by Syd Moore
I hadn’t been expecting this ending. That it would end so abruptly and simply. ‘Are you saying that was it? That she was never seen again?’
‘Yep,’ he said.
‘What about the rest of the protest group outside? They must have seen something.’
‘According to Septimus, they were trying to get in. But it was chaos. The place only had a small entrance. People were trying to leave in swarms, getting out of harm’s way, avoiding arrest or a clip round the head. Others were trying to get in. At one point someone shouted that a fire had started. A couple of windows were smashed.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Was there a fire? Was anyone hurt?’
‘No. False alarm. Maybe mischief. Obviously the parish weren’t best pleased. But they had bigger things to worry about. A lot of them were interviewed by the police.’
‘And no one saw her leave? Or where she went? She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. We both know that’s not possible.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Or is it? Is this something else I don’t know about?’
‘No. Not that I’m aware.’ Sam smiled briefly then shook his head. ‘I agree it’s odd. Believe me, I asked the same questions. As did your grandfather did before you. And, no doubt, your father.’
‘She just disappeared,’ said Bronson and looked into the fire. ‘No one ever saw her again.’
‘But how could that happen?’ I said. ‘How could a woman walk off the stage and never be seen again? Wouldn’t happen now. Not with CCTV, but I suppose back then …’
‘The worst of it was,’ said Bronson, and reached for the brandy, ‘there was rumours that Septimus had killed her.’
‘What?’ I said, momentarily outraged for the grandfather I had barely known. ‘That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t do that, would he?’
Sam’s eyebrows rose briefly, but quickly and forcefully settled down again.
‘I mean,’ I added, ‘from what I can remember and what you’ve both told me of him, you know, he sounds decent.’ Another thought dawned on me. ‘But didn’t you say that he’d been called away. On a case?’
‘That’s right,’ Sam agreed. ‘Forgive me for telling you with such indelicacy but I thought you should know that he was, for a very short period of time as Bronson has affirmed, under investigation. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was keeping that information from you. But you are correct: Septimus had a bulletproof alibi. And that’s what the police discovered too.’
‘But mud sticks,’ said Bronson and shook his snowy white head.
I watched him refill his glass and asked, ‘So what else were people saying?’
‘Some thought that she had been arrested by the government again. A few believed the men in brown suits had found her and taken her away. Thrown her into prison or an experimental centre.’
‘Really? That’s kind of weird.’
‘I know. And unlikely. The idea that had most currency was that she had simply run off. That she was having an affair and went away with her lover.’
I contemplated the likelihood. ‘An affair,’ I said. ‘Is that possible?’
Sam shrugged. ‘It wasn’t impossible. She knew a lot of people in the village. She was still attractive.’
‘But that meant she would have willingly left behind Ted and Celeste too.’
Bronson snorted. ‘And all her clothes and all her money. Doesn’t happen, does it?’
‘And,’ I added, ‘without so much as a goodbye to her mother and aunt. And what a way to leave.’
‘That’s what Anne and Rozalie thought too,’ said Sam. ‘They favoured the brown-suit option. Though this time Ethel-Rose never returned to the village. They couldn’t work that one out. She should have been released at some point. Why not come home?’
‘So what did Septimus think had happened to her? Seriously?’
Bronson coughed and started to construct a roll-up. ‘I think he suspected foul play. But by whom he could never work out. There were a fair few suspects.’
‘You mean the Christians and moral outrage brigade?’
‘Did think that for a while,’ he said, and poked some errant strands of tobacco into the cigarette. ‘That one of them might have got carried away and had a good shout, maybe a shove, but murder? I don’t reckon so. They was Christians.’
‘But Christians were happy to kill witches,’ I ventured.
‘Nah,’ said Bronson. ‘Not this lot. They were all propriety and moral high ground. I don’t think Septimus believed they had anything to do with it – he was always so tolerant of Audrey Winsome.’
