by Nancy Warren
I dropped Sylvia and Clara at the farmhouse and then turned back to town. Joanna was providing tea and coffee, but I thought I’d run into the grocery store and pick up some cookies. I had come early in order to set up for the evening.
I wanted this evening to go well, not only for snooping, but for my business. I had quite a few orders that had either been phoned in to the shop or ordered online. I needed to think about doing more of these. Gran had, as usual, been delighted at anything that improved business for Cardinal Woolsey’s and also, as usual, was disappointed that she couldn’t be part of the knitting classes. My poor Gran. She so wanted to be part of a knitting shop again. In fifty years or so, when all her current clients were dead or had ceased to remember her, she could come back and run Cardinal Woolsey’s again. But until then, she had to find something to keep herself busy. In my heart of hearts, I knew she was going to have to move on from Oxford. But we both knew that I still needed her. I relied on her advice and her experience, and I knew that she loved having me around.
As I came out of the co-op, I almost bumped into Ian Chisholm about to enter. He had his work outfit on—suit, shirt and tie—and he wore his serious, all business expression. When he saw me, his face broke into a smile and then melted into a look of confused embarrassment. Ian had messed up with me, and he knew it. We’d had a few dates and seemed to be heading toward a relationship, but between his busy casework and getting a foolish crush on someone else, though that was partly my fault, he’d screwed things up. Or we both had.
We made awkward, embarrassed small talk. “Lucy. What a surprise.” Then a pause. “It’s so good to see you.”
Now it was my turn. “Ian. Nice to see you, too.”
It went on like that for a minute or two. Awkward jerky phrases that barely covered a mass of confusion and misunderstanding. Finally, I asked him what he was doing in Moreton-Under-Wychwood. “I’m here on a case, actually.”
I was puzzled. “I thought DI Thomas was heading the murder investigation.”
He relaxed enough to give me his charming grin. “And, as usual, you seem to be right in the middle of the case. Yes, DI Thomas is investigating the murder of Elizabeth Palmer. But because of that suspicious death, we reopened a cold case. I’m investigating an unsolved murder that happened here thirty years ago.”
I nodded. “I’d heard of that. So you think they’re connected.” I was totally fishing here.
“No one knows for sure. But any time you have two suspicious deaths in a community this size, it’s worth investigating.”
I thought of the nice ladies gathered in Joanna’s farmhouse. “Is there any danger?”
“To the other residents of Moreton-Under-Wychwood, you mean?”
“Yes. And people who come from Oxford to teach knitting classes. For instance.”
“I don’t think so. Though, from what I’m hearing, there are a couple of women here who seem to be suffering harassment. There are some old-fashioned superstitions around here about witchcraft. One of them is your assistant Violet.”
I was surprised the cops knew about the witch angle. “Do you think I should invite Violet to stay with me until the trouble passes?” The last thing I needed was my bossy cousin Violet living with me. It was bad enough that we worked together.
Fortunately for me, he shook his head. “I think she’s safe enough. But you might let her know you have a bed available in case things escalate.”
I supposed it was the least I could do. I only hoped Margaret Twig wouldn’t hear about my invitation and think it included her. Living with Violet would be bad enough. Living with Margaret Twig? When she moved into my flat, I’d be moving out.
It was in a thoughtful mood that I drove back to Joanna’s farmhouse. I set up a table with all the orders on them and the purchasers’ names.
Since I was becoming a savvier businesswoman than the girl who’d stumbled into Cardinal Woolsey’s without a clue less than half a year ago, I had also brought a selection of patterns and wools, notions, and a few kits by Teddy Lamont, our most popular designer. We had twenty-three people registered, which was excellent, and I’d brought enough extra supplies that a few knitters could register at the door.
Sylvia seemed reasonably excited about taking center stage once again. Maybe she wasn’t playing a heroine of the silent screen, but at least she’d be getting some stage time. Always an actress at heart, she had dressed the part. Every part of her outfit that was visible was hand-knit, crocheted, or embroidered, right down to her embroidered slippers. She wore a black cashmere sweater inset with silver geometric shapes over hand-knit trousers made of the finest silk wool. I think she’d designed the slippers herself, as they were also black and silver and echoed the design in her sweater without copying it.
Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless, and diamonds glittered from her ears, around her neck and on her fingers.
She was as sharply elegant as Clara was comfortably frumpy. Her sweater was also hand-knitted, in bright green that she’d embellished with crocheted flowers. She wore a stretchy polyester skirt and black orthopedic shoes. Her gray hair was styled in pin curls, probably the way she’d worn it in the forties.
The students began arriving at six-thirty, half an hour before class began. They arrived in twos and threes, hardly anyone alone. They all seemed excited about having a class right in their village. Florence Beasley arrived with Hilary Beaumont, the officious woman who’d been running the fête. “And how’s the lamp working out, Lucy?”
“Fine,” I answered with a smile about as fake as the one painted on the poodle’s face. I’d put it in the guest room, though I’d have to move it if I ever had a guest.
“This is a wonderful idea. It’s really helping to bring the community together and get our minds off what happened at the fête.”
