by HANNA, H. Y.
Inspector Walsh and a few of his men were standing in a semicircle around Matt O’Brien, who was glaring at them with a defiant expression on his face. He had one arm wrapped tightly around the little girl, Molly, and in his other hand he held a pair of secateurs, open so that the sharp pruning edges were directed towards the child.
Pomona gasped and rushed forwards. “Matt! What are you doing?”
“Don’t hurt her… please!” sobbed Molly’s mother, standing at the edge of the crowd which had gathered around the scene.
“Then tell the fecking police not to come any closer!” Matt snarled. He looked terrible, his jaw unshaven and his eyes bloodshot, and his normally handsome features distorted with panic and desperation.
Inspector Walsh held his hands up, palms forward, and said in a carefully neutral voice, “Now, let’s calm down, sir. We just want to ask you a few questions—”
“A few questions, my arse!” spat Matt. “You want to arrest me! I know you think I murdered Brixton. I didn’t kill her but I know you won’t believe me. You’ll just look at my record and assume: once a criminal, always a criminal! Well, I’m telling you now, I’m not going back inside!"
“Matt, don’t do this,” begged Pomona. “I believed you, right? I know you didn’t murder Mrs Brixton. I’ll speak to the police for you. I’ve got contacts—I know this really good attorney in Hollywood—I’m sure we can—”
Matt gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s no use, gorgeous. Thanks for the vote of confidence but I’m not taking my chances. I’ll do this my way.”
Pomona looked at him angrily. “By using a child as a hostage? You’re a pathetic coward!”
Matt shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I’ve never pretended to be a saint. I’m only doing what anyone else would in my position—looking after my own skin.”
Inspector Walsh tried again. “If you can just let the child go, sir, we can discuss this at your—”
Matt gave a jeering laugh. “Let her go? Not bloody likely! She’s my ticket to getting out of here. I should never have come back from Cheltenham…” he muttered to himself. He raised the pruning shears. “You want to keep her safe? You keep your distance!” He made a threatening motion and Molly flinched and cried out.
Molly’s mother gasped and James Fitzroy made a compulsive movement forwards, but Matt swung suddenly in his direction and jabbed the secateurs in the air.
“Not so fast, your lordship! I wouldn’t want to hurt you—I’ve always liked you—you’ve been fair with me and I respect that. But I won’t hesitate if you try anything.”
“Matt, let the child go—you’re scaring her,” said James in a calm, reasonable voice. He shifted his feet as he spoke, inching slowly forwards.
Caitlyn wondered if he was thinking of tackling the gardener. But would he be able to move fast enough to disarm Matt? And what about Molly? The way the little girl was being held, like a shield in front of Matt’s body, she would probably get caught in the middle. Caitlyn looked at the sharp edge of the pruning shears gleaming in Matt’s hand and shuddered at the thought of the blade cutting the child by mistake. It was too much of a risk. She glanced at James and could see from the grim expression on his face that he had come to the same conclusion.
Matt narrowed his eyes and looked at the men encircling him. “Now, I’m going to walk out of here, nice and easy, and I don’t want any sudden moves or anyone trying to follow me. If you do as I say, I won’t hurt the child. But if you try anything funny…” He made another threatening motion with the secateurs towards the little girl’s neck.
Molly’s mother screamed and put out her hands wildly. “Do as he says! Do as he says!” she sobbed.
Inspector Walsh hesitated, then made a terse gesture towards his men. They fell back reluctantly, moving so that the Irishman had an open path to escape. Pomona made a frustrated noise in her throat but she too stood back and watched helplessly as Matt gripped the little girl tightly and prepared to leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Matt began backing away from them, still holding Molly in front of him. He relaxed slightly as he saw that everyone was following his instructions and no one was attempting to stop him.
“Yeah, that’s right…” He nodded approvingly, continuing to back away.
The long table was in his path and, to get to the gravel driveway, he would have to go around it. He adjusted his hold on Molly and started moving sideways along the table. As he passed the section of the table where the chocolates were displayed, he paused and glanced at the stacks of chocolate fudge, inhaling their rich aroma.
