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

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “Chupacabra. It’s a relatively new discovery; mainly found in South America I believe. But you never know. Someone might have relocated one to a private zoo, and it could have managed to get loose.”

  “But what is it?” I doodled the word onto the page in front of me. Mr Kephisto had given me Perdita Pugh’s number and I intended to call her next. Talking to the old wizard about the creature in the woods made for wonderful procrastination.

  “It’s a relatively small animal. About the size of a dog. People who’ve seen it speak of its red glowing eyes and its glistening fangs. It lives in the forest and preys on goats and cattle. It kills animals by sucking their blood, like a vampire.”

  “Really? That’s hideous,” I grumbled. “I hate vampires.”

  “Well I wouldn’t worry. It sounds like your creature is too big for that,” Mr Kephisto cheerfully reassured me. Wizards are funny beings.

  Mr Kephisto um’d and ah’d for a minute. “It’s probably too small to be a minotaur. It could possibly be a werewolf.”

  “But I’ve had werewolves stay at the inn before now. Why would one of those be roaming the forest? They could have a perfectly pleasant bedroom here with me.”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Mr Kephisto told me in hushed tones, “But there’s more than one inn in Whittlecombe. Maybe he’s staying at The Hay Loft.” Mr Kephisto sounded surprised hadn’t thought of that.

  I pouted. “I can’t see that myself.” Lyle Cavendish wouldn’t have allowed it.

  “Alright. Perhaps he just likes living in the wild?” Mr Kephisto tried.

  “In December? The ground is frozen hard. It’s below freezing at night, and for part of the day too come to think of it.” Besides, it would be a stretch to call the forest around Whittlecombe wild.

  “It’s an odd one,” the old wizard admitted. “I’ll look into it. Keep me posted if you hear anything new, Alf?”

  “Will do,” I said, preparing to hang up.

  “Oh and pass my best wishes on to Perdita.”

  Perdita.

  It took her a while to remember who I was, but when she realised, she was as effluent as ever.

  “Oh my word, Alf,” she cooed in her new-age hippie drawl. “It’s so good to hear from you. How are you? Have you still got all that wonderful hair?”

  “Yes—”

  “And did you have any joy losing weight at all. You know you’d look amazing if you shifted a few pounds. Not that I’d ever judge anyone for their size, you know what I mean? But it’s so much easier on your joints if you can maintain a decent body ratio. Especially now you’re getting a bit older.”

  “Thanks, yes—”

  “Sorry. I’m probably being a bit forward. But I’ve found since I changed to a vegan-macro-panko-seed and root diet, the pounds have simply dropped off me.”

  “Oh maybe I should try—”

  “I thought little Chi might benefit as well but it made her very sick. How’s your owl, Alf?”

  “He’s fine, thanks.”

  “Oh that’s good. Such a cute little fellow. And very wise. But that owls all over isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I think—”

  “And what did you decide to do about your ghosts, Alf? You were thinking of a few exorcisms and banishings if I recall, because there were large numbers of ghosts at the inn, weren’t there? It all seemed a little chaotic and free form when I was there.”

  She paused for breath. I jumped in before she could start again. “Oh there’s even more here now,” I chipped in, keeping my tone frothy. I didn’t want to encourage her to start thinking about getting rid of any of my spirits again. “I don’t turn any of them away. I’ve made that our policy. All ghosts are welcome at the inn.”

  “Oh that’s so sweet. You’re such a good person, Alf.”

  “I don’t know about that—”

  “No, no. You really are. And a wonderful ghost whisperer in your own right.”

  I was touched. “That’s very kind of you to say so, Perdita.” She could be a darling when she wanted to be. “But you’re the bees’ knees and I’m only walking in your footsteps. I actually called to pick your considerable brains.”

  “You need my help? I’m honoured. I’m happy to help any way I can.”

  I breathed a little easier. “Smashing. Mr Kephisto—”

  “Oh how is he? I haven’t spoken to him in absolute eons!”

