The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6

by Jeannie Wycherley

  The Mysterious Mr Wylie

  Wonky Inn Book 6

  by

  * * *

  JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  * * *

  Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter: eepurl.com/cN3Q6L

  The Mysterious Mr Wylie was edited by Anna Bloom @ The Indie Hub

  Proof Reading by Nikki Groom @The Indie Hub

  Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.

  Formatting by Tammy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Please consider leaving a review?

  Wonky Continues

  The Wonky story begins…

  The Wonky Inn Series

  Also by Jeannie Wycherley

  Coming Summer 2019

  “Could British Airways passenger Mr W Wylie, travelling on flight BA2472 from Egypt, please proceed to the customer service centre in the luggage hall? Passenger Wylie.”

  The incessant announcements over the tannoy system swamped my senses. I hadn’t been able to drink enough water on my flight, thanks to the silly little plastic cups and disappearing airline hosts, and now I had a headache. The continued insistent announcements, demanding that passengers pay attention, had exacerbated the thumping in my temples. I could really do without it.

  Added to this, the straps of my carry-on backpack were making the sunburn on my shoulders sting like crazy.

  Quite frankly, the constant xylophonic bonging preceding each message was enough to drive a witch to distraction. I itched to take my wand out of my pocket and mute the airport’s communication system for a few hours.

  But that’s just not the done thing, is it?

  To be fair, I was running a little short on endurance. My flight out of Cairo had been delayed by six hours, and it quickly become apparent that the scratchy feeling at the back of my nose and the fact that my eyes had started to water, meant I was incubating a cold. To add insult to injury—or illness—it had been just my luck that the pilot had missed our landing slot, forcing him to circle the skies above London for an hour and forty minutes. Now, as I stood alongside the baggage carousel, shuffling from one foot to another, I had the sinking sensation that somewhere along the line my main luggage had been lost.

  This was tantamount to airline betrayal. I’d followed the herd and had every expectation that things would go to plan.

  I’d risen from my seat on the cramped and crowded plane—grateful that I could finally stretch and allow the blood to access my backside for the first time in hours—then trooped dutifully out along with everyone else in search of baggage reclaim. As one we’d stormed along the corridors of Heathrow at a fair clip, part of some strange race to be first to the carousel. Needless to say, our baggage hadn’t even made it off the plane. The sole advantage of the delay was that I had plenty of time to visit the bathroom to freshen up, grab a handful of tissues to dab my nose with, and locate a trolley, before listening out for the familiar beep of the carousel starting up.

  I hung back, behind everyone else and all their trollies and possessions, to watch the chaotic scene as it unfolded. In my sickly state, my head revolved in its own circle, as bag after bag tumbled out of the dark mouth of the all-powerful machine tasked with reuniting travellers with their dirty laundry.

  And I waited.

  And I waited.

  And I waited some more.

  The carousel filled to bursting with impossibly overstuffed holdalls and suitcases. Some had been personalised with gaily coloured luggage straps, but the majority in blue or black looked exactly like a million other bags travelling through Heathrow. How could their owners tell them apart?

  I was looking for my green and red rucksack which I’d borrowed from Charity; whose mother Peggy had used it when she’d backpacked around Asia before Charity came along. You’d have thought that given the colours of my bag, it would have stood out a mile.

  But no. Not a trace.

  After twenty-five long minutes, it became obvious that the bag would never be thrust forth from the black hole of baggage mecca.

  I watched, twitching nervily, as a single grey suitcase with a rose decoration near the handle, and a battered brown leather briefcase enjoyed repeated turns on the carousel. Of my gaudy backpack, there was no sign. I sniffled in misery, hoping against hope it would turn up, until it became obvious even to my dulled head, that my luggage had travelled elsewhere without me.

  An airport worker ambled along to the conveyor belt, whistling and studiously avoiding my gaze. He pushed a large trolley ahead of himself, loaded with a number of bags and cases. When he spoke into a handheld radio, the baggage carousel shuddered to a stop. He hoisted the grey suitcase with the rose decoration from the belt, scanned its ticket and placed it on his trolley, then he plucked the briefcase from the carousel and repeated the process. He tossed the briefcase, evidently a lightweight item, onto the top of the pile where it balanced precariously.

  I decided he looked like a man who knew what he was doing with lost luggage. It would make sense to ask him about my rucksack.

  I shuffled the few steps between us, while he angled himself slightly sideways so that I would be talking to his back. I groaned, an unusually nasal sound that caused me a moment of alarm. I really am sick, I thought to myself, longing just to find my coach and head back to Devon. This appeared to be turning into a road trip that would never end.

