Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery

by Jeannie Wycherley

  The ground felt hard beneath my feet, almost frozen. I kicked through the crispy leaves and flung my head back to watch Mr Hoo glide gracefully through the trees as he headed for Speckled Wood. I couldn’t help wondering whether we were in line for a white Christmas again. Last year we’d had one, but those had been truly exceptional circumstances. Down here in Devon we were renowned for warmer air and it tended to keep the worst of the winter weather at bay.

  Out in the open I could feel the resulting glow of the frigid air on my cheeks. Glad to reach the shelter of the trees, I opted to take a familiar path, the one that would lead to the centre of the wood and the clearing there where I liked to sit and mull over the events of the day.

  But tonight Mr Hoo had other ideas.

  When I came to a fork in the path where I would have headed right, he dropped from a branch overhead and gently buffeted his wings against me.

  “This way?” I asked and he took off, leading the way down the left-hand fork. I followed, assuming we would hook around at some stage and skirt the edge of the marshes. In the heart of the forest here there was a deep pool that housed my friend Vance, an Ent. Every few days or so, I would hike out to see him and sit on the rocks surrounding the pool so I could engage in a little catching up, while he’d shower me with both love and advice and a little leaf debris.

  But not this afternoon.

  Where I would have expected to go right, Mr Hoo took another left turn. I frowned and faltered. Going left again would quickly take me out of Speckled Wood and into the forest at large, heading down towards Whittlecombe.

  “Are you sure we want to go this way?” I called up to Mr Hoo, but he didn’t stop to answer. He just kept going.

  I didn’t know the path that well, so I took it slowly. I didn’t have my mobile on me, and a wrenched ankle or worse would not have finished the day off well. I stepped carefully and kept an eye out for rogue tree roots, while simultaneously snagging my hair or coat in low-hanging branches.

  I paused to re-settle my hat safely atop my head after it had been knocked off by a branch, and peeked up at what little sky I could see through the canopy overhead. It still had that insipid milky-white shade, but with a touch of cool-setting-sun-on-the-horizon orange tint.

  “Hey?” I called to Mr Hoo. “I think we should get back. I need to—”

  Mr Hoo settled on a branch seven or eight feet above my head, sending a smattering of leaves my way. I watched them fall, sunset yellow and flame red, burnished copper and—

  My breath caught as I watched them settle on the ground in front of me.

  Burnished copper. But not the leaves. Hair. Almost as red as my own.

  A woman. Face down. One hand stretched out to her right. The other must have been tucked under her body.

  A flutter of anxiety began a steady beat in my stomach just below my heart and my breath snatched noisily, a sound that hung in the still air for an interminable moment.

  I thought I recognised her; the hair gave it away. One of our guests. But not a witch. Just a quiet mortal who’d seemed intent on doing her own thing, and not at all phased by the witches, ghosts and general chaos that Whittle Inn seemed to attract.

  Self-contained. A loner, maybe.

  A squawk in the undergrowth ahead startled me. I squeaked and glanced up straight into a pair of eyes that stared back at me through the foliage. “Who’s there?” I demanded.

  Whatever it was jolted backwards and scuttled away. Small enough it couldn’t have been a person. Mr Hoo turned his head to watch it disappear but didn’t seem concerned.

  Unfortunately, the woman lying on the cold ground in front of me had not moved at all. The fluttering in my stomach morphed into a lead weight.

  “Are you alright?” I shuffled forwards. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet now seemed ridiculously loud in the quiet forest. I pulled off my glove and crouched down next to her, reaching for her naked hand. I made contact and recoiled. Her hand felt stiff to the touch and her fingers were unnaturally cold.

  I sank back on my haunches and took in the scene. She was dressed to go walking, in sturdy boots and an expensive outdoors all-weather jacket. Why had she forgotten to wear gloves?

  It didn’t really matter now. Her days of walking in the forest were over.