‘Audrey? The protester outside the museum?’ I recalled the wild and ragged form of the old woman by the sign. ‘So she was the vicar’s daughter?’
Bronson nodded and took out a lighter. I didn’t object. ‘That’s right, Rosie love. She was there that night. Only thirteen. Gave a statement to the police. Said she saw something out back in the trees. Though she said the Devil was there too,’ he said. ‘So you know.’ He shrugged and tapped his head.
I made a mental note to invite Audrey in under the pretence of discussing selling the museum.
‘She’s apparently always been a little on the hysterical side. Eccentric,’ said Sam. ‘Not entirely surprising as her father was rather much an acquired taste.’
I recalled Sam’s description. ‘Fire and brimstone.’
‘That’s right. Though there were others Septimus mentioned when we talked about it. These unknowns, whomever he had wanted to shield Ethel-Rose from. He never told me much, but I remember him saying something about a family, foreign, who was on the radar of the Occult Bureau.’
‘Really?’
‘I think. I can’t remember too well either. It was a while ago that we last spoke of it. But I’m sure we could find out. Septimus kept reams of notes and files. Plus, Monty would have access to records about those sorts.’ He smiled. ‘As we are well aware.’ Then unconsciously he rubbed his arm. He was still healing from a couple of cigarette burns inflicted by some vile Serbian cheat, who could have done a lot worse had not our friend Monty intervened.
‘Oh yes, Monty,’ I said, and sort of changed the subject. Mr Monty Walker was indeed an excellent bloke to be acquainted with. Charming, elegant and well connected, he worked for the government in the weird X-Files department or whatever it was called. I owed him dinner, so made another note to talk about it then.
‘Anyway, in the absence of a body,’ Sam went on, ‘the police concluded that Ethel-Rose had simply had enough of everything – notoriety, scandal, her mother’s grief, her husband’s control, family squabbles, bawling children – and had upped sticks and buggered off somewhere else to find a new life and a new husband.’
‘Hmm. Septimus must have been devastated.’
‘He was. Indeed he was. Rozalie too. She died, shortly after, and bequeathed the cottage to him. He thought she had done it out of guilt. But he couldn’t bear to live in it any more so sold up and bought the building that was to become the Great Essex Witch Museum. Partly I think it was about sticking two fingers up at the Christians and partly about trying to convert the rest of the pitchfork brigade. He was all about challenging prejudice back then and, as such, he would brook no clairvoyance or chiromancy or anything like that. I think it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Wouldn’t have any of Ethel-Rose’s things in the museum either. For he thought, as I think your dad does now, no good ever came of it.’
A small parcel of guilt landed in my stomach and began to unwrap itself.
Unaware of my conflict, Sam continued. ‘Septimus became quite puritanical about it actually. Until Celeste came of age and started nagging him. She had a different approach. Despite her mother’s absence, or maybe because of it, she meandered towards the same hobbies Ethel-Rose had toyed with before. And it seemed she had some flair for it too. Tarot was her favourite medium. But Septimus was absolutely terrified he might lose his daughter as he had his wife. As irrational as that might seem. He didn’t want anything to happen to her an
d so was very protective. Possibly quite authoritarian about it. Anyway, over time he softened. Celeste used the opportunity to bring in new exhibits that she believed had an effect on people, whether that be psychological or magical, as it were. She said they were both the same anyway. Celeste was a child of the sixties, you see. The world was in revolution and thus the museum changed tonally.’
I was about to tell Sam that I had noticed that – the difference in some areas – but it didn’t seem appropriate now.
The three of us lapsed into our thoughts.
Bronson lit his fag. ‘But that was the end of Ethel-Rose,’ he said between puffs.
‘Until tonight,’ I added, and held his gaze.
‘What do you mean?’ Sam leant forward to me.
‘Well, Bronson’s right about one thing. Those flowers. Someone knows more than we do. Those flowers are a message.’