  “Excuse me?” I sidestepped around him so he had to look at me, something he seemed oddly loathe to do. “My bag hasn’t arrived. Do you think there will be any more coming out?”

  The man sucked his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have thought so, madam.” He pointed with the antennae of his radio at the electronic screen above the baggage carousel displaying my flight number. As if by magick the screen went blank. A microsecond later a new flight code for a plane heading in from Abu Dhabi replaced it.

  “Oh.” I slumped in disappointment. “What do I do?”

  “It’s not one of these?” the man asked, indicating the grey suitcase and the briefcase.

  Yes. Because I’ve been standing here like a lemming for the past forty minutes just so that my luggage can enjoy repeated turns on the roundabout. We’re all about the fun where I come from.

  “No.” I forced a smile. “Mine’s a rucksack.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded knowingly. “With straps? They can cause a bit of an issue
sometimes. They get caught in the machinery.” He turned his attention back to his trolley.

  I resisted the urge to kick his shins. “What should I do next?”

  He nodded towards the side of the arrivals’ hall. “Lost luggage.”

  “Of course. Thanks.” I started to turn as he yanked his trolley. The briefcase toppled from the top of the pile and without thinking I reached out to catch it. As it made contact with my hands, I experienced a short thrill, akin to the briefest of electric shocks. It quickly passed. The case was as light as it looked, and nothing rattled inside it. I handed it back to the unhelpful-left-luggage-collecting-official, nodded my thanks, and made a beeline for the customer service desk he’d indicated. Glancing over my shoulder, I thought at first he was following me, but once I’d joined the queue at the desk, I realised he had to manoeuvre his trolley through a large door marked private to the right of the left luggage office. He did so and disappeared from view.

  I waited as patiently as I could, my throat dry and scratchy, my eyes tired and stinging. All I wanted in the world was my big comfy bed, in my warm and familiar wonky inn, but those things were hours away.

  At least the customer service agents at the left luggage desk were efficient. They rattled through their questions with the two people ahead of me and then it was my turn. A young woman with incredibly tidy hair and immaculate make-up smiled at me from behind her computer screen. Her name, according to her name badge, was Sheronie.

  “Good morning, madam. How can I help you today?” Her voice had a pleasant Welsh lilt to it.

  “I’ve lost my rucksack.”

  “Your luggage hasn’t arrived at the carousel?” Sheronie asked, raising an eyebrow as if this were a first, and not something she spent every day of her working life dealing with.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that.” Her fingers typed something, and she gazed at her screen. “Could I have your passport, flight details and baggage check, please?”

  I delved into my little carry-on backpack, experiencing a moment of panic as I looked for the small rectangle of card. I breathed with relief when I located my passport with the details she required tucked alongside my photograph, hidden under soggy tissues.

  “Thank you.” More frantic typing as Sheronie entered all my details, tapping her keys with a ferocity that seemed to belie her calm exterior.

  My attention wandered.

  Sheronie and her partner were simply the front-facing partnership of a larger operation. Behind them I could see my lost-luggage pal rescanning his bags and cases and handing them over to someone else. Another woman consulted a handheld machine and began making announcements over the tannoy system.

  “Could British Airways passenger Mr W Wylie, travelling with us on flight BA2472 from Egypt, please proceed to the lost luggage customer service centre in the luggage hall? Passenger Wylie.”

  Wylie?

  Why did that name ring a bell?

  “What make is your suitcase, Ms Daemonne?” Sheronie interrupted my train of thought.

  “It’s a rucksack,” I repeated. “Erm… gosh… I don’t know.” I’d been carting the blasted thing around for weeks but hadn’t noticed whether it had a brand name or not. “It was green and red.” Because that would help, surely?

  Sheronie smiled at my wry expression. “Well I don’t suppose there are many of those around.”

  I laughed with relief that she hadn’t shrivelled me with a look of professional disdain. “No. I imagine not.”

  “And what’s in the rucksack?”

  I grimaced. “Mainly my dirty laundry. A few books. Some nick-knacks I’ve picked up on my travels.”

  “Nothing valuable?” Sheronie held my gaze. “A camera or anything?”

  I shook my head. I’d tried to travel light.

  “Great.” Sheronie returned to the keyboard, and I glanced behind her again. The briefcase had been placed on a shelf and attention had turned to the grey suitcase. I looked behind me. There were a few people in the queue. I wondered whether any of them was the owner.

  Well lucky them. At least they’d be reunited with their property.

  While I waited for Sheronie to input everything she needed, I puzzled over the fact that someone, presumably this Mr Wylie, had checked a briefcase in. Why not carry it on to the plane as hand luggage? I found that very strange, but there’s no accounting for people.