  I rocked backwards in dismay, alarmed that—in spite of the beauty of this place—she had met her end here, alone and in the freezing cold. She’d been a guest at Whittle Inn. I should have taken better care of her.

  “I’m so sorry, my lovely,” I said. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “Alf. What a surprise.” DS George Gilchrist peered over the top of his notebook as I approached him the following morning. He didn’t sound even vaguely astonished.

  Police tape had been used to cordon off the area of the forest where I’d found the body, and it flapped noisily in the cold breeze. About twenty feet from us, a tent had been set up to protect both the remains and any vital evidence. I could no longer see the dead woman, but I knew she was there and could recall in photographic detail the position I’d discovered her lying in.

  I shivered and not just from the cold.

  Further away, in front of a rocky outcrop, a group of George’s colleagues had gathered. We lived in an area of geographical interest, where the forest meets the Jurassic coast; trees and rocks co-existed to stunning effect. I peered at the police officers, all huddled together, but couldn’t see what they were doing. Maybe sheltering from the wind.

  “I found her,” I told George, folding my arms and reining in the urge to glare at him. He’d asked to see me and here I was.

  He and I had been an item, engaged for a short time, and although things had been a little rocky in the months since we’d split—after I’d discovered he’d been philandering with one of his co-workers—we’d gradually become friends again and our exchanges less acerbic. Only a few weeks before, he’d done me a massive favour by driving to Romania to rescue me from a rather hairy escapade, so I’d be indebted to him for a while.

  “So I heard.” He sighed and shook his head at me in disbelief. “If trouble comes knocking anywhere near Whittlecombe, I’ll always find you at the heart of it.”

  “This has absolutely nothing to do with me,” I protested. George raised his eyebrows. I could see the scepticism written all over his face.

  He flipped a page in his notebook. “We can’t find any identification on her. There’s no purse or handbag. Nothing in her pockets. But PC Hetherington says you think you know who she is.”

  I cast a sideways glance at the tent, imagining the scene inside. “Well I can’t be one hundred-per-cent sure, because I didn’t turn her over. I left her in place after I checked for a pulse. But I did recognise the colour of her hair. I checked her room last night and she was a no show. So, yes, I think she was one of our guests.”

  “Well that’s something.” George sounded almost happy, and I frowned at him. It’s funny what these police officers consider positive news.

  “According to our register her name was Linda Anne Creary. She checked in three nights ago after making a spur of the moment booking a few days before that—”

  “She’s one of you lot, is she?” George gestured with his pen hand at the robes sticking out from the bottom of my winter coat.

  “Are you asking whether she’s a witch?” I pursed my lips.

  George nodded; his face serious. “Or heaven forbid one of those hideous vampires, or a faery or something?”

  Poor George. We’d only known each other around eighteen months and in that time he’d come across more than his fair share of paranormal and supernatural beings. How he explained some of the people he’d met or the events he’d had the pleasure of working on to his superiors, I couldn’t imagine. Whittle Inn and the village of Whittlecombe must surely be gaining some sort of notoriety in police circles.

  Fortunately, he seemed open to it all.

  Now I shook my head. “No.” This had puzzled me too. “From everything I kne
w about her, and everything I’ve seen in her room, I would say no. She is not ‘one of us’.”

  That stopped George in his tracks. “So, why stay at Whittle Inn? The Hay Loft was full was it?”

  The Hay Loft was a rival inn located in the heart of the village, run by my adversary, Lyle Cavendish. Where it tended to attract holidaymakers, tourists and hikers of the more mundane kind, my wonky inn was the reserve of the strange, the gifted, the far-sighted… and the eccentric. I could only imagine that Linda fitted into that latter category.

  “I have no idea. You’d need to check with them,” I replied airily, and George smirked.

  “It’s easily done.” He made a note to do so. “I’ll also need to come and look at her room and check her belongings.”

  “That’s fine.” I’d expected that to be the case.

  “You said you’ve checked her room?” he asked. “You didn’t touch anything did you?”

