The Wonkiest Witch

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “We’ve had the results of the post-mortem back from our victim. The results are inconclusive, so I’m afraid I have more questions than answers.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, puzzled. “That he wasn’t murdered?”

  “No. I think one of the conclusions we can safely draw at this time is that the gentleman didn’t die a natural death. However, we’re not entirely certain how he died, and we still have no further clue as to who he is.”

  “I see.” I pondered on what Gilchrist was saying, and also on what he wasn’t telling me. I wondered how far I dared to push him for more details. “Can you give me any idea about his injuries?”

  Gilchrist looked around as though he half expected someone else to walk in, and then lowering his voice he replied. “It is the strangest thing. As far as the pathologist can tell, the victim died of multiple injuries. Every single large bone in his body was fractured. As in broken. Not pulverised or crushed. And his injuries were not compatible with a fall from a height or a collision so he can’t have tumbled off the roof.”

  I almost fell from my stool.

  “Are you alright, Ms Daemonne?” Gilchrist asked with concern.

  “Percussive shock,” I said but I knew he wouldn’t know what that meant.

  “Sorry?” Gilchrist asked and I shook my head, my knees and elbows feeling decidedly wobbly.

  “There was no bruising to the body?” I asked.

  “None at all. Which is highly unusual given the nature of the rest of his injuries.”

  Gilchrist studied me curiously. “Oh,” I said, because he appeared to be waiting for me to elucidate. I was at a loss. How could I tell him of my certainty that what he was describing was the work of a witch or a wizard. Most likely a dark warlock. Black magic. That put a whole new spin on the dangers lurking in and around the inn.

  “You haven’t seen anything unusual in the time you’ve been here?” asked Gilchrist, poised over his phone, ready to make notes.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Have you had many visitors?”

  “A few.”

  “People you know?”

  “Well, no. Not really. I mean … I know them now.” Gilchrist nodded his encouragement, obviously wanting me to list them. “Let me see. There was the surveyor, Charles Pimm. Millicent Ballicott from the village. Stanley Marsh from the village shop. Jed Bailey. He’s an odd job man who’s doing some work for me.”

  “And you haven’t seen anyone hanging around, or acting in a suspicious way?”

  “No.”

  “Only we’ve had a few reports about strange lights and noises from the woods behind the inn and wondered if you’d seen or heard anything?”

  Sally. I rolled my eyes. “Green deer?” I said and it was Gilchrist’s turn to look puzzled. I stifled a nervous giggle. “Honestly, I’ve seen and heard nothing at all.”

  “And no-one’s made any threats against you or the inn?”

  Now I hesitated. I thought of Lyle at The Hay Loft and Talbot-Lloyd, but both had been miserable and belligerent rather than overtly threatening. I had no real grounds for complaint, so I smiled and said, “No. Nothing.”

  Gilchrist flipped the cover on his mobile across its face. “Thanks, Ms Daemonne. That’s all for now. If you do think of anything you will let me know?”

  “Yes of course.”

  “Would it be alright if I just had another quick look around the back?”

  “No problem. I’ll let you out.” I led him past the bar and down the corridor with The Snug and The Nook beyond, then we walked through the kitchen to the back door. He watched in satisfaction as I slid the bolts open top and bottom and then twisted the keys in the pair of locks. “Good security,” he said and I smiled, “It’s just a shame you leave the front door wide open most of the time.”

  We walked out onto the slabbed area and he examined the general area again, snapping a few photos with his mobile, before spending some time craning his head to look up at the upstairs windows and the roof above them. Given that a fall would have resulted in a completely different set of injuries, and there was nothing out here that could have caused the injuries that Gilchrist had described to me, I figured the detective was on a hiding to nothing.

  Eventually he sighed deeply, obviously no closer to an answer. “Thanks for your time, Ms Daemonne.” I walked him through the inn to the front door. As I watched him drive off, I shivered. It was a warm afternoon, but suddenly I could sense danger in the breeze. I was alone again, and now it seemed I didn’t simply have to worry about Talbot-Lloyd, Lyle and their ilk, I had dark magick to fear too.