  “I think I’ve located your rucksack, Ms Daemonne. It looks like it’s travelled to Charles de Gaulle airport.”

  “Paris?” Lucky rucksack!

  “Yes.”

  I sighed. “What happens now?”

  “We’ll make sure it travels to London on the next flight out.”

  “Do I have to wait for it?” I asked, my heart sinking at yet another delay.

  Sheronie’s smile was reassuring. You couldn’t fault her professionalism. “Oh, no no no. We’ll have it sent on by courier. It will follow you to your destination. I just need an address.”

  “Whittle Inn,” I started to tell her, the thrill of the words lifting my spirits. “I’m going home to Devon.”

  Thanks to the numerous delays, it came as no surprise that I’d missed the coach I’d booked onto. Fortunately, after joining yet another queue and having yet another conversation with yet another person stuck behind a computer screen, I was able to swap my ticket for a later coach. I had enough time to grab a cup of tea, a bottle of water, and an over-priced brownie from a nearby café.

  Checking my new ticket, I read that I should join stand ‘H’ and await the arrival of the coach to Penzance, fast to Taunton and then stopping at Exeter and Plymouth before heading into Cornwall. Unable to face yet another queue at the stand, I loitered with intent at the rear of the coach station, my back to the wall, keeping an eye on the buses as they zoomed into my eye line.

  It had been such a long day. The only thing keeping me going was nervous tension. While I wanted to get home as quickly as possible of course, I found myself hoping the coach would stop at least once at a motorway services or somewhere, so that I could buy some tissues and some aspirin to try and ward off the worst of my cold. My headache had reached epic proportions.

  I kind of felt like I was participating in some kind of TV-reality endurance show, where anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and where the producers throw larger and larger spanners in the works. I surrender, I wanted to shout. I’m a tired witch, get me out of here!

  Another large coach, with ‘Manchester’ emblazoned on the front panel, swung itself around the corner and into the H bay. Dozens of people swarmed towards it, pushing trollies, or pulling wheelie-cases along after themselves; struggling with heavy baggage. At least I didn’t have that to contend with.

  With relief I spotted a space on the bench nearest me. I could rest my legs for a few minutes. I carefully slipped into the seat, being very British about not encroaching on the gentleman already sitting there, and rested my small carry-on backpack in my lap. I watched people as they fussed and fretted, jostling in a strangely passive-aggressive way as they climbed on to the coach to claim a seat that they already had a reservation for. Then I zoned out, weary to my bones.

  I came back to awareness five minutes later. The Manchester coach beeped loudly as it reversed out of its space, and behind it I could see the Penzance coach waiting patiently to take its place.

  At last.

  “Excuse me?”

  I ignored the voice—who would be talking to me after all? —and took a step towards the throng of people queuing for my coach, pulling my little backpack over my shoulder.

  “Excuse me? Excuse me, love?”

  Feeling increasingly vacant, I looked around, just on the off chance someone was trying to grab my attention. An older lady waved at me. “Did you forget your briefcase?”

  “Briefcase?” I asked, sounding stupid I’m sure.

  She indicated a brown leather briefcase that had been left on the bench next to me. Th
e gentleman had disappeared. I hadn’t seen him go.

  “No. It’s not mine.” I frowned, peering around at the people I could see. I wouldn’t have remembered the man who’d been sat there even if he was standing in front of me now. I hadn’t so much as peeked his face, let alone taken in what he’d been wearing.

  I glanced back at the briefcase, very similar to the one that had enjoyed multiple turns around the baggage carousel back in the airport. The same aged-brown leather.

  The older woman picked it up. “It feels empty,” she said, holding it out to me, as though she hadn’t heard me say it wasn’t mine.

  I took it off her, and once more felt that same quick thrill as I touched it. It was the same briefcase after all. It had to be. The woman was right. It held its own weight and nothing else.

  The address label attached to the case offered no clues, mainly because there was no address, just the words, ‘The Property of Mr W Wylie.’

  Wylie again.

  Why did I recognise that name?

  “It’s not mine,” I repeated. “It needs to go to lost property.” But I was talking to thin air. The old woman had disappeared.

  “Argh,” I growled in frustration. How did I have the time to take this to the customer service desk now? My coach had pulled in and started boarding passengers. I didn’t want to miss my ride home again.

  Without looking around, apprehensive of drawing attention to myself, I quickly flicked at the clasps holding the case closed. It hadn’t been locked. Now I flipped it open and revealed… precisely nothing. As I’d suspected, the briefcase was empty.

  But there was something about it that nagged at me. That little tingle when I touched it. This was no ordinary briefcase. There had to be magick involved somewhere.