I rolled my eyes and studied the specials board.
George smiled at Gloria, intent on charming her. “Please may I have a cup of your finest coffee, and a great stodgy sausage sandwich?”
“Brown sauce, DS Gilchrist?” Gloria asked. She obviously knew his preferences only too well.
“Aye. Thank you. And my friend here will have a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and a warm cheese scone.” I pulled a face at him. And he knew me too well.
“Thank you,” I said grudgingly, watching as Gloria ambled back towards the kitchen to deliver our order.
“My pleasure. I hope it goes some way to making up for dragging you away from the chaos at the inn.”
“You could have just come up there to visit me.”
“You’re always so busy. And besides, I wanted to avoid Gandalf.” George cocked an eyebrow. “How is he?”
I snorted like a horse. “Boy that faery has an appetite, but only for sweet things. I had to put Charity on guard in case he ate all of Florence’s cakes before the photographers arrive. Needless to say, his name is not Gandalf, but at the moment I don’t have permission to share his real name with you.”
George frowned. “Permission?”
“Yes, DS Gilchrist. I’m not shopping him, even for you.” I tapped my fingers on the table. Service in the café was normally pretty swift, but today, aware of how little time I had available, I gave in to my impatience.
“Did he murder Linda?” George asked the most important question and I shook my head, my face grave.
“I’d say no. Definitely not. He was there when I found the body though, I’m fairly certain of that. So he might have seen something, although he says he didn’t.” I shrugged. “But I believe him when he says he had nothing to do with her death.”
“I thought as much.” George groaned. “But that puts me back to square one. I have no leads. And a plane to catch in a few days.”
“What about this demon creature with flaming red eyes that everyone in the village is talking about?” I asked as Gloria arrived at the table with our drinks and my scone. “Could there be some truth to that?”
“Your sandwich won’t be long, DS Gilchrist,” Gloria told him, flushing a little pink. He beamed his thanks.
I leaned over to inhale the steam from my scone. Cheesy heaven.
“I think this creature only exists in people’s imaginations.” George watched me.
I picked up my knife and sliced into the scone, releasing a fresh cloud of pungent mist. “Quite a few people claim to have seen it.”
“Have they b—”
“Here’s your sandwich, DS Gilchrist. I’ve added extra sauce just the way you like it.” Gloria appeared at George’s elbow and set his doorstopper sandwich down. It did look good.
“You’re an angel, Gloria. A true gem. Thank you. I’ll let Father Christmas know you’ve been a good girl.”
The waitress toddled away with a peal of merry laughter. Gloria appeared to be sweet on the DS.
I took a mouthful of scone and chewed happily, savouring it. “So you’re saying the monster in the woods doesn’t exist?”
“I am saying that, yes,” George confirmed. “It’s more likely some form of mass hysteria.” He cut through his sandwich with some difficulty. “I’m also poo-pooing the notion that she was killed by a monster at all. We don’t have a definitive cause of death yet, but she wasn’t pulled limb from limb by any kind of animal.”
“What then?” I nibbled on a chunk of scone.
George shrugged. “There’s a head injury. A fractured skull. But I’m not sure it’s serious enough to account for her death. We’ll know more in a day or two.” He waved his knife at me. “That’s strictly between us.”
“Have you found anything out about her? Where she lived?”
“Well you gave us an address for her, and our colleagues in London have paid the flat a visit, but so far that hasn’t yielded much information. What did she do while she was with you at the inn?”
I thought back. “Nothing much. She just went out on walks. Sat alone for breakfast and dinner and didn’t really engage in conversation. She read a book occasionally. Avoided chatting to the other guests.”
“Anti-social would you say?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Just… self-contained.”
“And these walks? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. I’m assuming, because she was found in the forest, that she liked the wildlife and scenery.” I hadn’t really given it much thought. “She was dressed for the elements, wasn’t she?”
“Kind of. She didn’t have walking boots or socks on, but she did have an expensive windcheater. That seems a bit odd to me.”
“So not a seasoned walker then?”
“Difficult to tell.” George bit into his sandwich.
“Did you find her handbag? Purse? Anything that could help?”
“Nothing at all.” George chewed and swallowed. “I’ve a couple of officers out there in the forest searching for her bag, but so far they haven’t located anything fresh. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack at this time of year. The leaves have covered everything.”
“I’ll tell my guests to keep an eye out if they’re wandering through Speckled Wood.”
George fixed me with a canny eye. “Maybe you should ask Mr Hoo to have a look-see when he’s out and about. He’d make a great detective.”
“Alright, I’ll do that.” I finished up my scone and took a large gulp of my hot chocolate. “I really need to go, I’m afraid. Can’t keep the bigwigs from London waiting, can I?”
“Certainly not. If you want to wait a minute, I’ll give you a lift back.”
I regarded the enormous plate of sausage and bread George still had to wade through. “Don’t give yourself indigestion,” I said. “It’ll be quicker if I run.”
Typically the photographers turned up late, their taxi driver having lost his way from Exeter, but once in situ, and having been fortified by refreshments, they proved professional and efficient. They set up a ‘mini studio’ with a white cloth background and some bright lights. Each cake was then placed centrally and photographed from numerous angles.