  “I know the ropes by now,” I reminded him.

  “Getting quite a reputation there, Alf.” George smiled. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d have you pegged as a bit of a serial killer yourself.”

  “Oh, ha ha.”

  A commotion at the far end of the cordoned area diverted George’s attention and he moved towards his colleagues. One of the female officers waved him over, and the group parted ways. I spotted a small fellow, between two and three feet in height, slightly balding but with longer hair at the back, and with a fairly sour complexion. He’d been handcuffed but even I, at my distant vantage point, could see the handcuffs were far too large for him.

  After a few moments and a rapid exchange of conversation with the female officer, George walked back to me, kicking the leaves as he came.

  “You know that man’s a faery, don’t you?” I nodded towards his colleagues who had closed the circle around the small creature.

  George pulled a face and glanced back. “I… well—”

  I couldn’t believe his reticence to admit what he was seeing. “Come on, George. Don’t try and tell me you all think he’s a kid?”

  When he didn’t reply I continued, “Or a very short human?”

  George’s face fell. “I can hardly waltz over there to my perfectly mentally competent colleagues and tell them they’re in the process of arresting a faery, can I? They’ll have me on extended sick leave faster than you can turn me into a toad.”

  I patted the pocket in my robes where I kept my wand. “Oh I don’t know. I’m pretty fast on the draw.”

  “Don’t you dare.” George’s face turned slightly pale. In spite of our sombre surroundings, I almost giggled at his genuine fear but decided that would be bad form.

  “Alright!” I lifted my hands to show him they were empty. “Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit.” I pointed back at the group surrounding the faery. “But what’s the deal with him?”

  “He’s under arrest. We found him here, loitering with intent.”

  “Intent to do what?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “He was here when we arrived yesterday evening and he was held overnight in Durscombe. We brought him back out here this morning to re-interview him in situ.”

  “Isn’t that slightly unusual?” I asked.

  George pulled a wry face. “Well as you say, he’s a slightly unusual character. He seems to be rather confused, or at least we’re not getting much out of him that makes sense.”

  “So you’re arresting him for murder?” This seemed a stretch.

  “No, no. We have no evidence for murder.”

  I watched as George’s colleagues began to lead the faery around the outside of the tape. They ducked under it and walked the long way around, passing us as we waited. The faery stared up at me, his face set in a sneer of derision, disgruntlement all over his face. “I wouldn’t dally too long with these fools,” he spat. “They’ll only deprive you of your liberty too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I hope you’re free to go very soon.”

  He nodded at me and trooped after the officer leading him through the forest to wherever they had parked their cars. I observed him with interest. What had he been doing hanging around a murder scene?

  “Alf—” George shot me a warning look. “You can’t be interfering.”

  “I’m not interfering,” I protested. “He’s a faery who was walking in the forest. Now he’s been arrested but you have no evidence he’s done anything wrong. That seems a little unfair to me.”

  “Life’s unfair.” George indicated the outside of the tent where a number of examiners in white plastic coveralls were conferring. “Death even more so in some cases.”

  I stood in the doorway while George donned a pair of plastic gloves and prepared to inspect the room where Linda Creary had been staying.

  “Nobody has touched this bedroom at all?” George sought clarification.

  “Florence will have made the bed and cleaned and tidied yesterday morning. She does all the guest rooms.”

  “I’ll need to speak to her,” he said, peeling back the patchwork bedspread to reveal the plain white duvet beneath.

  “No problem. I’ll drag her away from her duties. You’d better chat with her this morning otherwise she’s liable to be incommunicado while she works on her book.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Aaaaachooo!” The sudden sneeze from somewhere above our heads made us both jump.

  “Sorry. That’s Luppitt,” I apologised.

  “Luppitt Smeatharpe? The ghost?” George stared up at the ceiling in surprise. “He has a cold?”

  “According to him it’s the plague.” George looked a little perturbed at this and I smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not actually the plague.”

