A Very British Witch Boxed Set

by Isobella Crowley

  “And that’s your job,” she said.

  “Not my only job, but yes. I investigate leaks, look for problems, and steer the narrative as necessary.”

  “Which is exactly what you’re doing now.”

  His expression tightened. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not lying to you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you’re spinning a tale, crafting a narrative.”

  “This is still an investigation. I don’t have all the facts. I have to learn the true story before I know what story I can tell.”

  Scarlett finished her water and set it aside. She was still a bit buzzed from the drinks at the pub. “It all seems rather benign, though. He was asking questions about classified information. Why not just say no?”

  “He didn’t follow the reporter’s playbook.”

  “You said he was a professor, not a reporter. Writing a book, not a news article.”

  “That may account for it.”

  “For what?”

  “He started poking around the base. Getting into things he shouldn’t have.”

  “Isn’t the base secure?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not like he can just stroll right on.”

  “He was invited on by one of the men he’d befriended in the pubs. Not a formal breach. He’d already set up some formal interviews at the base. We knew about it. He had an escort assigned to him while on the premises. We do try to do our best to serve the community and the public at large, to the extent that we can. But once he got onto the base, he slipped his escort and, embarrassingly, was running around free for longer than we’d like. I’m still trying to track down who he spoke to on the base, and what he might have seen.”

  “What do you think he was looking for?”

  “I’m afraid the answer to that is–”

  “Classified.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, pursing his lips.

  “Were you the one assigned to escort him?”

  Tim hesitated. “Yes.”

  “So this is partly your fault, then? Him seeing too much? Maybe even him being killed?”

  “It’s possible.” Tim uncrossed himself and leaned forward with his arms on the table. “This isn’t just another assignment for me. This is personal. I was assigned to him, and now he’s dead. It happened on my watch. I need to know how and why. I can’t bring him back from the dead, but I can find the truth. I have to find the truth.”

  The thought crossed her mind that maybe Tim was a suspect now. He and his beloved military had reason to silence Bill Knight. Maybe that was why Tim was working her… trying to pin it on someone so the narrative wouldn’t land at the RAF’s door?

  The thought made her feel sad.

  Scarlett looked at the wall of photos and saw one she hadn’t noticed before. It was an old manor house in black and white. She knew Bicester well, but didn’t know where that building was.

  “What house is that?” she asked.

  “Which one?”

  “The black and white. That isn’t in Bicester.”

  “Not anymore,” Tim said. “It was one of the properties torn down before the outlet village was built on the same site.”

  “What’s the connection to your case?”

  “It belonged to Doug Knight.”

  “He was related to Bill Knight, the guy who died?”

  “Bill’s grandfather. The manor house was in the Knight family for three generations before it was transferred to a certain T. Moretti.”

  “Moretti?” she said. “There’s a Moretti in the village now. Owns Malaprop’s Bookstore. Tarquin Moretti.”

  Tim listened carefully. “Might be related, then.”

  This was news to him, she realized. Scarlett became a little more animated. “We need to question him.”

  “We?”

  “I know him, a little. I can help you.”

  “Why?”

  She held his gaze firmly. “I need to clear my name. Prove to you I’m not who you think I am.”

  Tim eyed her carefully. “One thing I’ve learned in this business is no one is who you think they are.”

  “I’ll go with you to his bookstore.”

  Tim glanced down at his watch, despite the fact he didn’t actually need to know that it was after hours. “He won’t be there now,” Tim said. “It’ll be closed.” He stood up. “It’s late. Let me take you home.”

  Scarlett hesitated. She didn’t usually let men take her home. There was always that awkward moment at the end if she had to turn the guy down. She didn’t think Tim would try anything. He seemed honorable enough, and she was even beginning to trust him a little, despite his suspicions of her. But she knew he was just doing his job, checking up on the facts he knew. And now he’d let Scarlett into his world a little, showing her his work, letting her see some of the evidence he’d collected. He was beginning to trust her, and that meant something.

  She knew she should say goodbye now. With Amanda gone most nights, it was lonely at her place, and she might be tempted to invite him in.

  And she knew that would be a mistake.

  “I can walk myself,” she said.

  “It’s dark out, and you’ve had a few.”

  “So have you. What if you get pulled over?”

  “I’m okay to drive, and you’re okay to walk, and Bicester is a quiet little town, but someone killed a man last week, and if it wasn’t you, then they’re still out there. I’m driving you home.”

  She wasn’t afraid of any killer on the loose, but she heard the concern in his voice and the urge to protect her.

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  +++

  Slater Residence, Bicester, England

  Scarlett rode in the passenger seat of the car as Tim drove.

  “Why the RAF?” Scarlett asked, trying to make polite conversation, wondering how they would leave things when they arrived at her place.