  A little later Jed arrived, and finding the front door closed, had to bang hard to get my attention. “What’s happened?” he asked, his face lined with concern when I finally made it downstairs and drew back the bolts.

  “I’m a little unnerved,” I said, leading Jed through to the kitchen. “Detective Gilchrist came over to ask a few more questions, and fill me in on what the police have found out.”

  “And what have they found out?”

  I frowned, wondering how much I could share with Jed, but I desperately wanted to confide in someone.

  “It’s not really what they know,” I faltered as I reached for the kettle to fill it at the sink. “More what they don’t know or could ever possibly understand.”

  “How do you mean?” Jed grabbed a pair of mugs and the teapot.

  “It’s the manner in which the unknown man died. Gilchrist described how all of the major bones in the body were broken.”

  “So he fell?” Jed speculated. “From the roof of the inn, to the patio area outside.”

  “No. He can’t possibly have fallen because he had no other traumatic injuries.”

  “What then?”

  “You’ll think this is crazy … but I think it was a spell. I think he was cursed. Possibly using the Curse of Madb.”

  “Maeve?”

  “Yes. Madb was a Celtic Goddess, a great hedonist and war-mongerer. She was known to covet the possessions of others and wage war to get her hands on what she wanted.”

  “So someone cursed the victim because they wanted what he had?”

  “That’s a possibility, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s more likely that the victim was envious of, or was coveting the inn, or something in these parts. The Curse of Madb is used against those who have an appetite to defraud someone or steal from them.”

  “You’re right. That does sound crazy. Why do you think this is the case?”

  “Because the injuries that Gilchrist described sound like percussive shock to me.” When Jed looked even more puzzled, I expanded. “Think of the way a shrill or loud noise can break glass. That’s effectively what the Curse of Madb does. It causes a shock to the bones. Multiple fractures, sudden and complete organ failure. No other injuries. It’s highly effective. Death is swift and painless. Apparently.”

  “Apparently?” Jed gulped.

  “I’ve never seen it in practice. It’s something that can only be performed by extremely powerful spellcasters.”

  “You can’t do it?”

  “I’ve never tried, and I would be unlikely to ever do it anyway. Very few witches would.”

  “Why wouldn’t you ever use it?”

  “Do you remember what I said about using magick with intent? Well, that’s the way you cast a spell. The same word, or curse, can have different meanings depending on the level of intent used. The point being that it is possible to use a milder version of the Curse of Madb simply as a spell to stop someone. Momentarily freeze them in their tracks if you like. You don’t have to go the whole hog and take someone out. Just a little intonation, and a sprinkling of mild intent, those will do the job.”

  “You’re saying that—” Jed struggled to get his head around what I was trying to tell him.

  “I’m saying that anyone who is a powerful enough spellcaster, could have simply stopped this guy in his tracks without having to kill him. The fact that he was killed
suggests either there’s a rogue force at work – be that witch, wizard, warlock or whomever—or …”

  “Or?”

  “Or whatever this chap was up to, it was serious enough to make the perpetrator very angry indeed.”

  Jed nodded.

  “I wasn’t particularly worried about this murder before. I felt somehow disconnected from it. Maybe I assumed it was some weird random act or accident, that predated my arrival here. If only by hours. But now I am definitely worried.” I absently stirred my tea. “But this … It’s too close to home and makes me think that the inn is under serious threat by persons known or unknown.” I stared at Jed, my brow furrowing. “Maybe someone exacted revenge against somebody who is coveting the inn or my inheritance, or maybe the person that killed the man here is determined to harm the inn’s reputation. Whatever,” I took a deep swallow of my tea, “I’m at a loss to know whether it’s my kind or your kind I need to keep an eye on.”

  “My kind?” Jed looked nervous.