‘Or a warning,’ said Sam.
‘After all this time.’ Bronson breathed out a smoky sigh.
‘After all this time,’ I agreed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I could feel the sunshine on my cheeks, the scent of honeysuckle on the old cottage wall and then an incredible doom-laden claustrophobia descended.
When I opened my eyes I realised I was back in Septimus’s four-poster bed. Something furry rubbed against my shoulder. Hecate had come to wake me up.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I said, and gave her a stroke along the spine. ‘Had a funny night last night.’
When she meowed, it sounded absurdly like ‘I know’.
I sat up and for a moment was touched by a wild fleeting fancy. ‘Did you see who left the flowers too?’
But she just stared at me, then slipped off the bed. I watched her paw the door to and disappear round it with the twitch of her tail. I’m going mad, I thought.
There was a photo on the wall opposite the bed. I got out and inspected it again. Ethel-Rose had been captured in a moment, giving in to a full-throated laugh, flinging one hand out at the camera. In the other she held a boy on her hip. Dad, a mere toddler, he grinned at the photographer. He was much younger in this picture than he was in the family portrait. A plastic spade in his hand, he looked very happy. Of course, I thought, they were on the beach. Ethel-Rose was up to her ankles in surf. What a shame it had ended so tragically for her.
For them.
I’ll sort that, I thought, as someone knocked on the door. If I could, I’d find out what happened to her. It wouldn’t help Septimus but it might find some resolution for poor Dad. How tough for him. Talk about abandonment issues.
‘Coffee?’ Sam began, walking into the room. He had a mug in each hand, and one stretched out to me, but stopped abruptly when he took me in.
I hadn’t brought any clothes with me but had eventually found a pink nylon nightie in one of the drawers in the bedroom that must have once belonged to my grandmother. It had fabric flowers on the neckline and was old and fairly see-through.
Sam dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Oh, I …’ he stuttered.
‘Come on, Sam,’ I said, and giggled. ‘You must have seen someone in a fifties’ baby doll before.’
‘Well, er, no actually.’
‘You haven’t lived,’ I said, and took up Granddad’s old dressing gown. ‘Okay, you can look now. I’m frumpy.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, a slight blush to his cheeks. ‘Here’s your coffee.’
I thanked him back and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You know, Sam, I was thinking: all we need to do is track down whoever is growing the Ethel-Rose, then we’ll find the owner of the flowers left last night. Can’t be many of them about.’
He leant against the wall and sipped from his own mug. ‘Not as easy as you might think, I’m afraid. You know your great-granddad had a nursery. During the war, he had to turn over all the flowerbeds for vegetables. Dig for England, etc. He saved all the roses by handing them out to anyone in the village who cared to have one. There are loads of them now, all over Adder’s Fork.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything else. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll bother telling the police?’
‘That we had a break-in where nothing was taken but a floral offering left behind?’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. But,’ I added, ‘it does suggest someone knows something else. Maybe there’s new information? We should do something. Perhaps ask around the village? I mean, someone has just flower-bombed Ethel-Rose’s mystery into our lives.’
‘I agree it’s worth investigating, but not until we’ve sorted our present case.’
‘But whoever did the flower bomb wants us to look at it now.’
‘Life goes on. We’ve got other priorities.’
‘I know,’ I said stiffly. I think I was aggrieved for my grandmother. ‘But they don’t know that.’
‘Which means,’ said Sam with a glint in his eye, ‘if we don’t do anything, then they might “flower-bomb” us again.’
‘Okay,’ I softened. ‘So we keep an eye out? Yes, that’s a good idea. But I propose that we start thinking about this mystery in the future. Well, I’m going to anyway,’ I finished off in a slightly over-pouty manner.
‘Yes, we’ll see what happens. But right now you need to get dressed.’ Sam pointed at his watch. ‘You know what Boundersby’s like. We must get a move on – there’s a murder scene to survey.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was horrible. It was odd. It was a mess.