  I tapped my pen against the paper I’d been doodling over, admiring a complex pattern of leaves with a pair of eyes peeping out from among them. Talking to Perdita was like herding goldfish. “He’s really well, thank you. I’ve literally just got off the phone with him because I needed your most up-to-date number.” I didn’t want to admit that I'd misplaced her details or thrown them away or something. I hadn’t imagined I’d ever need her help again.

  “Bless him. Such a cute chap.”

  Cute? I pulled a face. Mr Kephisto had always been pretty cagey about his actual age, but he looked like a man well into his seventies. I had a suspicion that he was probably far older. “Isn’t he?”

  I slammed my pen down. I had to get to the crux of the matter or Perdita would keep me chatting forever. “And so wise.” I changed tack. “In fact, he confirmed what I thought… That you were definitely the best person to help with a little problem I have here at Whittle Inn.”

  “Oh, Alf! It’s so wonderful of you to invite me down—”

  What? Invite her down? No. That was the last thing I wanted. Perdita’s presence here at the inn over Yule would be insufferable. “Erm—”

  “Unfortunately I’ve been invited up to Scotland to investigate a troublesome spirit at Glamis Castle. I’m in the process of packing up now.”

  I exhaled in relief. “Oh that’s such a shame!”

  “I know it is. Maybe I can fit you in during February?”

  “There’s absolutely no need to do that, Perdita. You can probably act as my adviser over the phone which will save you a huge amount of bother. I would hate to inconvenience you in any way.”

  There was a silence over the airwaves, and I wondered whether Perdita was offended by the suggestion that I didn’t require her physical presence. “If you don’t mind,” I added, hastily making amends. “I mean… I appreciate how much demand you’re in… so a telephone consultation would be invaluable to me. I really can’t think of anyone whose intelligence and input I value more.” When she was still silent, I continued, “And… and we can catch up next Spring, when the weather is better, and you have time in your hectic schedule to visit us all.”

  I could imagine the cogs of her mind whirring as she processed all I’d said. “Why yes, I can see that any assistance I can offer, no matter how small, would be beneficial to you, Alfhild. Right here and now. I’m happy to help as much as I can, of course. What do you need to know?”

  “Are you having a nap, Alfhild?”

  I lifted my head from my desk where I had placed it in despair after I had finished my conversation with Perdita. The coughing and sneezing echoing around the inn appeared to have increased over the course of my two telephone conversations. Could it be that every ghost within a ten-mile radius had fallen ill?

  “No. I—” I blinked at Gwyn in surprise. What was she wearing?

  “Don’t stare, my dear. It’s rude.”

  “I just needed a rest, Grandmama.” I gawked at her, not quite comprehending her strange attire. As ghosts go, Gwyn possessed a varied wardrobe although I had no knowledge of how or where she stored her ghostly apparel. Now she stood before me wearing clothes I’d never seen before. A pale cream dress, a long pinafore apron and some strange headgear. “Why are you wearing fancy dress?”

  “What are you blathering about? This is my nurse’s outfit. I’m proud that I can still fit into it.”

  “You were a nurse?” She’d never told me that before.

  Gwyn nodded. “During The Great War.”

  I rocked back on my chair, shaking my head. “You’re full of surprise
s, Grandmama.”

  “We all had to do our bit for the war effort.”

  “Did you go to the Front?” I’d read up on the history of some of the great battles in France and Belgium after Zephaniah had told me his story. The conditions at the medical stations had been incredibly unpleasant.

  “I served eight months in Flanders in 1917. I was glad to come home,” Gwyn replied, her voice giving nothing away. “But for most of the war I remained here in Devon, receiving troops when they were transferred to several of the war hospitals set up in Exeter.”

  I exhaled nosily. “Well, I never knew that!” But that didn’t alter the fact that she’d chosen this particular get-up to wear this evening. “But why…?” I wiggled my fingers at her dress.

  “We currently have nine ghosts down with influenza, Alfhild. They require nursing.”

  “Nine?” Now the level of sneezing made sense. “And you’re the one to do it?”