Florence probably wouldn’t have approved, but the creative director of photography—a lovely young graduate named Mia—happily staged the photos using a variety of different props, including flowers and Christmas decorations, soft toys for the child’s christening cake, party hats for her birthday cakes, and pillar candles for Florence’s replica Halloween showcase. She kept asking me for my opinion, but everything looked wonderful to me, so I don’t imagine I provided any assistance whatsoever.
Florence had put a great deal of effort into setting up the tables, but she needn’t have worried at all because it hadn’t been required. I watched the photographers at work, thinking about my poor housekeeper, stuck as she was in the attic, submitting to the ministrations of my bossy great-grandmother. I felt guilty, as though I were somehow to blame for the bad timing of the flu outbreak. One thing was for certain, I needed to locate the doctor that Perdita had recommended, and I needed to do it soon. But how could I find the time, this close to all the festive celebrations?
The sound of sneezing coming from upstairs tugged at my heart strings. Florence was missing all of this. “Do you mind if I take some photos?” I asked Mia, intending to show them to my housekeeper later.
“Of course not. I’m so sorry Florence couldn’t be here today. I was so looking forward to meeting her. I’ve never met a ghost before.”
I smiled. I could have taken a moment to point out the ghost light of her grandfather who was following her around like a faithful hound, but I decided to hold my tongue.
“She’s gutted to miss you,” I told her instead, and snapped away with my mobile phone. I would download hard copies from my computer this evening and visit Florence in the attic. As long as Gwyn allowed visitors, that is.
Her ward, her rules, I imagined.
“We’ll need to do a cover photo at some stage,” Mia reminded me, and I winced a little. How would that go? Given Florence’s general appearance. Mia grinned at my reaction. “Oh don’t worry, after the success of The Great Witchy Cake Off, I think everyone knows what Florence looks like, there’ll be no great surprise there. I think it’s wonderful that so many people, the world over, took her to their hearts in spite of her appearance, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said. “I’m frightened she’s going to run away to Hollywood or somewhere.”
Mia laughed. “I suppose there’s a very real possibility that that could happen. She was a natural on the screen.”
I nodded, my stomach sinking. Don’t leave me, Florence, I was thinking.
“Perhaps you could escort her up to London?” Mia suggested. “It would be a fun day out.”
I recalled the day we’d tramped around the Isle of Dogs searching for someone to help us solve a computer issue. That someone had ended up being Ross Baines. Yes. That had been a marvellously fun day.
Not.
“I’ll certainly give that some thought,” I replied.
The photographers left at just before six, intent on catching the 7pm train from Exeter to Paddington. That would get them home in time for bed. It gave Charity and I less than an hour to prepare the bar for the dinner service. Keeping a sharp eye out for greedy Grizzle, I co-opted an assortment of ghosts to help me carry the cakes down the back passage, through the kitchen and into the large cold stores out the back. Once everything was safely stored away, I organised a table setting crew. Silverware and our best glassware flew through the air, down the hall and back into the bar, where tablecloths were hastily thrown over the wooden tables, and places marked out.
Without Florence to hand, the task of double checking everything fell to me. Charity brought out wine and baskets of bread and olives for our Italian themed evening, while Ned prepared the bar itself; slicing lemons and filling the ice bucket.
The phone behind the bar rang and Charity who was closest took the call. When she hung up, she turned to me. “That was Grizzle. He said to let you know he’s hungry.”
“Did he really?” I glowered. “How can he possibly be hungry? He polished off a whole carrot cake earlier on. I’d have thought he’d be lying in a diabetic coma somewhere by now.”
“Well, he asked for dessert.” Charity smirked at me and I laughed, tickled at the idea of eating dessert after only eating pudding in the first place.
“Cheeky blighter! I’ll see to it,” I said when I could breathe again. “You just supervise dinner.”
She nodded and disappeared down the passage towards the kitchen as the phone rang again. Thinking it would be Grizzle complaining about a lack of instant cake gratification I picked it up. “I’m coming,” I told him.
Except it wasn’t Grizzle.
“How did you know I was going to ask you to?” asked a familiar female voice.
“Millicent?”
“Yes. Are you reading minds now, Alf? That’s a marvellous skill. It will save me having to call you via the landline. I did try your mobile first.” That was still upstairs by my bed. Along with my wand of course. Would I ever learn? I could almost sense Silvan’s disapproval.
“I thought you were someone else,” I stated the obvious. “Were you really going to suggest I come down into the village?” This wasn’t an appealing thought. It had been dark for a few hours and I had no doubt the temperature had dropped close to freezing outside. Plus, I was nice and warm here inside the inn.
“Yes, actually.”
I grimaced. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment. We’re just about to start serving dinner.”
“Now, Alf. You know I wouldn’t suggest you came down here unless I felt it was important. It’s just that Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd—”
Talbot-Lloyd. The wealthiest landowner in the area. The man who had always had designs on the grounds that Whittle Inn inhabited. We’d had several confrontations in the past. “Oh no. What’s he up to now?”
