The Morbid Kitchen

by Jennie Melville

  ‘He’s very upset… it won’t do his career any good.’

  Charmian took a deep breath. ‘Are you in love with him, Dolly? Or perhaps I should say: how much?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask that … or something like it. You’ve been working up to it for weeks.’

  ‘Have I?’ Charmian was surprised. ‘ I’m not sure if I think about you as much as all that, Dolly. Perhaps less than you imagine. I have had other problems on my mind.’

  Dolly flushed. ‘ Yes, sorry. There are certain states that make you paranoid, and I’m a bad case at the moment.’

  ‘But when I do think of you, I am fond of you.’ Although that might not continue if you go on being aggressive to me.

  ‘And as to being in love, I don’t know. I’m not sure what I feel about him. And I’m pretty sure he’s in the same state. State of flux,’ she said unhappily.

  ‘I think he is better off the case, and you may not be right about his career … might not do him harm. HG is a decent sort, he won’t put in a bad report.’

  ‘I know, and he’s made it sound good, suggested that Jim get on with the book he is writing … or thinking of writing … I don’t know if he has actually written a word.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘The Head and the Killer.’ Was that really a book she wanted the man to write? ‘Yes, he has been decent.’

  Charmian looked at her with sympathy; although they were friends they did not usually exchange emotional confidences, and perhaps they had already gone as far down that path as they should.

  ‘I don’t think I have quite got over Kate’s death,’ went on Dolly. ‘I miss her. That’s why I moved into where I am now … no memories there.’

  ‘I understand. I miss her too.’

  ‘It’s worse for you, I only got to know her when she settled down a bit and came back here to live. But we sort of bonded. Did you know she left me a bit of her jewellery … a necklace I always admired. I don’t know if I can ever bear to wear it, as it is, I can hardly look at it.’

  ‘How’s Rewley? He doesn’t open up to me.’

  ‘Not to anyone.’ A pause. ‘He’s not happy.’

  ‘No,’ said Charmian. ‘Of course not. You aren’t, nor am I. It’s not to be expected.’

  ‘But he would be a lot happier if he had more contact with his child. Or if the child was not so much richer than he was. It gives Anny control. Money is a bloody nuisance.’

  ‘Not to have any might be worse; he took on that problem when he married Kate. And don’t be too hasty about Anny. I think when he is in more control of himself, you will find Anny reasonable. She’ll hand that child over.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I do,’ said Charmian, hoping she was right. ‘ Have you seen him today?’

  ‘In passing; he looked as if he had his mind elsewhere. But he said he was working on something. Or did he say someone?’

  ‘Both, I expect. Where is Jim Towers now?’

  ‘Packing his things, to move out of that grotty flat he lives in to move in with me.’ There was a defiant sound in Dolly’s voice.

  ‘He’s moving in with you?’

  ‘Into my equally grotty place.’ No doubt about the defiance. ‘He needs a protector.’

  ‘And that is you?’

  ‘For the time being. Not for ever. Probably not for long.’

  ‘What’s he going to do, after he’s moved his bags?’

  ‘He’s going up to Harrogate to consult a friend who’s great in forensics. I suppose they will talk heads.’

  Charmian was thoughtful. ‘He has a genuine subject there, you know, if he can keep it on the rails.’

  ‘I know that. Which is why I am helping.’

  ‘No promises, but there might be a place for him in the team. When he’s got himself together.’

  It was not a suggestion made without forethought, nor entirely disinterested: working together might force them apart rather than draw them together, and she thought she wanted to do this. So it was painful to see Dolly’s flush of pleasure. Traitor you, she thought. ‘What brings you here now?’

  Dolly was glad to change the subject, especially as she intended to turn the spotlight on to Charmian. ‘Apart from the fact, which you may not have noticed, that it is now early evening, and the end of my working day, I wonder if you have noticed that there is a police helicopter flying over the town? In fact, you can hear it now.’ She held up her hand. ‘Listen.’

  Charmian went to the window, from which she could see an expanse of sky, and yes, there was the helicopter. Good for HG, he had thought of it for himself.

