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

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “What sort of monster?” Plaid-scarf-woman looked a little worried.

  “He was a little short on details,” Rhona admitted. “Something about blazing eyes.”

  “Blazing eyes?” Mrs Crabwell repeated.

  Rhona offered the woman her change and carefully bagged her items in a jute shopping bag. “That’s what he said. It wasn’t him that saw this creature, mind. He heard it from his son, Alex.” She looked meaningfully at me and I tried not to curl my lip. Alex and I had been out on one disastrous date, but this being Whittlecombe, everyone assumed Alex was yet another of my failed romances.

  “So Alex saw the creature?” I asked. If that was the case I might be brazen and knock on his door so I could ask him outright.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Rhona confirmed. “I think he heard it from someone else.”

  Mrs Crabwell looked disappointed, but I had to titter. This monster had apparently been witnessed by one person—just one—and yet the information, passed on from one villager to another, had become fluid and started to morph into something else. No doubt what we had here was an immersive game of Community Chinese Whispers.

  I wouldn’t hold much truck with any of it.

  “So you didn’t hear that it was the monster that killed this woman?” Mrs Crabwell asked Rhona, taking her shopping bag from the counter and testing the weight. “She wasn’t ripped apart by a wild animal?”

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. If I nipped that rumour firmly in the bud, I would have to admit to having been on the murder scene at some stage. I could really do without being implicated in any more suspicious deaths.

  Mrs Crabwell thanked Rhona and left the shop. I watched out of the window as she crossed the road and paused to speak to Sally McNab-Martin outside the village hall. Plaid-scarf-woman paid for her groceries and then it was my turn.

  “Do you think there’s anything to this monster thing?” I asked, leaning across the counter as though we were a pair of conspirators.

  When Rhona laughed she sounded like a young girl again, although she must have been in her late fifties or early sixties I would have thought. “I don’t imagine so. You know how things get twisted.”

  I grunted, pleased to hear it.

  “How are things up at the inn, Alf?” Rhona asked with a knowing smile and I rolled my eyes.

  “Abnormal. As normal.”

  “But you said this lady wasn’t found on your land?” Rhona rescued the lemons from my grip.

  “No. I’m pleased about that at least. Unfortunately, we’re talking only a matter of feet from my boundary.” I pulled my coin purse from my coat pocket. “George and his colleagues are obviously out in force up there.”

  “At least they’ll be well fed.” Rhona smiled. “I’m sure Florence will see to that. You must thank her for the treacle tart she sent down for me and Stan the other day.”

  “She sent you a treacle tart?” I asked in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, she often sends down cakes and tarts and pies. All manner of things. She calls them her ‘seconds’, but believe me, they’re better than anything I can produce.”

  I’d often wondered what Florence did with all her spare bakes. She couldn’t eat them, and if Charity and I had polished off everything Florence cooked that she wasn’t happy with, we’d have been the size of dustbin lorries.

  “I’ll certainly pass your thanks on,” I agreed, picking up the paper bag containing my lemons and handing over a few pound coins.

  “It was delicious. Are these for her? What’s she making with these? Lemon Drizzle cake?” Rhona looked hopeful.

  “Lemsip.” I winked, and waved goodbye.

  Outside Whittle Stores, a small crowd had gathered around Plaid-scarf-woman.

  As I walked past them, I heard her regaling everyone with the tale of how a gentleman in the village had seen a devil-eyed monster in the woods.

  “You know, the poor woman they found up there was torn limb from limb,” she exclaimed. Several women in the crowd gasped, while their menfolk nodded as though they’d known it would happen one day.

  I paused mid-step, wondering whether I should say something.

  But I’d been right before, there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t implicate either myself or Whittle Inn in some way, so I held my tongue and walked on.

  “Yeeeeeechaow!”

  I paused outside The Snug, the bag of lemons in my hands. That last sneeze hadn’t sounded much like Luppitt.

  “Waa-ha-ha-chew-ah!”

  Neither had that.

  “May the Goddess grant me patience,” I muttered.