  “In the absence of anybody else, it would appear so,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. “At least I’m taking their afflictions seriously, Alfhild.”

  “Do you mind?” I replied, a little cross at her insinuation. “I am doing my level best to track down a doctor who can help. I haven’t been having much luck so far.”

  “Couldn’t you find one the same way you found Ross Baines?” Gwyn asked.

  I’d considered that. I’d needed a computing whizz and I’d gone to the financial district in London looking for someone to help. In the end, finding Ross Baines had been a bit of a fluke. There was a chance I could employ the same tactic, but how many doctors die with their boots on? Imagine the sheer number of people who have passed from this life while in hospital. The numbers were scary. I couldn’t simply hang out in a geriatric ward and hope I stumbled across the ghost light of a specialist for infectious diseases. No. That would be entirely too chaotic.

  I smiled at my great-grandmother. “Don’t worry, I have a lead.” Of sorts. “Thanks to Perdita Pugh.”

  Gwyn sniffed. “I didn’t like that woman very much.”

  “I think you made that perfectly plain, Grandmama.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting I was rude, Alfhild.” Gwyn smoothed out her apron and changed the subject. “While you’re searching for Perdita’s doctor, let me tell you how I’m going to proceed. As you suggested I’m going to ban all the ghosts who are currently healthy from the main attic. You’ll have to find space for them elsewhere and hope they stay out of mischief. Then I’m going to set up the ward—”

  “Set it up?” I asked.

  “I’m having the attic scrubbed from top to bottom and then we’ll set up some beds. The goddess knows we have more bedframes and mattress than one inn decently needs.”

  “But—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, my dear. Ghosts don’t need physical beds. And that’s true of course. But I would like to give them the semblance of normality.”

  “But—”

  “And cosiness. Particularly at this time of year.”

  “That’s great, Grandmama. It’s just—”

  “Many of our poor ghosts would have celebrated Christmas rather than Yule, you know? None of them are actually witches.”

  I nodded. “I do know. I’m just thinking that cleaning out that attic will take weeks.” The contents of the massive attic had been thinned out a little during the eighteen months I’d owned the inn, but enough stuff still remained up there—some of it centuries old—to fill several dozen antique shops.

  Gwyn considered this. “I’ll make use of the Wonky Inn Clean Up Crew as you insist on calling them. Don’t worry, Alfhild. Even if I only use a fraction of the space, it will still make a difference.”

  I regarded my great-grandmother with fondness. She made me smile. So stubborn and yet so dynamic.

  “Go for it, Grandmama. I’ll carry on trying to track down the doctor Perdita recommended. You start making our Devonshire Fellows well again.

  “Hi. It’s Alf. I wondered how you were doing?”

  I’d lightly tapped on Gandalf’s door, unsure whether he would be sleeping or not.

  “What is it?” a curt little voice asked.

  I waited patiently; my ear close to the crack of the door. I thought I heard the faery shuffling inside. Eventually I said, “If you don’t want to be disturbed that’s fine with me. I just wanted to check you are comfortable and have everything you need.”

  A few seconds later the door opened a crack, and the small fellow’s sharp features peered up at me. His eyes were the palest of blues, like a watercolour sky.

  “All that coughing and sneezing is getting on my nerves,” he griped.

  “I do apologise. I agree it sounds like we’re running a convalescent home for sufferers of bronchitis and pneumonia. We are trying to remedy the situation as quickly as we can.” I rapidly ran through the rooms we had available, but nothing suitable sprang to mind.

  “Also that stench of boiled vegetables?”

  “Yes?” I asked, pretty sure that the inn did not stink of boiled vegetables. Monsieur Emietter had created a sumptuous beef casserole this evening, and a vegan equivalent, both served with turnip and carrot mash; they’d been exquisite.

  “It’s making me nauseous.”

  “Hmmm,” I responded, trying not to smile. It seemed to me that the faery was intent on being as difficult as possible. I wondered if he was peckish.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What would you prefer?” I asked. “My kitchen can prepare anything you desire.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, his tone indifferent.