  “I don’t know whether it’s magick or mortals that threaten my livelihood.”

  The inn was a virtual shell now compared to how it had been when I‘d first arrived. Jed and I knocked through partition after partition, or stripped off yards of plaster board. It was dusty, unforgiving work, and back-breaking to carry all the endless rubbish out to the skip I’d hired. The dust wafted through the inn endlessly, and I gazed in despair at how it layered and coated every surface, even when the doors had been closed and the gaps between the floor and door lagged.

  “I’ll never feel clean again,” I lamented, wondering about the price of hiring cleaning staff in the area. How much would it cost to deep clean the entire inn? I couldn’t dare start plastering or painting with this much dust throughout the building.

  The good news was that every time I peeled back another false wall, I found new treasures underneath. Beautifully ornate fireplaces in the bedrooms, exquisite panelling in both The Snug and The Nook, and behind the bar we found more beautiful carved wood and shelving along with the Victorian mirrors, dappled and scarred through years of use and abuse, but totally salvageable. Jed was quick to cover them up once more, intent on protecting them until we were ready to proceed with the refurbishment of the bar area.

  We were progressing, that was true enough, but I found myself increasingly on edge most of the time. I figured that if someone were watching either me or the inn, I would instinctively know it, and in truth, there were times when I found myself turning in circles and looking around with suspicion, but I could never sense anything malevolent.

  Far from it. The deeper I scratched at the surface of the inn, the more I uncovered its filthy dusty layers, and the more the inn appeared to breathe with relief. It was as if the inn had been wound as tight as a spring over the centuries, and now, by exposing the beams and the original brickwork - and even wattle and daub in a few places - I was helping it to regain a sense of self.

  Perhaps it had lost its way as much as I had. This was our chance. Mine to find a life for myself that had meaning, and the inn’s to finally come fully back to life.

  I was determined we would be successful. Whatever it took.

  To that end, later that night after Jed had finished up and headed home in his battered van, and with Mr Hoo looking on in solemn interest, I sat on the step, peeled off my shoes and cleared my mind, preparing for a protection ritual.

  That morning I had received an anonymous note in the post. The contents were straightforward enough. Just seven little words: Leave now before we force you out.

  I had turned the note over and over in my hands, but apart from the fact that it had been written on good quality cream parchment, it didn’t appear to hold any further clues. I’d taken a few photos and attached them to a text for Detective Gilchrist, and promised to save the envelope and contents until the next time I saw him.

  For now, I needed to concentrate on protecting myself and the inn.

  I had been mentally preparing myself all day, and now that I was alone, it was time. Calling upon the goddess Bast, I walked barefoot around the perimeter of my property in the largest circle I could manage. I began at the gate and proceeded all the way around the inn and back to the start, right around the external footprint of the building. In the absence of a bell to use, I clapped my hands as I went, repeating the phrase, ‘Guard this space from all ill will and all those who wish us harm.’ Over and over I repeated the phrase, planting my feet squarely on the earth, alternately feeling the sandy soil beneath my toes, or the coolness of concrete depending on where I was walking. The next time I circumnavigated the property I sprinkled salt water in front of me to represent earth and water. It splashed my legs, and left streaks in the dust.

  Finally, I lit three sticks of incense to represent fire and air and carried them with me, scenting the air with a musky eastern promise and this time I concentrated on the idea of positivity and purity, keeping anything less than wholesome at bay, while visualising an impenetrable mountain fortress.

  When I had completed the ritual, I thanked Bast and sank onto the front step of the inn thankfully. Mr Hoo fluttered down to sit next to me.

  “Hooo-oo. Hoo-oooo,” he told me, the light shining bright in his beautiful eyes.

  “Yes, you’re right,” I replied. “We’ve done what we can for now, but we’ll still need to keep watch for anything unusual or anyone that wishes us harm.” We sat together listening to the sounds of the night, in contemplative but companionable silence.