  ‘I suppose it’s looking for Emily?’

  Charmian stood surveying the sky, overhung and misty. ‘Yes, or somewhere she might be hidden. Imprisoned.’

  Dolly raised an eyebrow. ‘Will it do much good?’

  ‘Possibly not, or not today. There’s one of those river mists coming down, but there will be photographs, I hope, which can be studied later.’

  ‘What about Margaret Drue? Is she being sought for murder, and now possibly for abducting Emily?’

  ‘She’s in the frame,’ said Charmian, going back to her desk, as the helicopter hovered westward over the city towards Slough. ‘But it won’t be easy. Good to get track of her, though.’

  ‘It won’t be easy. She must have changed her appearance, don’t you think?’

  Charmian looked into the distance as if she could see Margaret Drue there, staring back. Then she said: ‘Oh yes, she will have

  changed … perhaps we will hardly know her.’

  Dolly had her own strong reactions to the thought; there was

  this woman, whom they might not recognize, probably would not,

  and yet she was a killer, who might be still willing, and wanting,

  to kill. ‘Nasty feeling that she’s on the prowl wreaking havoc.’

  Charmian stood up and reached for her briefcase and handbag.

  This looked decisive, Dolly thought. ‘ What are you going to do

  now?’

  To her surprise, Charmian looked amused. ‘ Something wicked

  …’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘It depends where you are standing.’ Charmian sounded amused.

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  Charmian considered. ‘Yes, why not?’

  The house where Emily had lived now had a police presence. Two police cars stood outside the door, parked by the kerb, preventing, to their fury, the parking of the cars of several local householders. An unmarked police car, but clearly identifiable to those in the know, stood further up the road, thus impeding at least one other owner of a Residents’ Only parking permit. Charmian, seeing all this, was careful to put her car round the corner.

  The door was locked, but was opened by a uniformed WPC before she could ring the bell.

  ‘No press,’ said the girl.

  Charmian was getting out her identification without a word when a detective whom she knew appeared. ‘ Hello, ma’am, you coming in?’

  ‘If I may. Bender, isn’t it?’ This was a question to which the answer had to be yes, as she had every intention of entering. Accordingly, the detective made none, but stood aside politely.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, we met over the Merrywick murder, if you remember …’

  ‘No news about the girl?’

  ‘Nothing fresh, not that I know of. We’ve just been going over everything in the room, searching for some clue where she might be.’

  Dolly Barstow inserted herself into the house, which seemed stuffier and colder than last night; she moved behind Charmian as unobtrusively as she could, hoping to avoid all comment. She too knew Detective-Sergeant Bender with whom she had once been on exceedingly friendly terms. Their eyes met, but he said nothing, although as he put it later: I passed a message across that she could read if she wanted. The message said I have happy memories and am still around. But he had heard she had other business on now. Too bad.

  Dolly had kept quiet
on the journey round, asking no questions, but watching Charmian’s face. If this was wicked business, then she would learn more by observation than speech. She had not been surprised as they drew up close to where Emily had lodged, but she could not see what was wicked about it. True, H. G. Horris would probably not be best pleased if Charmian was still on what he probably called ‘ the interference racket’ but he would hold his tongue and any sniping comments would be passed later to his pals. If he had any. Rumour had it that he was not a popular man.

  Charmian walked into Emily’s bedsitting room which now looked even worse than last night. True, the blood bad been cleared away from the basin, but the dustiness and smears left on wood and china and on glass in the fingerprinting exercise, which appeared to have gone on with great thoroughness, made their own contribution to the mess.

  Charmian stood for a moment on the threshold. The room was empty, except for the WPC who stood by the basin as if she was keeping guard. The sergeant had not followed them in, but gone out of the house towards his car, where he planned to have a quiet smoke. Around Charmian, as he knew, there was a permanent no-smoking zone.

  Charmian gave Dolly an oblique look and nodded towards the girl. Your job, the look said, is to keep her occupied. Dolly got the message, she had worked with Charmian before; fortunately she knew what to do.