  I took a moment and then nodded. “Well as I said, if you do need anything just give me or one of my staff members a shout.” I nodded and retreated along the corridor.

  “I like sweet things,” he called after me. I halted and turned my head to smile back at him.

  “You do? Terrific! So do I.”

  I carried a tray of sweet treats and a teapot upstairs, with a cup for Gandalf and a mug for myself. We sat cross-legged on the floor and I watched while the faery stuffed his face full of cake and pastries.

  “What’s this one?” he asked; his cheeks as full as a hamster. “It tastes like an elf’s garden.”

  I used my fork to break a chunk away and chewed thoughtfully, pondering on what an elf’s garden might taste like. Finally, after I’d swallowed, I giggled. “You’re right. I’m going to hazard a guess that this one is elderflower and marjoram.”

  “Eww.” The faery pulled a face, but I noticed he didn’t spit anything out.

  “What about this?” He tried the next slice.

  I took another forkful. This seemed more seasonal. “That’s easy. Orange and cinnamon. With a dark chocolate frosting.”

  “Hmpf.”

  “Don’t you like this one?” I asked. “It’s one of my favourites.”

  “It’s so-so.”

  I took a chunk of a pastry. “This is Florence’s version of an egg custard. There’s lots of vanilla in this one. Yummy.”

  The faery tried a bit, pulled a face of absolute disgust… and promptly stuffed the rest into his mouth. He had an appetite that would have given Finbarr a run for his money.

  “Who’s Florence?” He paused for a rest.

  “Florence is the housekeeper here at the inn. She’s a ghost.”

  “Is she the scorched one?”

  “Yes.” He’d seen her then.

  “Poor girl.” He belched softly. “And the one with one arm? He’s a ghost too?”

  “Zephaniah? Yes.”

  Gandalf nodded; his face serious. “You attract some queer creatures here.”

  I hid a wry smile. He could say that again.

  “They all have such silly names too.”

  Now he sounded like George. I laughed. “None so silly as Gandalf Blockhead.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. He didn’t look remotely severe when he forgot to be stern and grumpy. “Those polic
e officers would believe the moon was made of green cheese, they’re that gullible.”

  “You gave them a hard time.”

  “They deserved it.”

  I let that slide and he drained his cup of tea and reached for more cake.

  “So what is your real name?” I asked, keeping my voice smooth and calm as though I wasn’t particularly interested. I didn’t fool him for a second.

  He glared at me, full of suspicion once more. “Who wants to know?”

  “Well, me, I suppose,” I confessed. I carried on, pretending to be unconcerned, and poured more tea for him.

  We sat in silence for a time. He chewed and swallowed, regarding me all the while. I began to feel a little self-conscious under his scrutiny and scratched at my nose. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” he asked eventually.

  “The one?”

  “The one that intervened in the stand-off between the faeries and Mara the Stormbringer.”

  “Ah.” He knew about that, did he? “Yes.” It seemed easiest to tell the truth. I waited for an explosion of disapproval that didn’t come.

  “I knew Harys.” Harys was the changeling given to Mara after a little negotiation between myself, the faeries and Wizard Shadowmender the previous Christmas. “A fine soldier.”

  This confirmed my assumption that he’d come from the faery fortress in the forest.

  “She’s done right by him.” I heard the grudging respect in his voice, and I nodded my agreement. Mara made a fine mother.

  He changed tack. “My real name Cleon Philbert Grizzle. Everyone calls me Grizzle though. I suppose you can too, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell your gung-ho police friends.”

  I tipped my head at him. “I’ll never tell them anything you’re not happy for me to share.” I pushed the final piece of orange cake his way. “Did you kill the woman we found in the forest?”

  “Cah!” Grizzle made a strange noise as though he were half-choking, half-laughing. “Why don’t you come straight out with it, oh-witchy-acquaintance-of-mine. You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

  “Alf. My name is Alf,” I reminded him. “Did you?”