  “Which goddess?” Gwyn asked, bustling down the corridor towards me.

  “Any that could extend that particular blessing to me would be made most welcome,” I told her and resumed my journey to the kitchen.

  Gwyn pulled up. “You know you really need to be more specific when you’re asking a deity for assistance, Alfhild.”

  “You mean I can’t simply put a plea out there and hope the right goddess rocks up?” I called over my shoulder, making little attempt to kerb my sarcasm. “Well darn, Grandmama. I’d always assumed it worked that way. Potluck or what have you.”

  “Are you being saucy, my dear?”

  “Certainly not!” I threw back at her, and quickly swooped into the kitchen, away from my great-grandmother’s sharp ears, eyes and tongue.

  “How many lemons did you buy?” Charity asked as I dumped my paper bag on one of the food counters.

  “They were on offer. Four for a pound.” I emptied them out and admired the sunshine yellow of the peel.

  “They smell fresh.” Charity joined me at the counter and picked one up to sniff it. “Mmm zesty!” She placed the lemon against her forehead. “Do you think I’d suit yellow coloured hair?”

  I studied her complexion. “Why not? You suit every other colour.” She’d been platinum blonde for a time now but evidently she was losing interest. “Lemon’s not particularly Christmassy though, is it?”

  “It is if you pop a few slices in your festive cocktails,” Finbarr chipped in. I hadn’t heard him come in although I probably should have done. Surrounded by his band of hyper-excited-and-permanently-hungry pixies, he was wearing his big muddy walking boots and had entered through the back door. Monsieur Emietter was gazing at my Irish witch friend with an expression that can only be described as explosive. The chef began waving his meat cleaver around, gesturing at the footprints the Irish witch had left on the floor.

  Finbarr tried to placate him. “I’m on my way back out, Mon’sure,” Finbarr told him. “I only came in to find Ned.”

  “Problem?” I asked.

  Finbarr shook his head. “Not really. Only that all the comings and goings near the south side of our boundary line has meant the undergrowth and bushes in that area have taken a bit of a battering. I was hoping he’d help me fix it up, and then I can weave the perimeter force field a little more strongly in that area. I’m on my way over there now.”

  “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll find him. Thanks Finbarr. Give me a shout if you need my help.”

  Finbarr clattered out of the back door, as Monsieur Emietter clucked like a Mother Hen and uttered what sounded for all the world like a string of French expletives.

  “Wha-ha-ha-choooh!”

  Zephaniah appeared at the kitchen door.

  “Was that you?” I asked him and he looked most affronted at the idea.

  “Certainly not, Miss Alf. I’m in ruddy health.”

  Apart from being dead, I thought. Zephaniah had died on the French battlefields during the First World War, but Gwyn had brought his ghost back to Whittle Inn where he belonged. He only had one arm, but it never seemed to hamper him in any way.

  “DS Gilchrist is in the bar, ma’am. He’s asking for you.”

  “Can’t he come through here?” I asked. It wasn’t like George to stand on ceremony much.

  Zephaniah shook his head. “Er… he has someon
e with him.”

  “Righto.” I abandoned the lemons where they were and left Charity to think about her hair colour. “Have you seen Ned?” I asked Zephaniah as I tripped through to the bar.

  “In the shed, I believe.”

  “Finbarr’s looking for him. Would you mind passing the message on? He’s out on the boundary near where our guest was found.”

  Zephaniah saluted, and apparated away as I pushed through the glass door into the bar.

  The main room bustled with activity, as I’d expect in the afternoon at this time of the year. Not only did we have an enormous cheerful blaze in the central fireplace, thanks to Florence of course, but we had a beautiful tree up in the corner, hung with pinecones and wooden ornaments and decked out with red and green ribbons. Millicent had crafted more than a dozen yule wreaths as a gift to me, and these hung from the beams and decorated the wooden surround of the bar itself. Candles had been placed on every table and bowls of nectarines and nuts were laid out for all to enjoy.