She moved on, then, as Emily Bloom, the wife of the retired police officer, came in with another woman I vaguely recognized from the fête. As she took her package, I asked how her mother was.
She shook her head. “Not too well. Your fortune-teller was right. Mother didn’t want anyone to know how ill she was. She didn’t want to go into a home, you see. Fortunately, I’ve been able to hire a nurse to look in on her every day. I’m only back for a day or two to take care of a few things and pack more clothes, then I’ll head back for a longer visit.” She sighed. “At least I’ll have my knitting to keep me occupied.”
Several people stopped to thank me and picked up their ordered merchandise and browsed the table.
Second in elegance to Sylvia was Joanna, who wore a blue and white dress that showed off toned arms. She offered tea and coffee and, as the women settled into chairs and couches, there was a happy buzz of conversation.
It was nearly seven, and I had very few unclaimed kits when Nora walked in. She looked bashful as she approached me. “I didn’t register. I wasn’t sure if I was going to come. Then I thought, Liz and I would’ve come together to something like this. I suppose I’d feel more lonely if I stayed home.” She glanced at the chattering, giggling women already present. “Do you have room for me?”
I assured her that I did and set her up with one of the remaining kits. She chose the novice one.
As she was joining the others, the door opened again, and this time it was Dierdre Gunn, the woman whose budgie had died, coming in. She hadn’t registered, either. She paused inside and glanced swiftly around. I thought she was looking for Violet or Margaret Twig. I was as swiftly trying to see whether she had that witch-exposing crystal with her, but if she did, she kept it hidden.
Good.
When she was satisfied that the venue was witch-free, she asked me if she could join the class. I wanted to say no, but Florence Beasley had already seen her and called out a greeting.
She chose the complicated pattern and as she paid said, “I need something to occupy my evenings now my Billy’s gone.”
I was pleased to see that this was a punctual bunch. By seven, everyon
e who’d registered was there, and Nora made twenty-five. At five past seven, Sylvia stood up and introduced herself and Clara. She gestured to me in a rather theatrical manner. “And, of course, you all know Lucy Swift, who runs the wonderful Cardinal Woolsey’s knitting shop in Oxford.”
After an awkward moment, everyone clapped and I nodded my head, still sitting at the back of the room. I was careful not to sit inside the knitting circle. If anyone got tangled up in their knitting, I didn’t want them coming to me for help. I had my computer out and pretended I was doing something terribly important when really I was only checking email.
Sylvia was an excellent teacher, and Clara was the perfect assistant, happy to work one on one with any knitter who got in a muddle. After a while, the group of knitters began to multitask, gossiping while they knitted.
“Did anyone else get a visit from the police?” Hilary Beaumont asked.
“Oh, yes,” Dierdre Gunn answered. “Well, I told them Billy had died too, under strange circumstances.”
There were murmurs of mingled sympathy and embarrassment.
“He was such a nice young fellow who came to see me. He told me he was sorry for my loss.” Her knitting needles flashed as she continued, “Though they seemed more interested in anything I knew of Elizabeth Palmer.” She definitely sounded put out that her budgie’s death hadn’t rated higher.
“What did you tell them?” Florence Beasley asked.
“Well, I didn’t see anything that happened. I did tell them how I used to look after her when she was a girl and her parents went out of an evening. Oh, they doted on Elizabeth. So did I, really. She was such a sweet girl, just like a princess living in that lovely house. They wanted to know about Jason, too.” She flipped her needles to start the next row. “But I couldn’t tell them much. I didn’t know him as well. I told them about that witch who cursed my Billy.”
Florence Beasley said, “A nice young man came to see us only today. DI Chisholm. He’s very good-looking.” She fanned herself, and several of the women laughed. “He was trying to work out if there could be a connection between my father-in-law’s death and that of Elizabeth Palmer.” I waited, wondering if anyone had any ideas. Florence flattened her knitting on her lap to have a look at the first few rows. She said, “I told him it must have been someone from another town who killed Elizabeth, just like it was a random thief who attacked Grayson Timmins. I’m convinced of it, and so I told that nice inspector. No one in Moreton-Under-Wychwood would kill anyone. Why would they?”
Nora Betts stopped knitting to stare at her. “They would if they were witches.”
Chapter 18
Thursday, Violet and I had a busy day in the shop. She was distracted and rather moody, but it wasn’t until near the end of the day that I found time to ask her what was wrong.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned to glare at me. “What do you think is wrong? Half the villagers make the sign of the cross every time they see me. I’m completely out of bread and milk because people stare at me in the grocery store. And someone scrawled symbols all over my front gate.”
I could imagine how unnerving this must be for her, so even though I didn’t want to, I said, “Why don’t you move in here for a week or two until things get sorted out? You know I’ve got a spare bedroom.”
Her face softened. “That’s nice of you, Lucy, thanks. My grandmother’s offered to let me live with her, too, but I don’t want to be chased out of my own house. Why should I leave? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I wish we could use our gifts to see who the murderer is.”