“Grab me a piece,” he told Molly.
The little girl reached out a trembling hand and picked up a square of chocolate fudge, then turned and placed it in Matt’s waiting mouth. He chewed appreciatively.
“Mm… that’s grand. I’m almost sorry not to be hanging around to eat more of this.” He gave a mocking laugh, his usual cocky manner returning. “I can take a couple more for the road, though…”
Just as he was about to tell Molly to get more fudge, a hunched figure stepped suddenly out of the crowd: an old woman with a large hooked nose, fierce eyebrows, and wispy grey hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing a long black dress that looked completely at odds with the rest of the floral dresses and summer outfits that the other guests were wearing. It was the Widow Mags.
She glowered at Matt from across the lawn. “Release the child now,” she said, her voice carrying across the open space.
Matt looked bemused for a moment, then he gave a bark of laughter. “Are you talking to me, old woman? Think you’re really a witch, eh? What are you going to do? Turn me into a toad?” He gave another jeering laugh.
The Widow Mags’s eyes flashed and she raised her arms suddenly. In a terrible voice, she intoned:
Dormant creatures,
Of magic partake;
Heed my words,
Arise and awake!
The villagers looked wildly around, as if expecting a crack of thunder or a flash of lightning from the sky, but Caitlyn remembered those words. She looked sharply at the chocolate fudge cake, where suddenly a dozen wings fluttered to life. The next moment, a cloud of chocolate-coloured butterflies lifted from the surface of cake and took to the air.
“What the—?” Matt looked up uncertainly as the butterflies circled above his head. Then, without warning, they swarmed around him. They darted in and out, swooping close, diving at his eyes, attacking his face.
“Aaah!” he cried, letting go of the girl and slapping wildly at his own face. “Feck! Get away from me! Get away!”
The moment Matt’s grip loosened on Molly, James saw his chance. He dived forwards, grabbing the girl’s arm and yanking her away, turning so that he shielded her with his body as they hit the ground and rolled over.
“Seize him!” cried Inspector Walsh and the constables surged forwards, surrounding Matt.
A few minutes later, it was all over. The police stood around a subdued Matt O’Brien, his hand twisted behind his back in handcuffs, whilst Molly’s mother hugged the little girl to her chest and sobbed with relief.
“Matt O’Brien,” said the inspector, his voice carrying across the gardens, “I’m arresting you for the murder of Mrs Brixton—”
“No, wait!” cried Caitlyn, stepping forwards. “He’s not the murderer."
Everyone turned to gape at her.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Le Fey?” said Inspector Walsh, frowning at her.
Caitlyn took a deep breath. “I don’t think Matt O’Brien murdered Mrs Brixton.”
“Caitlyn, what are you saying?” demanded James. “You told me yourself that Matt had good reason for murdering Mrs Brixton because she was blackmailing him about his secret cannabis crop—”
“Yes, I know—and I still think she was. But she was blackmailing someone else too—someone who also had very good reason to murder her. And who I believe is the person who killed her.” Caitlyn swung around and p
ointed at a middle-aged woman with a stiff permed hairdo standing at the edge of the crowd. “Mrs Harris.”
The woman gave a gasp of outrage. “How dare you!”
Confused murmurs rose from the crowd around them. People couldn’t believe Caitlyn’s accusation. Winifred Harris was one of the most well-known and highly regarded village residents.
James frowned and moved closer to Caitlyn, lowering his voice. “Are you sure? Mrs Harris is a respected member of the village. She serves on several committees and local councils. This is a serious allegation.”
“And that’s exactly why she murdered Mrs Brixton,” said Caitlyn, raising her voice so that everyone could hear her. “She had too much to lose: her standing in the community, her reputation, her very identity—Mrs Brixton was threatening to destroy all that by telling people the truth.”
“What truth?” asked James.