  And enjoying everything they were. The hubbub here was loud enough to drown out the sound of sneezing, which was a small mercy at least. I smiled to hear the babble and the laughter, feeling proud of the inn’s festive appearance, coupled with the merry vibe we had strived to create.

  Our guests tended to gather here for afternoon tea because there could never be an end to Florence’s offerings. We served slices of cake, decorated buns, scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, as well as Florence’s fancy cupcakes, macarons and pastries, all to people who came from far and wide to try out her wares. The tables were full of happily chattering witches and wizards, mages, sages, fortune tellers and psychics.

  I spotted Gwyn, in her element, with a table of elderly witches playing bridge. I had no doubt at all that my great-grandmother and her partner would fleece the opposing pair for everything they could.

  Meanwhile George loitered near the exit. It was only when I joined him there that I spotted the reason he hadn’t joined me in the kitchen.

  “Hi there,” I said, staring down in surprise at the faery I’d seen with George’s colleagues in the forest earlier.

  The faery twisted his nose up at me and turned away, obviously feeling no more friendly than he had been before.

  “Everything all right?” I enquired of George and he offered a wry smile, before clearing his throat.

  “Yes. All fine. It’s erm… just…”

  I waited while the faery, who made a great show of picking at the plaster of the wall nearest him with his thumbnail, still studiously avoided my gaze. “Just?” I repeated when George faltered.

  “We’re looking for a safe place for Gandalf here. And I was hoping you’d be able—”

  “Gandalf?” I narrowed my eyes and looked at the faery. I thought I saw the briefest smirk.

  “He claims his name is Gandalf Blockhead.”

  “You’re the blockhead if you believe that,” I said, and the faery snorted at the floor.

  “I don’t believe his name is Gandalf. Obviously, I don’t. But he’s not being very forthcoming, and my resources are exhausted.” George sighed. “A bit like me, really.”

  I nodded in sympathy as he went on, “It’s Christmas. Most of my team are hoping for some time off. I have a body in the woods here and another one in a doorway in Honiton town centre. I’m supposed to be flying out to Florida in a few days for a little winter sun. My boss is having a hissy fit about our current solve rate.”

  I could see he was building up a head of steam and I took a quick step back. “This wee fellow has led my DC a merry dance and as much as we’d like to charge him with something—anything—we can’t actually come up with anything that will stick. My Detective Super keeps telling me Gandalf here is a child and I need to contact social services and interview him in the care of a responsible adult.” George was barely keeping a lid on his fury now. “That’s total nonsense of course, as you and I both know.”

  George jabbed a thumb downwards at the faery. “I don’t believe he’s as innocent as he claims to be, that’s for sure, and I would really like to keep an eye on him. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  I grimaced as George continued, “He claims to be of no fixed abode, so if you can put him up for a few nights and maybe get some sense from him I’d be profoundly grateful. If you can’t, well we’ll both be on our sweet way. Over to you.”

  And breathe.

  I blinked at George; at his flushed face and hunched shoulders, pondering on his stress levels. “Can I interest either of you gentlemen in a quick drink?” I asked.

  I had Charity show ‘Gandalf’ upstairs to a small room on the third floor. It had a single bed and a small en-suite, but I figured that would allow the faery all the space he needed. I took a seat at a table in the window with George and he nursed a half of Hailstone Ale while I took the opportunity to grab a mug of tea and a slice of Florence’s orange and cinnamon cake.

  “You seem a little… overwrought.” I chose my words carefully.

  George rubbed his fingers over and around his eyes. When he looked up they were red rimmed and bloodshot. “I just need a break, I think. It’s been one hell of a year.”

  I nodded, completely understanding. Back in April he’d been kidnapped by The Mori. Then when we’d eventually found him I’d learned the horrible truth about his fling with Stacey and turned him into a toad. I’d only let him wallow in the swamp for a few days, but I guess that had been fairly traumatising.

  “So you’re off to Florida?” I kept my tone light and jovial.

  “That was Stacey’s idea,” he said, not sounding particularly excited by the prospect.

  I fiddled with some cake crumbs on my plate, wondering how deeply—as the nosy ex—I was allowed to probe. “Don’t you want to go?”

