘No. Quite right, Sam,’ he replied. ‘Interestingly, I had a feeling that something like this might happen back in June. Remember Rosie, when I gave you that file, I said I might need a favour soon.’
That file had been full of confidential information, some portion of which had led me to discover not only my grandmother’s remains, but her murderer too. As return favours went, this was therefore a hard one to refuse. ‘I don’t remember you saying that, but I know I owe you.’
‘Splendid.’ His tinny voice crackled the speaker again. ‘I’ll tell Tabby you’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Hang on!’ said Sam. ‘We’re holding a wake here, Monts, old man.’ Mr Walker’s poshness appeared to have become contagious. ‘We’ve got to take the Halloween decorations down.’
There was a pause. ‘You have Halloween decorations at your wake?’ Monty rasped.
I tutted loudly. ‘Had them up yesterday of course! We’re a witch museum. Halloween’s our busiest time of year,’ I said, unable to supress my sarcasm. ‘And there’s a tradition going on in Adder’s Fork. This lot – Sam and Bronson and Septimus, when he was alive – they used to stock up on sweeties and decorate the entrance. The rest of the museum closes at five, but the lobby stays open and gets stuffed with cats, broomsticks, dry ice, cackling voices and scary witchfinders – you know the score. Visiting children go off with a handful of sweets and a quick lecture on how most women accused of witchcraft were not witches at all, but victims of injustice, scapegoating and bullying.’ I winked at Sam who nodded, his face neither approving nor irritated. ‘They come back year after year. Which is a miracle in itself.’
Sam sniffed at my last comment with pretend disdain. ‘And we didn’t have time to take the decorations down before the wake. Not that anyone minded. There’s no close relatives around any more,’ he said.
‘Well if there aren’t close relatives, can’t Bronson play host?’ Monty cried.
‘The thing is, Monty,’ I piped up, ‘we’ve spent some time reorganising the lobby. We’ve got rid of the old Inquisition exhibit.’
‘Stored it,’ Sam added.
‘And we have some panels now which talk about the link between Essex Girls and Essex Witches.’
‘With a photograph of her friend, Cerise,’ Sam added.
‘And,’ I continued, ‘it’s really important that we get it sorted for tomorrow because the museum’s open again at ten. That doesn’t leave us much time––’
‘Look here,’ Monty interjected. ‘I’m most anxious that you go over and do some digging. Just find out about the other people on the course. See if anyone has a motive to get rid of the administrator chap who’s died. As quick as you can please, Tabby is most aerated.’
‘Who the hell is Tabby?’ I asked, severely nonplussed.
‘My dear maiden aunt,’ said Monty. ‘On my father’s side. She’s one of the students at Ratchette Hall in Damebury. It’s the Essex Writers Retreat.’
‘Oh hang on,’ I said. ‘The Essex Writers House? I thought that had just opened in Southend? Has residencies, courses, places to stay, talks, quizzes. All sounds quite fun?’
‘No,’ snapped Monty. ‘That’s separate. Though I think they may have some relationship with Ratchette Hall, they are quite quite different. These guys in Damebury are far more upmarket – £700 and upwards for the week.’
‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘So it’s for rich people?’
‘My aunt is not rich, Rosie. Just interested and able to afford it. Anyway, this is getting off point. It’s quite spooked her, this business. And I’ll tell you something – she has great instincts has Aunt Tabby. If she smells a rat there’s probably a colony of them under the floorboards. You’d be wise to find her and see what she makes of all of this.’
I sized up the open blister on my big toe and thought about hurrying to the writers retreat on it. It wasn’t particularly appealing. ‘Oh Monty, can’t you sort it out? I’m sure you’ve got cronies you could despatch to investigate this sort of thing.’
‘Otherwise engaged tonight,’ he said.
‘Us too,’ said Sam and scowled.
‘And, everyone else,’ Monty increased the bass in his voice, ‘is up to date with favours dispensed and repaid. Apart from you, dearest Rosie.’
There was silence as we all considered the impasse. Though a thought occurred to me as I considered Monty’s words.
‘We’ll do it,’ I said, to Sam’s surprise. ‘But,’ I added, ‘I’d like another favour in return.’
‘Rosie, you’re a tinker, aren’t you?’ said Monty. ‘What’s that?’
I took my feet off the table and leant closer to the mic. ‘I’d like to meet Big Ig.’
‘Big Ig!’ Monty and Sam exclaimed at the same time.
‘That’s right,’ I added. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘How do you know about Big Ig?’ Monty was clearly gobsmacked.
‘Sam told me. Ages ago. And I’ve got a good head for names. Especially if they’re weird like that. Ignatius, Big Ig, he was your predecessor Monty. I’m right, aren’t I?’