  Tim shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. “I was adrift. I needed something, some kind of order. A mission. Some direction. I realized early on that I was not as self-directed as I thought. I saw my friends getting into trouble with the law. Nothing big, just shoplifting, things like that. And I couldn’t go along with that. It wasn’t right. But that was the only life I knew, running with my friends, ditching classes. It never sat right with me. I knew I had to get out of that life. I could see where it was headed. I could see what some of the older kids were getting into, and that wasn’t for me. I wanted to put some order to my life, and to the world. I had good grades when I was younger, but later on I missed so many classes that I knew university wasn’t really an option. An uncle of mine had served in the Army, and he used to tell me stories of his time in service, fighting in the Falklands and in Desert Storm. I didn’t want to go to war, but the life of service appealed to me. I can’t say I knew what I was getting myself into, but I never regretted it. Now I know it was what I was put here to do.”

  When they reached her house, he pulled into the driveway and let the engine idle.

  “Goodnight,” Scarlett said, perhaps too quickly.

  He nodded, seeming to accept that the evening had reached its natural conclusion. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you soon.”

  She put her hand on the door handle, ready to open the passenger side door, and got a funny feeling that something was out there in the dark, waiting for her.

  Tim must have sensed her hesitation.

  “Let me walk you to the door,” he said.

  She felt tempted to accept but didn’t want to encourage him. She was still feeling the effects of the alcohol, and once he was at her doorstep it would be too easy to invite him in.

  “No, I’m all right,” she said and stepped out of the car.

  As she crossed to the door, Tim’s car remained idling across the front of the driveway. She felt comforted that he was there, keeping watch. She knew that something else was out there watching, too.

  She unlocked her door, stepped inside
, and turned on the light. She turned back in the open doorway and gave Tim a wave goodnight. When he started to back up into the street, Scarlett closed the door against the darkness, and locked it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clarke’s hotel room, The Bicester Hotel

  Tim stepped out of the shower and dried himself. After dropping Scarlett off, he’d returned to his hotel room at the Bicester Hotel and tried to get some work done but felt himself starting to fade.

  In the military he’d developed the habit of taking cold showers in the morning to invigorate himself and get his blood pumping for the day ahead, but he often found that a quick cold shower in the evening could recharge his batteries and allow him to squeeze another hour or two of productivity out of his day.

  He slipped on his briefs and stepped into the bedroom, where he’d left his laptop and papers strewn across the bedcover.

  There was an email notification on his laptop. Sitting himself back on the bed, he opened the email and read it.

  The message was from the crime lab. They’d run tests on the samples he had taken from the allotment owned by Scarlett’s aunt, and compared them with tests from samples taken in Robert Johnson’s field, where Bill Knight’s body was found.

  The samples didn’t match.

  Specifically, the clay content was different, and the variance was statistically significant. The allotment sample tested for a higher concentration of nitrates and vegetation than the field sample at the gravesite, meaning the locations were likely not the same. This was to be expected, as the soil at the allotment was actively being farmed, while Robert Johnson’s field had lain fallow for many years. Tim had simply numbered the soil samples before sending them, without identifying the location of the samples, so that the crime lab test would be blind.

  He had also sent the lab a sample of the soil he collected off the shovel, which was in the shed at the allotment. The lab had tested this sample as well. If the shovel had last been used in the allotment, then the sample should match the soil from the allotment much closer than the soil from Robert Johnson’s field.

  However, the sample taken from the shovel was a near-perfect match for the Johnson’s field, and not a match for the allotment.

  That meant the shovel had been used at Johnson’s field, and then transported back to the allotment shed. He had seen Scarlett return the shovel to the shed.

  Again, his suspicions were raised.

  Scarlett, he thought, if you’re so innocent, then why are you trying to hide the evidence?

  +++

  Slater Residence, Bicester, England

  The next morning, Tim sat in his car outside the Slater residence, waiting for Scarlett to leave for work. He held a Starbuck americano in his hand, warming it against the chill in the air. He could have left the engine running and the heaters on, but that would have been wasteful and bad for the environment.

  He called his commanding officer, Wing Commander Gregory.

  “Tim, where’s that report?” Gregory gruffed.

  “Still working on it,” Tim answered. “But I thought I’d give you an update on the phone.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I have a lead.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “I do, but there’s more than one person involved.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve been able to identify a shovel that was used recently at Johnson’s farm.”

  “Soil samples?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Where did you find the shovel, at the crime scene?”

  “No, at an allotment outside town.”

  “Who owns the allotment?”

  “An older lady named Tabitha. I don’t think she’s involved, but her niece might be.”

  “Who’s the niece?”

  “Scarlett Slater.”

  “The girl at the White Hart?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Have you spoken with her?”

  “Yes, and she denies ever meeting with Bill Knight, but she had possession of the shovel and returned it to the allotment shed.”

  “Sounds like a prime suspect.”