  ‘Any chance of a cuppa,’ she murmured to the girl. ‘I’m parched.’

  The WPC flushed with pleasure. ‘Sure, I know where to make it. The landlord here is a decent chap and showed me the kettle. I’ve been here all day and needed something myself. Help yourself, he said, but I didn’t take him up on that. It’s my tea and milk, of course, I wouldn’t poach,’ she added virtuously

  Dolly followed the WPC into the kitchen on the ground floor. ‘I don’t think you’ll go far in the Force, dear,’ she murmured under her breath, ‘you’re too trusting, but you have a lovely nature.’

  Left alone, Charmian kept an eye on the sergeant outside in his car, while she moved round the room. You could tell a lot about a person from their room, and this room told her that Emily took her studies seriously, had a few good clothes but not many, did not smoke, drank a little wine, but probably did not take any drugs. The room didn’t smell druggy. And now the blood had gone, all it smelt of was police bodies, and even that smell was fading.

  Here was her pile of books. Charmian flipped them over: Pollock and Maitland, Plucknett’s Concise History of English Law, Faversham on the British Constitution, and several political biographies in paperback. Yes, she took her work seriously.

  No sign of a boyfriend, no letters and no photographs. Well, that didn’t mean anything, she may not have been a girl for mementos. Charmian went quickly through the drawers in the desk, which revealed just writing-paper in neat piles, some written essays in one, but no letters, and no diary. She must have had a diary, unless she had nothing to record or carried all engagements in her head.

  Nothing in the dressing table drawers but clean underclothes and tights. No condoms, no birth control pills. So she was either celibate or chancing it. A sparse life.

  Charmian picked up the picture of the school group once again; she was surprised to see it still here, but presumably it had been fingerprinted. Her own thoughts were on the bleak side, she could blame herself: I ought to have observed you more closely when we were together. But you were just a girl I met and who asked me to help.

  One last quick look around, because the sergeant had finished his smoke and was on the way. Hanging up on the door was an old blue dressing-gown, and the waste-paper basket had not been emptied.

  Dolly came back in with a mug; she held it to Charmian with an expressionless face. ‘Have a cup of tea.’

  ‘That wasn’t so wicked,’ said Dolly.

  ‘No, not wicked at all, just a joke.’

  No, that wasn’t so wicked, Charmian said to herself as she dropped Dolly back by her own car and drove off. This was wicked: she patted her pocket in which a slip of paper with Emily’s handwriting was tucked away. Only a slip, unimportant, it had been in the waste-paper basket, but she had a use for it. Also in her pocket was a handkerchief from Emily’s dressing-gown pocket. Not clean, in fact distinctly grubby. Well used. But that suited her purpose.

  And even this is not so very wicked, Charmian told herself. Now comes the wicked bit, which I will never confess to. Ever. If anything comes of it, in the way of consummate detective work, I will never ever admit to it. She was half amused at herself and a little surprised, and underneath uneasy. Or was it queasy? Something of that too.

  She parked her car outside her own house, checked inside to see if her husband was home (he was not), then walked round to where the witches lived. Muff watched her go from a tree in the garden.

  Birdie opened the door to her, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders. It was also dripping wet.

  ‘Oh sorry, you’ve just washed your hair.’

  Birdie, always dignified, held the door open. ‘No matter, come in. Winifred will be pleased to see you. I think she was hoping you would call. As I was myself.’

  ‘Hoping’, in witch speak, often meant that they had been quietly musing upon Charmian and willing her to do what was desired. With a pang, she thought that after all it had not been free will, or wickedness, that had brought her here, but a strong push of hoping.