  “Whachooowa!”

  I ignored the interruption. “Florence’s book is going well, I believe.” George turned his attention back to the bed. “She has some photographers coming in the next few days. We’re going to set up all her bakes on the tables in the bar and they will take photos of them to include in the cookbook. It’s going to be amazing!”

  George flicked through a pair of paperbacks arranged neatly on the nightstand. “I’ll have to get a signed copy from her for Stacey.”

  Ugh. Stacey. George’s squeeze.

  “Does Stacey bake?” I asked politely. I couldn’t imagine her doing anything remotely practical. She and I were polar opposites in most things. For Stacey it was all about ‘the look of the moment’, the pristine and perfectly straight hair, fake nails and tan, exquisite make-up. As for me? Well, you know about me already.

  But to be fair, my cooking prowess extends to cheese on toast and that about does it.

  “There’s always a first time,” George replied, pulling open the drawers on the nightstand. They were empty. He frowned. “No handbag. No purse. Nothing. Did she have a suitcase?”

  “A small one in the wardrobe.”

  George opened the wardrobe and extracted the case. It was one of those solid wheelie ones that can fit into hand luggage on most flights. Linda had left a few items of clothing hanging in the wardrobe, but that was pretty much it.

  If she’d brought a handbag with her, she had taken it out with her. There was no sign of any credit cards or money. In fact, we could see very little of anything one might consider personal effects. The room seemed oddly empty and unloved. She’d been staying here but didn’t seem to have genuinely inhabited the space. Not with her personality, at any rate. Linda Creary remained an enigma.

  “Will your register give us an address?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. That would help. “I’ll dig out those details for you and give Florence a shout at the same time.”

  “Whachooo!”

  “And maybe arrange for a Lemsip for Luppitt,” George suggested. “He does not sound well.”

  A Lemsip for Luppitt? That seemed a good idea to me.

  I queued patiently at the counter of Whittle Stores, my arms full of lemons, while Rhona, the owner, served a few people in fr
ont of me.

  “I hear some poor woman was found dead in the forest last night,” said Mrs Crabwell, a woman I knew from Millicent’s circle, hand over the cash for three tins of baked beans, a cabbage and bottle of vodka.

  “Is that right?” The woman in front of me asked as she re-knotted her plaid scarf securely around her neck. “I wondered what all the police activity was about.”

  “Yes.” Mrs Crabwell turned to reply, “I’ve seen an ambulance and a succession of police cars go up.”

  “And the coroner’s van,” Plaid-scarf-woman added. “I assumed there was something seriously amiss.”

  Well that’s right, I thought. That would make sense given that the coroner doesn’t attend incidents with live people.

  Mrs Crabwell caught sight of me. “Good afternoon, Alfhild. I didn’t see you there.”

  I smiled with tight lips, knowing exactly what was coming.

  “On your land was it?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No, not this time.” Then thinking my response had sounded a little too gleeful, I added, “A sad business though,” and laced my tone with the proper amount of regret. I decided not to disclose that the woman had in fact been staying at Whittle Inn. That would just fan the flames of rumour and gossip. I’d had enough of that over the past eighteen months or so.

  “I wonder who she was,” Plaid-scarf-woman enquired of me, obviously suspicious that I knew more than I was letting on.

  I shrugged. “I don’t think they know yet.” I could have kicked myself. That definitely made it sound like I had some insider knowledge. “I mean, not as far as I know. And I don’t know… much.” I grimaced over the women’s heads at Rhona. Help me out here, I beseeched her with my eyes.

  “Mr Bramble was in earlier.” Rhona kindly sprang to my rescue. “And he reckons that they’ve spotted some sort of monster in the woods.”

  “What?” I couldn’t help myself and laughed. The Whittlecombe villagers were—with a few notable exceptions—the most marvellous, kindly and lovely bunch of people you could ever hope to meet, but from time to time they did fabricate some astounding and truly ridiculous tittle-tattle.