“He’s called a village meeting. It’s due to start at half-past seven. He wants to take a team of locals into the forest to hunt down the monster with red eyes.”
“But… George said there was no monster.”
“Talbot-Lloyd disagrees.”
“Evidently.” I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking quickly. We were already short-staffed, but Charity would just have to cope. It wouldn’t be the first time. The thought of Talbot-Lloyd hanging out where he wasn’t wanted, especially anywhere close to Speckled Wood had me feeling incredibly insecure.
I made my mind up.
“I’m on my way.”
As village meetings went this was not the best attended, primarily because the temperature had dipped below freezing. As I huffed my way down into the village, for the second time that day, my breath blew out of me in big steamy gasps, and the vehicles parked along the lane sparkled with the early formation of frost particles.
Squeezing between the cars, I resisted the urge to draw love hearts on the glass of the Jeeps and Range Rovers parked on double yellow lines outside the Village Hall. Instead I burst in through the rickety wooden door, disturbing the meeting that had started five minutes before. Everyone turned around to get a look at the tardy latecomer and I smiled bashfully. Fortunately, Millicent was sitting at the rear, close to the door. I sidled along her row and plopped down into my seat, cringing as it creaked and created a further disturbance.
From the stage at the front Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd directed a withering scowl my way. Of course he wouldn’t be happy I was here. I peered over the heads in front of me. Lyle Cavendish, landlord of The Hay Loft had taken pride of place in the front row. The remaining audience made up from the usual assortment of locals. For the most part these were busybodies with too little to do of an evening, and a number of worried younger people in their twenties and early thirties, whom I assumed were parents.
“Glad you could make it,” Millicent whispered.
“I’d hardly miss it. In my absence they’d have probably framed me for the murder and decided they wanted to hang, draw and quarter me. I thought I’d better put in an appearance.”
The woman in front of me turned and gave me ‘a look’. The sort of passive aggressive glare you give someone at the cinema when they eat their snacks too loudly or start talking into their phone. I offered a thin smile and settled back in my seat to listen to Talbot-Lloyd’s bluff and bluster.
“It’s an obvious concern for everyone in the village,” he was saying.
A man a few rows from the front put his hand up and Talbot-Lloyd nodded at him. “Trevor? Did you want to say something?”
The man named Trevor cleared his throat. “I did as it happens.” He stood up. “Only, I’ve heard the rumours about this beast but so far we’ve only one or two semi-credible witnesses. With all due respect, I’m not sure these accounts amount to much more than folk tales really. I think we may be getting a bit ahead of ourselves.”
I nodded. Tell it like it is, Trev, I thought.
“What do the police have to say about all this?” Trevor continued. “Have you approached them?”
Trevor took his seat and Talbot-Lloyd nodded in all seriousness. “You make valid points there, Trevor. I did ask the police to attend this evening, but unfortunately they have other more pressing matters to attend to, apparently.”
I bristled on George’s behalf. Of course he had other things to do. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, could he?
“Isn’t it true they’ve dismissed the idea of a beast in the forest?” One young woman asked. “I mean, shouldn’t we take them at their word?” There was a general mumbling in the hall; some spectators in agreement and others not so much.
Talbot-Lloyd held up his hands. “Order, order, please.” When the audience had quietened down once more, he continued, “The fact remains that we do have two credible sightings from villagers of the Whittle Beast.” He looked pointedly at Tr
evor.
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed out loud. I wasn’t alone, some others joined in, but it was to me whom Talbot-Lloyd directed a glare of sheer poison.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, but he was already moving on.
“I don’t think we can dismiss the experiences of the victims, can we, Ms Daemonne? Not at the expense of the landowners—like yourself—who may well be sued for inaction if they have dangerous animals roaming around their property.”
That shut me up.
“To give some context to the matter I’ve invited Sarah Corby to tell us what happened to her.” He gestured at a woman sitting alongside Lyle Cavendish in the front row.
She stood at his invitation and turned to face us. I recognised her as the woman whom I’d seen rushing along Whittle Lane after I’d visited the post office a few days before. I listened with interest as she launched into her tale of woe.
“I’d been walking along the path that leads towards Whittle Folly when something caught my eye,” she recounted. She tugged at the scarf wound around her neck, as though it had started to suffocate her. “I could hear something in the bushes. At first, I wasn’t worried, because you hear lots of creatures up there when you’re walking… birds and what have you. But I carried on walking and it followed me. I couldn’t see it and it sounded quite large. I was a bit scared because… well you know… I was on my own.”
She swallowed and finally pulled her scarf free, folding and unfolding it as she resumed talking. “I couldn’t see anything and after walking ten or so metres I stopped and called out, to see who it was. There was no reply and the noise stopped and I carried on walking. I wasn’t far from the scout hut at that stage.”
“So did you see it or not?” Someone asked, a little rudely. For my part I hung on tenterhooks.
Sarah flushed. “When I started walking once more, the noise came again. It sounded like something trampling through the bushes. I turned and I saw this thing—” she dropped her scarf and held out her hands, wide apart. “This enormous thing… and it had horns and its eyes were raging!” She shuddered, close to tears.
Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery Page 7