  Even as the thought came, Winifred appeared wrapped in a towelling robe; her hair also was wet. Perhaps you had to be wet to achieve a good impetus to your hoping. Winifred held a curly red wig in her hand, also wet. ‘Here’s your wig, Birdie. Take it from me, will you? Ah, thanks … Good to see you, Charmian dear, I was hoping you’d come.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Now, no cynicism dear, it doesn’t become you, as my dear mother used to say’ She smiled, her teeth yellow and strong and very even. Were they her own teeth, Charmian wondered, or a spare set, perhaps inserted for the occasion; she had never noticed them before. What occasion then? ‘Don’t think I can’t read your thoughts, because I can. Not always, I concede that, you are a skilful masker, as you have to be, and my skills come and go, it is their nature.’ She smiled again. ‘ Strong today.‘

  ‘You are at a peak, dear,’ said Birdie with admiration. ‘ Your forces are running mighty strong.’ She seemed sometimes to talk of Winifred as if she was a prize animal, say a horse, that Birdie was specially interested in. ‘Very powerful,’ she repeated.

  I suppose I ought be glad of that, considering what I want of them, thought Charmian. Then she tried to repress the thought, in case Winifred read it and delivered that awful smirk.

  ‘We are going to a Laundering,’ offered Winifred. ‘That is where we are bound.’ She put on this somewhat archaic form of speech when it suited her. Just as she had a good variety of stable language too when needed.

  ‘Oh.’ Charmian had a sudden picture of rows of washing machines chugging away merrily. ‘Is that why you are bathing?’

  ‘No, the Laundering, which is the ritual cleansing before a new witch or warlock is admitted to our order, comes later, this is a Pre-wash.’

  It was amazing, Charmian thought, how even the religious rituals could pick up and use commercial jargons. She looked upon the pre-washers with affection. ‘Where is the Laundering then? In Windsor?’ There was the river, after all, although one could never be sure how clean it was. Still, it was the idea of purification that counted not the actual dirt content of the water.

  ‘No, near Banbury.’

  That was a surprise, not what she had expected somehow. ‘That’s nice,’ she said weakly. ‘Why Banbury?’

  ‘Not strictly Banbury, dear, but at one of the Tews not far away there is a henge, quite a small one, really hardly damaged by time at all, and very holy. I think I can say it has a great sense of sanctity. It’s in a private garden, all safe. A very nice small pond close to hand for the immersion. All private, we prefer total privacy for immersions at Launderings since the body must be totally naked
.’

  Charmian could see the picture, and agreed with Winifred that as newly made witches and warlocks dipped in the water, it would be better to have no outsiders. ‘How do you get there?’ Broomsticks seemed out.

  ‘We take the train to Oxford and then get on a bus,’ said Winifred, suddenly practical.

  Birdie put down the wig, which Charmian now realized she had often seen her wear without recognizing what it was. ‘So what is it you want, dear? I can see you want something.’

  Transparent to them today I am, decided Charmian. ‘I want you to help me locate Emily.’ She found herself using the word locate rather than find because somehow it seemed appropriate to the process she wanted them to use. Telepathy, could you call it? Reading the runes?

  She produced from her pocket the scrap of paper with Emily’s handwriting on it, and the dirty handkerchief. Thank goodness for a dirty girl, she thought. Surely it would be easier to pick up waves, emanations, call them what you will, which would summon up a picture of Emily and where she was, from possessions loaded with debris?

  ‘I thought if I gave you these to see, or touch, or hold, you might be able to tell me where Emily is now?’

  Birdie was still for a moment, then she held out her hand. It was Birdie who had this gift, if gift it was, and who would do this thing, not Winifred who provided backup but no illumination; Winifred had other gifts, not all of them of an easy kind.

  ‘Give them to me. I might be able to help,’ Birdie said gravely. ‘No promises. Sometimes the mind can do it and sometimes not. Sometimes it tells the truth and other times it lies. Like all human activities, it is fallible.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘And you do not even believe in it.’

  It was a time for honesty. ‘Not altogether.’

  ‘But it is worth a try … that is what you are thinking, isn’t it?’

  Birdie was very serious. Charmian noticed the difference between the sometimes ironic tone in which she spoke of her witching powers, and her present manner, which confirmed what she had always thought, that although Birdie enjoyed being a witch it was more of a game or hobby to her. But with this other business she was in earnest.