“It doesn’t work that way. You yourself know that magic is slippery and sometimes unpredictable. I can see glimpses of the future, but I have to have the person in front of me, and they have to be cooperative. That’s why the fortune-telling booth worked so well. My customers were very open to me, and so I could see glimpses of what was ahead for them. But I can’t predict important things, like who’s going to win an election. If I had that kind of sight, I’d spend my time down at the horse races betting on the ponies.”
“Do you have any idea who’s behind the harassment? If you can spot whoever’s writing the symbols on your gate and throwing rocks through your window, maybe Ian can do something.”
She looked horrified at my suggestion. “I don’t want the police getting mixed up in my business. We live quietly and stay out of trouble, but the last thing we witches want is to get mixed up with the law. Trust me on this one.”
“But it’s Ian. You know he’s our friend.”
“He’s a copper first. Besides, I’m still cross with him preferring that silly actress girl to you.”
Violet might be kind of annoying, but she was certainly loyal.
“Okay, maybe we can take care of this ourselves. Have you got any idea who’s been harassing you? I bet we could steer them gently in another direction using our magic.”
She brightened up at that. “Lucy, that’s the first time in weeks I’ve heard you voluntarily offer to do some magic. It’s a great idea. I’m not positive, it was her, but I saw Elizabeth Palmer’s best friend walking down my lane—shortly after that I discovered the symbols.”
“You mean Nora?”
“Yes. The one I told would come into money. Where’s the gratitude?”
Now wasn’t that interesting. Nora, who kept turning up like a bad penny as Gran would say, was doing everything she could to push suspicion toward the witches. “I think it’s time I paid a visit to Nora.”
“Do I have to come?” It showed how much confidence Violet had lost that she didn’t want to tag along.
“No. I’ll drop you off at your cottage. Pack what you need for a few days. You’re moving in with me.”
I felt that she was about to argue, and then she said, “You’re right. I will feel safer. And I’d rather live with you than my grandmother. Thanks.”
I found the flimsiest of excuses to visit Nora. She had forgotten her receipt for the class last night.
Of course, I could just email it to her or give it to her next week, but I decided to deliver it in person. So at the end of the day, I drove yet again to Moreton-Under-Wychwood. Nora lived in a newer house in the outskirts. She wasn’t in one of the darling stone cottages that make that whole area so picturesque but in a kind of subdivision of what they call new builds that all looked alike.
I found the address and pulled up in front of her house. I walked up the pathway that exactly split two sections of lawn edged all around by a flower bed. The home was neat and tidy and unremarkable. I walked up to the plain white front door and rang the doorbell. A dog began to bark like crazy from inside. I thought I might be out of luck and there was no one home when I heard footsteps approaching the door. I arranged my face into a pleasant expression as the door opened.
But it wasn’t Nora standing there. It was her husband. I recognized him from the café. He was, like the house and the garden, neat, tidy, and unremarkable. He wore his medium-brown hair medium length, and it framed a pleasant face but one you would instantly lose in a crowd. His shoulders rounded inward as though he were protecting his heart.
He looked at me blankly. “Can I help you with something?”
I realized I was staring and dropped my gaze to the spaniel that had stopped barking but was now making snuffling noises, clearly wanting to be noticed.
“My name is Lucy Swift. Your wife took a class from me last night and forgot her receipt, so I thought I’d drop it off.”
I didn’t give him the paper, hoping he would call his wife. He shook his head. “Nora’s not here, I’m afraid.” He sounded more sad than afraid. It was a Thursday night in Moreton-Under-Wychwood. Where on earth could she be?
I dropped to my knees and made friends with the dog. Nyx would not be pleased if she could see me consorting with the enemy, but luckily my familiar was in Oxford so I could be friends, temporarily, with a dog. “What a sweet pup,” I gushed. “What’s his name? Or her name?”
“This is Bessie.” At her name, the dog’s ears perked up, and she looked adoringly at her master.
I laughed. “Don’t tell me, now she thinks she should get a treat?”
“You’ve obviously had dogs.”
“No. But I’ve always loved them.”
He didn’t seem in any hurry to shut the door, and I was in no hurry to leave. “Will Nora be long? I could come back.”
His face clouded. “She’s over at our friend Jason’s.”
Still patting the dog, I glanced up. “Such a terrible tragedy. I was there that day, you know. I was helping in the fortune-telling booth.”
“You were working for the witch?”
I tried not to jump to Violet’s defense, knowing I’d get more out of him if I stayed friendly. Deliberately, I misunderstood him. “She’s always been nice to me.”
I continued, “I understand that you and your wife were very close to Elizabeth and Jason. I’m so sorry. It’s been a terrible loss for you.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “No doubt you’ve heard the gossip. I imagine everyone has.”
I could feel his pain. I noticed that as I worked more with my spell book and with my magic, I was increasingly sensitive to people’s emotions. I felt such compassion for this poor man that I stood up and, looking right into his eyes, said, “Why didn’t you go to visit Jason with Nora?”
He was obviously shocked that I had asked such a blunt, brutally honest question but, like someone who is desperate to talk and doesn’t know where to turn, he said, “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you a cup of tea.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If my loving wife isn’t home by the time we finish our tea, you can leave the papers with me, and I’ll see that she gets them.”