“Don’t listen to her, Lord Fitzroy!” snapped Winifred Harris. “She’s… she’s just trying to protect her own skin! She’s a suspect for the murder herself, isn’t she? Everyone knows she was seen lurking around the Manor just at the time the murder took place, even though she denies it.”
“Caitlyn had an alibi!” Pomona said indignantly. “She left the Manor and was walking back to the chocolate shop. There’s, like, a witness who can confirm they saw her at the stone circle.”
“Not the last time I heard,” said Mrs Harris, glancing across at Angela. “In any case, it would have been easy for Miss Le Fey to make sure that she was seen on the hill, even when she was still back at the Manor, murdering Mrs Brixton.”
“How on earth would I have done that?” asked Caitlyn in exasperation.
“By witchcraft!” Mrs Harris hissed, narrowing her eyes.
There were audible gasps and muted cries from the crowd and Caitlyn saw several pairs of hostile eyes turn towards her. Winifred Harris saw the reactions too and pressed her advantage. She took a step forwards, her voice becoming sanctimonious.
“Yes, witchcraft! That girl is a witch—just like the old woman! Yesterday, I caught her trying to corrupt one of the children in the village… little Molly here! She was trying to tempt the child with some of the evil bewitched chocolates from the shop… And now she’s here, accusing me of the vilest crime! Me? Me, whom all of you have known for years? My family have lived and worked in Tillyhenge for generations. And who is she? A stranger, an interloper sent here to do evil and taint your minds!”
Caitlyn looked helplessly around. She could see from people’s faces that Winifred Harris’s words were beginning to take effect. The villagers were eyeing her now with suspicion and resentment. Her heart sank. This had become a case of her word against Mrs Harris’s and she knew that she couldn’t hope to win. The other woman had years of trust and familiarity on her side, whereas Caitlyn was an outsider—an outsider, moreover, who lived with “the village witch”.
She looked pleadingly at Inspector Walsh, hoping that the police might support her. “Inspector, you’ve got to believe me. She was in the Manor just now, with the ring of keys that Mrs Brixton had—the same ring of keys that went missing on the day of the murder. How could she have those keys, unless she was somehow involved with the murder? And she was using them to—”
“I’m not listening to this nonsense any longer!” Mrs Harris tossed her head. “I’m leaving!”
She turned and began stalking towards the gravel driveway, her head held high, but she hadn’t gone a few steps when two shapes bounded out of the bushes nearby: a little ball of black fluff, followed by a large lumbering beast. It was Nibs the kitten and Bran the mastiff, and they looked like they were playing a game of chase. They gambolled out into the open space, oblivious to the stares of the crowd, and right into Winifred Harris’s path. The middle-aged woman cried out as the kitten darted between her ankles, then she stumbled, tripped, and fell onto her face on the lawn.
“Mrs Harris!” James hurried forwards to help her.
The woman had dropped her handbag and the contents had spilled out onto the grass beside her. She lay stunned for a moment, then scrambled to her knees and began hurriedly collecting her spilled possessions.
James crouched down next to her. “Here, let me help—”
“Uh… Thank you, Lord Fitzroy… there’s really no need… I can manage…” She babbled, grabbing things frantically and shoving them back into her bag. She reached for a sheaf of papers but James picked them up before she did.
“What are these?” he asked with a frown, unfolding the papers and smoothing them out.
Mrs Harris went pale. “They’re… er…”
“They’re ripped from your ledger book!” Pomona shouted. “Caitlyn saw her do it. She ripped them out so that nobody would know she’s been skimming money off the Garden Party expense account!”
The crowd was silent, stunned. Then Caitlyn stepped forwards.
“It’s true. I saw Mrs Harris in the Steward’s Office just now. She unlocked the writing desk and took out one of the ledgers—the one for the Garden Party account expenses—and tore some of the pages out. And the keys she used to open the desk were from the ring last seen with Mrs Brixton before she was murdered.”
“This is… ridiculous! Ridiculous!” Mrs Harris looked wildly around at the other faces in the crowd. “Surely you don’t believe her? It’s the most ludicrous suggestion I have ever heard! Mrs Brixton was my friend—I’d known her for years—why would I want to kill her?”