  Having wandered down into the village to send a few letters from the post office, and fully intending to pick up a few things from Rhona’s little shop, I decided to make time for coffee and a slice of cake. The little tea shop in Whittlecombe was a refuge of civility and calm, with tables covered in red and white chequered cloths, and old-fashioned dressers laden down with china and knick-knacks, lining the walls.

  I took a table by the window, perfect for people watching, and ordered a cream tea from the waitress, a pleasant old woman named Gloria, who had probably worked in the café since time immemorial. Her long hair, as white as snow, was teased to perfection and drawn up in an impressive beehive. She had secured this magnificent style in place with enough metal grips to recreate the Eiffel Tower, and enough hairspray to turn the café into an inferno if she walked near an open flame. I gave her my order and watched with some trepidation as she hobbled away on her thick ankles and ultra-sensible shoes.

  While waiting for my refreshments, I pulled a number of documents from my bag that needed attention. Now the initial panic over my finances had passed, and I’d set up spreadsheets and scoured all the financial information relating to the accounts for the inn and the cottages that the estate administered, I was in a much better place and able to see where I was and what needed to be spent where.

  Penelope Quigwell had furnished me with all the information I had asked for, but now as I scanned through the documents, I could see a number of large gaps in the accounting dating from my father’s disappearance that still hadn’t been taken into consideration despite several previous requests. I hoiked my mobile out of my bag and rang her office. The dour gentleman receptionist answered and haughtily informed me Penelope was out of the office visiting clients for the next few days but he would let her know I had been trying to reach her.

  I made a note in my diary to follow it up. Getting information from Penelope was proving trying to say the least. I considered the option of returning to London briefly. I could call into her office, pick up some supplies from the shops in Celestial Street, and organise for the rest of my belongings to be sent down here to the inn, all at the same time. It would make a nice change, time well spent, and give me a break from renovating all day, every day.

  As Gloria returned with a tray full of delicious items, I hurriedly swept my paperwork and phone from the table and dumped it on the chair next to me. Gloria carefully balanced the tea tray on the edge of the table, and set down a teapot covered in a bright red ha
nd knitted woollen tea cosy, a cup and saucer in pale cream with rainbow coloured polka dots, a matching plate laden with two beautifully fluffy fruit scones, a huge bowl of clotted cream and a slightly smaller bowl of homemade strawberry jam.

  I dribbled my thanks and set to with gusto. One scone would have sufficed, but two was pushing it a little. I probably wouldn’t need to eat again for a fortnight.

  I was just finishing up the second scone and ruminating on the left over clotted cream—such a shame to waste it—when Millicent came into the café and waved at me cheerily. “I spotted you through the window,” she sang, “and thought I’d enquire how you’re getting on.”

  “Hello,” I said, “come and sit with me.”

  “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “No, it’s nice to have the company.”

  Gloria hobbled over as Millicent settled into her seat, and we ordered more tea. “Speaking of company,” Millicent said, “how are you and Jed getting on?”

  “Oh,” I flushed, “very well.”

  Millicent raised her eyebrows. “That well, eh? Interesting.” When I glanced at her, she smiled, “I’m glad. He’s a lovely young man.”

  I laughed, a little self-consciously. “We’re just friends, Millicent,” I said, and that much was true, although I often found myself thinking of him when he wasn’t around. “Thanks for the recommendation. Really. Jed’s worth his weight in gold. We’re making great progress on stripping the inn back. I’ve already had to send off three skips full of rubbish since he started working with me.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Jed’s making a start on sanding the paintwork back wherever possible, with his super-loud but highly efficient sanding machine, and he suggested we get all of the doors dipped and stripped, so eventually when we rehang them, they’ll be as close to original as possible. I’m looking forward to that.”

  “It will all take shape in good time,” Millicent said. She removed the tea cosy from the teapot and lifted the lid, stirring the tea inside and checking the colour, until it was to her satisfaction.