  “There may be more than one person involved,” Tim repeated.

  “A conspiracy?”

  “There were multiple footprints in the field.”

  “Any identification there?”

  “Not yet.”

  Tim heard his CO sigh with frustration.

  “Well, Tim, that does sound like progress.” His supervisor’s encouragement sounded forced. “Write up what you have so far and get me the interim report tomorrow morning. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tim said.

  He hung up and waited, watching Scarlett’s front door for signs of life.

  Ten minutes later, he saw the door open and Scarlett step outside. He tapped his horn lightly and rolled down his window. Scarlett turned to him.

  “Good morning!”

  She walked over to his car, with a curious expression. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Giving you a ride.”

  A smile flicked across her face involuntarily. Then it faded, replaced by the resilience of a young girl attached to her independence. “You don’t have to. I like walking to work, and as you can see… it’s not worth taking the car out of the drive.” She indicated at her parked Mini Cooper.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

  She smiled. “Well, I am running a little late this morning,” she confessed. She circled around to the passenger side and got in. “Overslept,” she told him. “Feeling a bit woozy this morning.”

  “Drank too much?”

  “I don’t know what it is. I can usually handle my alcohol.”

  Tim started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Well, you handled yourself just fine last night.”

  “What are your next steps?” she asked. “In the investigation, I mean.”

  “I need to talk to Tarquin.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No,” he said. “You can’t. This is a military investigation.”

  “Pleeeeeeeease? It’s not like he’s never seen me there before. We can go in separately,” her enthusiasm tumbled out of her. “You first, and I’ll wait a minute or two, so it’s not like we’re together. I’ll pretend I’m browsing the books.”

  Or pretend I’m in one of my books! she thought to herself, the image of a plucky heroine in her latest cozy-mystery coming to her mind unbidden.

  Tim thought about it for a moment. He didn’t know if Scarlett and Tarquin were in league together, but it might be good to see how they interacted. And if Scarlett was as innocent as she claimed, then having her witness the conversation might also have value. Scarlett knew Tarquin and might be a better judge of his responses. She had already told him about Tarquin speaking with Karl in secret at the wine shop, so she had some suspicions of her own. If Tarquin and Karl were working together, then Tim might want to recruit her to spy on them at the wine shop.

  “Let’s do this,” he said. “I’ll collect you at your lunch break. What time is that?”

  “Normally around 1:30pm.”

  “Perfect. He’ll think you’re browsing on your break. How well do you know him?”

  “I’ve been to his bookstore a bunch of times but haven’t really had much interaction with him outside of that. He seems to be friends with my boss, Karl.”

  “You told me. That’s why I’d like you to come along. And if Tarquin comes by the wine shop, you’ll let me know. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Give me your number.” he said.

  Scarlett wiggled her eyebrows at him, Amanda-style. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “I’m quite choosy.”

  She smiled, satisfied as she poked her number into his phone. “Good.”

  She handed the phone back, and he stored the number, then texted her to verify it.

  Sca
rlett smiled. She seemed much more comfortable around him now. “First, you chat me up at the pub. Now you’ve got my number. What’s next, I wonder?”

  “A lunch date at the bookstore?”

  “I’d love to,” she smiled as they pulled up outside the wine shop.

  She scrambled out of the car as elegantly as one could stepping up onto a curb. “See you later,” she grinned and closed the door behind her. Tim nodded and then his attention was back on the traffic to pull out again.

  Scarlett paused for a moment, smiling. It felt good to be around him. Even better, it felt good that he was trusting her. Letting her into the investigation. Helping her clear her name.

  Then a thought crossed her mind. She saw the image of the American detective, with the tan trench coat. Columbo! How many times had she seen him include his prime suspect in the investigation, lulling him into a false sense of security, making him sweat every time he got closer to the truth, and then finally revealing what he had figured out in a big, embarrassing show-down at the end.

  Maybe he thought he was playing her?

  Scarlett shuddered, and quickly turned and headed into the shop. It was an awful thought, but she had to watch her back. There was no way she should completely trust Tim. That was for sure.

  +++

  Malaprop’s Bookstore, Bicester, England

  Tim met Scarlett outside the wine shop shortly after 1:30pm. He watched her close up the shop for the lunch hour, then walked with her to Tarquin’s bookstore. He guessed Karl wasn’t around to mind the store while she was gone.

  “I’ll go in first,” he said. “Wait at least one minute before following me in. Don’t obviously avoid me. You can notice me, but don’t stare.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not that handsome,” she said playfully.

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I’m not stupid,” she shot back, indignantly. “I won’t stare.” She slipped into character for a moment. “I promise…!” she said in a Valley-Girl accent, just to emphasize the difference between her and a love-stricken bimbo.

  Tim didn’t react. “Keep your distance, but close enough to hear our conversation.”