Not having experienced anything like it before I assumed that after a murder there would be people who cleaned up the crime scene and put everything back. Made the place look normal, rid it of its terrible connotations.
That assumption was, at present, incorrect.
The cellar looked like a slaughterhouse in a snow globe.
A brown puddle of dried muck, which I was trying very hard not to look at, dominated the floor. My guess was it had once circulated through the veins of Seth Johnson. Above this dark reckoning, a nasty hook hung down from the low ceiling beams.
Some extremely bad stuff had gone down here.
Despite a natural instinct to turn and leg it back up the stairs I made myself move further into the cellar. I had to at least try and look like I’d done this sort of thing before. Which I hadn’t.
Blimey O’Riley, the place stank to the highest heaven. It was a million miles away from the sweet-smelling Witch Museum. I put a hand over my nose in an attempt to keep the musty smell of death at bay. It was seriously making my stomach churn.
Over in the recess beyond, I could make out several wooden shelves stacked with foodstuffs and equipment. Some of them had been sectioned off with plastic sheets. Maybe forensics, maybe La Fleur practice. I lifted one and peeked into the shadows. Nothing much to see there – more tins and sacks – though my hands came back grainy: everything appeared to be covered in a thin, white film.
‘What is it?’ I asked Ray, who was not moving further than the foot of the stairs and holding a purple hanky to his nose. ‘This stuff?’ I rubbed my thumb and forefingers together and sniffed it.
‘Flour. It’s all over the place,’ he growled through the fabric.
‘Why?’ I asked. Was that part of the murder or had there been an accident earlier in the night?
‘How do I know?’ Ray said. He didn’t show any obvious symptoms of fear or shock when he spoke but I noticed his lips pursed when he wasn’t using them. And he’d been really gobby since we got here.
‘Sorry.’ Still, I had to be careful not to offend. He was the boss and there were the kneecaps to consider. ‘I didn’t mean anything – I just wondered if it spilt during the night on Saturday? While the place was open, when they were cooking?’
‘Nothing was entered into the log.’ The purple hanky moved up and down. ‘From what the police said, I think it happened afterwards.’
‘Really,’ I said, and stopped myself asking ‘why’. ‘That’s odd.’
Ray breathed the hanky into his mouth then spat i
t out. The flour in the atmosphere was getting into my lungs too. ‘Probably,’ Boundersby went on, ‘they were hoping to contaminate the crime scene. Destroy evidence – fingerprints, DNA.’ Then he turned his head up towards the top of the stairs and took down another breath.
‘Everyone’s fingerprints will be in here, I’d imagine,’ Sam said. ‘Am I correct in assuming all the staff would be down at one time or another to replenish the stock? Food or napkins. There’s tablecloths down here too?’ He prodded a finger towards the bottom of a nearby shelving unit. I followed it to a large silver blender in a see-through plastic cover, then saw, beneath it, that blood had seeped into the cracks of the tiled floor.
‘Yes, correct,’ said Ray.
More smears were evident on the wall behind him. They continued up the stairs like a mad artist’s brush strokes.
It was so gross I turned round so I didn’t have to see it but it was useless – you just couldn’t escape the gore. Smudges were apparent on the light bulb that illuminated the subterranean space. The light it cast was dappled in shades that related to the thickness and density of the dried blood.
I couldn’t stop myself: I shuddered and swore, then said, ‘Why would someone do that to another human being?’
Ray unpursed his lips took another breath from the direction of the less contaminated upstairs and said, ‘Looked like he’d suffered some sort of lashing. There were cuts to his torso. Deep ones actually that went through the skin and fat to the …’ his eyes left mine and settled on Sam, ‘organs. Not the heart though. So it weren’t fatal. What I reckons really done him in was the throat slit. That’s a messy matter. Spatters everywhere.’ I didn’t want to know how he knew about that particular detail.