“Because she wasn’t really your friend—she was your partner-in-crime. The two of you must have been in collusion, claiming hundreds, maybe thousands of extra pounds every year from the Fitzroy estate in false expenses,” said Caitlyn.
“Lies! All lies!” Winifred Harris spluttered.
Caitlyn ignored her. “But then Mrs Brixton probably got greedy. She decided that not only was she going to keep getting money from the estate, she’d also get some extra money off you as well! She started trying to blackmail you and you couldn’t bear it—that’s why you killed her. To silence her and protect your own reputa—”
“I didn’t plan to kill her!” Mrs Harris cried, her face red. “It just happened! It was an accident!”
There was a shocked silence from the crowd.
Mrs Harris raised a trembling hand to her mouth as she realised what she had blurted out. “I… I mean…”
James stepped forwards, looking at her sternly. “Mrs Harris, I think you have a lot of explaining to do…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Pomona, reaching into the back seat of her convertible and lifting out a wriggling bundle of black fur. “You’re not gonna try that trick again! I can’t have you stowing away to London—I don’t wanna have to turn around just to bring you back.”
She set the kitten down on the gravel driveway and Nibs gave himself a shake, making the bell on his collar tinkle, before trotting off to join Bran the mastiff, who was stretched out in the shade of a nearby tree.
Pomona chuckled as she watched the kitten scamper away and said, “On second thoughts, maybe I should just take him with me. He’s so cute—I bet he’d be a big hit at this premiere.”
Caitlyn laughed. “I can just imagine the news coverage now—all these glamorous celebrities on the red carpet… and then this little black kitten tripping them up!”
Pomona grinned. “It would make a change from the usual boring routine. Seriously, people think these premieres and parties are so exciting but it’s the same people half the time and all they wanna do is talk about themselves or show the paparazzi that they’re wearing some dress with no underwear.”
“But you love it really,” said Caitlyn with a laugh. She’d seen Pomona in news clips and gracing photos in celebrity magazines, hobnobbing with Hollywood stars at the latest premieres and awards ceremonies, and her cousin always looked in her element, sparkling and dazzling with the best of them.
“Why don’t you come too? C’mon, Caitlyn—it would be fun
! You could wear your gorgeous new dress…” Pomona urged.
Caitlyn laughed again and shook her head. “No thanks. I’d just be terrified and hiding in the corner. I’m not you, Pomie—I don’t know how you do it, going up and talking to total strangers.”
“You just smile and say hello,” said Pomona. “You’ve been doing it here in Tillyhenge.”
“That’s not the same,” Caitlyn protested. “It’s a lot easier in a sleepy little Cotswold village than at some glamorous celebrity party.”
“Not so sleepy, if you ask me,” said Pomona darkly. “There’ve been three murders here in the last couple of weeks. And it seems like every nice guy I meet turns out to be a psycho.”
“Matt wasn’t a murderer,” Caitlyn reminded her. “You were right about that.”
“Yeah, but he turned out to be a total loser who uses little girls to protect his own skin! Talk about despicable!” Pomona made a face of disgust. “I’m swearing off men. No more guys for me. Yeah, like those detox programmes where you cut out carbs… I’m going on a detox. A man detox.”
Caitlyn hid a smile and wondered how long that would last. She watched as Pomona tossed her monogrammed designer case into the back seat of the convertible and shut the door. They heard voices behind them and turned to see James Fitzroy coming out of the Manor’s front entrance, accompanied by Inspector Walsh. The two men shook hands, then the inspector came down the front steps and headed to the nearby police car where a constable was waiting. James saw the girls and strolled over to join them.
“Are the police here again?” asked Pomona. “Omigod, I thought they’d asked every question under the sun already. They were here until midnight after the Garden Party and all day yesterday as well!”
James sighed tiredly. “It’s been a long process, but they needed to get statements from everyone involved.”
“But Mrs Harris has confessed to everything, right?” asked Pomona. “She’s not still trying to deny that she’s the murderer.”