There was no noise from his end of the line. I imagined him nodding mutely, mouth open. Possibly catching flies.
‘Which means,’ I continued, ignoring Sam shaking his head, ‘that he was probably in office about the time Celeste died. And Araminta de Vere …’ (a woman who had tried to kill me recently) ‘… said that she drove Celeste and her “partner”, presumably my dad, into a tree. I’ve checked that out though. In the news report it stated that only Celeste drowned in her car. No mention of any partner. Or who he might have been.’ Have I told you my life was complicated?
I waited for a response, but neither Sam nor Monty appeared inclined to make one.
‘I figure Big Ig might know more on the matter,’ I finished. ‘More, probably, than you might locate in your files, Monty.’
Still nothing from his end of the line.
‘He’s not dead is he?’ I added.
‘No,’ said Monty. ‘Not yet. Retired. Enjoying golf. And peace.’
‘Sort of then. Can you get me a meeting please? And we’ll nip over to …’ I paused. ‘Where is this writers place again?’
There was a crumbling sound on the phone line. Monty consulting a map or unfolding paper. ‘Damebury,’ he said. ‘Not more than five miles from you. It’s hardly a bother.’
‘Okay,’ I said firmly, trying to wrap it up. ‘So, is it a deal?’
Sam wrapped his arms over his chest and sucked in his mouth.
‘It’s a deal,’ said Monty over the phone.
Sam sighed and said wearily into the microphone, ‘Give us the address then.’
I got up and smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Then, leaving my shoes on the rug, I hobbled back into the museum to find Bronson. It would be a hard sale, but if I could persuade Vanessa and Trace to help him clear up, then I thought the caretaker would be all right with our unexpected desertion.
He would have to be.
I was going to Damebury.
I’d unpick what was happening there, then Ignatius would help unpick my own private enigma.
CHAPTER TWO
‘But we’re a team,’ Sam was saying. ‘You should have consulted me. Before you made the final decision. And the speed limit here is forty.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the sign.’
‘Observe it then,’ he retorted. Sam was at his most irritating in cars. Mostly when I was driving.
‘All right, all right.’ I didn’t hold back with my tone. ‘I can’t just slam on the brakes.’
‘Well, ease off on the accelerator.’ He leant back into the seat, his chest puffing out as he did so. It was broad and hard. I’d felt it once, when he’d climbed onto my bed. Not like that. In hospital. Both of us had been too ragged to do anything but lie there. I sighed at the thought of it.
‘I don’t know what you’r
e sighing about,’ he said. ‘Speed limits are there for a reason.’ I could feel his eyes on my cheek. I didn’t want to see what his face looked like. ‘And the other issue?’ he said. ‘The consultation. Or lack of?’
I depressed my foot lightly on the brakes to please him and said, ‘Yes, all right. I know you’re right. But there’s such a lot that I’ve got to find out about my family I have to take these opportunities when they are presented. No one else is going to grab them for me. If you ever have anything happen to you like this, then you’ll understand.’
He didn’t say anything back. But my words seemed to touch a nerve, for he pulled away, hiding his face, and gazed through the window at the darkening landscape. I knew he was brooding. Though, at that point, I thought it was because he couldn’t argue with me. That I had the upper hand with the family thing. Of course, I was wrong, but I didn’t know then what I know now. Though, as Arthur Conan Doyle pointed out, it’s easier to be wise after the event. Beforehand you are just simply … unwise. And like I said, this was well before it.
‘Turn here,’ he said a few minutes later and prodded his phone. ‘You’re not the only one with …’ he paused, ‘family …’ he stopped again, selecting the right word, ‘issues.’
It was one of the first clues.
‘I’m not?’ I framed it as a question and waited.
‘You’re not,’ he said and pointed over the road. ‘Slow down. There’s the drive for Ratchette Hall.’
A small road on the right-hand side of the lane appeared in a line of trees. Their leaves waved us a welcome, showing off autumn’s full palette: amber, rust, ochre, mustard. Mother Nature had a good eye for colour. She could have been a stylist.
I spied a white gate propped open by a brick. ‘So what are yours? Your family issues?’ I probed as I swung the car in.
The tyres crunched across tiny pebbles. A couple of them scattered and hit the bodywork. I took the speed right down and we bounced over a few potholes up to the rather grand porch. It was tall and white. A triangle of stone was held up by two thick white columns and illuminated by a large Victorian-style glass lantern.
Sam frowned. ‘Not now. Another time.’ Then he raised a hand to halt my ‘but why?’ as it formed in my mouth. ‘I will say this – when you make these decisions without consulting me, sometimes, you know …’ he shrugged and cast his eyes at me.