  George thought for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah. It will be nice. To get away.”

  “Would you rather go somewhere else?”

  George smiled. “Romania was interesting. I’d quite like to go there again.”

  I nearly spat out my tea. “Are you serious?”

  “All those old mysterious castles, and the unspoilt forest and mountains? It looked incredible. Such a shame we had to beat a hasty retreat.” He grinned, impishly, his colour returning to normal. “But Stacey’s not really into that kind of thing.”

  This was the first time I’d found myself in solidarity with Stacey. “Oh you’ll love Florida,” I said, as though I had expert knowledge of it.

  “Yes. I expect so. It’ll be nice just to get away.” He took a sip of his beer. “What about you?”

  I glanced around at my guests. Zephaniah had returned from seeking Ned and was now busy at the bar. Charity was serving more cake to those in need. “I won’t be getting away. I’ll be here.”

  “With Silvan?”

  I shrugged. “He’s away. Working.” I gestured at the tree. “Christmas is not such a big deal for witches. I’ll hold a proper party here on the twenty-first to celebrate Yule and the longest night. That’s when we tend to gather and celebrate as the wheel turns from dark to light. We’ll have a few rituals and maybe dance around the bonfire outside if the weather is dry.”

  “I spotted the bonfire. It looks impressive.”

  “Ned’s been gathering wood for months.” My favourite part of Yule was lighting the fire and watching the flames.

  “So you won’t do Christmas this year? You did last year?” George asked, perhaps remembering the days of our fledging relationship.

  “Oh, we will, but it will be all about the food and the drink, maybe a few parlour games.” I was looking forward to it. I’d always been a kid at heart.

  “You’ll be lonely without Silvan,” George said, and offered a sympathetic look. Surely he didn’t feel sorry for me?

  “Don’t be daft.” I brushed his concern away. “I’ll be run ragged here. I’ll have no time to get lonely, I promise.”

  “Besides, you’ll have Gandalf to keep you company this year. Good luck
with that.” George had obviously relaxed now and could see the funny side of his faery situation. “Thanks for agreeing to let him stay. I appreciate it.”

  I tapped the table between us. “You do know I can’t hold him here against his will if he doesn’t want to remain here, don’t you?”

  “But maybe before he disappears you can find out a little more about him? He claims to have been living in the forest.”

  That sounded about right, but not in the way that George and his colleagues might be imagining. They’d experience of vagrants camping out in the forest in makeshift hides or in cheap tents. However, the faery now lying on a soft mattress upstairs had—unbeknownst to most people—probably lived with the faeries in the fortress I’d visited a year ago for most of, if not his whole life.

  “He’ll be glad of a bed at least.” George drained his half with relish. “You keep good ale here, Alf. Thank you.”

  “We aim to please at Whittle Inn.” I rose with him and we walked to the door.

  “Keep me posted about Gandalf.”

  “I most certainly will,” I promised.

  Much later I sat on my bed after my customary evening bath, rubbing moisturiser into my horrible feet and pretending I cared about them. From outside came the sound of owls hunting; Mr Hoo, having fun with a few of his friends.

  I glanced towards the window. The sky was black and starless; the cloud cover low. I pondered on life and love. Did Mr Hoo have a special someone? If he did, he didn’t live with her; he lived with me. But then I—supposedly—had Silvan, and he didn’t live with me either.

  “Hmmm,” I said, out loud. I caught the wistfulness in the sound and gave myself a mental shake. This was early days for Silvan and me, and we lived very different lives. Honestly I wasn’t entirely sure what he did to make his money, except he’d always told me he worked for the ones who would pay him the most. What these people paid for I had never probed too deeply, worried what I would find out perhaps. He was a mercenary. A dark witch. An expert in the defensive arts. He was a warrior among witches. When we’d first met—I’d hired him to train me to become more of a warrior myself so that I had what I needed to beat The Mori—I’d assumed he had neither scruples nor morals, but now I found myself absolutely convinced of his integrity and compassion.