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

by Jeannie Wycherley

  At Wonky Inn you’re never alone.

  “But you’re going to London and you’re deserting the sick. I’m not sure that makes you a very nice person, Alfhild.” He mimicked Gwyn’s voice. It was uncanny.

  “It’s because I can’t do anything for them that I’m taking the day away from the inn tomorrow.” I began to march down the corridor away from him, before something pulled me up short. The conniving little weasel had almost made me forget that I had a bone to pick with him.

  I whirled around.

  He’d disappeared.

  I considered chasing after him, but I was tired. I had an early start in the morning, so I needed to have a bath and set my alarm to ensure I work up on time.

  My bed was calling me.

  Grizzle could wait.

  I’d long been of the opinion that it never simply rained in Tumble Town, it poured. Today proved the exception to that rule. As I walked down Cross Lane it began to snow. Thick flakes settled on my fringe and eyelashes, on my nose and upper lip. I licked off the ones I could reach, blinking rapidly to clear the ones from my eyes.

  This was Tumble Town and I needed to keep my wits about me.

  Tumble Town; home of the dark, the shady, the miserable, the mysterious, the wretched and those who needed to remain invisible. They all rubbed along together here in a series of narrow, centuries’-old, multi-storied tenements, located along winding alleys where the sun’s rays rarely filtered. Grime lay thick on the windows, and while candles and gas lamps burned weakly beyond the glass, perhaps serving to illuminate the interiors, they provided little light for those pedestrians who dared to risk life, limb or wallet by venturing onto the seedy side of the town beyond Celestial Street.

  Celestial Street lay behind me. There I’d find The Half Moon Inn where I’d often meet with Wizard Shadowmender for lunch, along with Penelope Quigwell’s office and The Ministry of Witches. But for today—this lunchtime at least—I needed to take a little walk on the wild side.

  As I passed The Web and Flame I craned my neck, looking up, searching for the approximate location where I remembered Marissa lived. I wondered if she’d heard from Silvan. As terrible as the temptation was to knock on her door and enquire, I had plenty of other business to attend to and a limited amount of time in which to carry it out. Reluctantly, I turned my head away and walked deeper into Tumble Town, along the alleys where the walls seemed to close in on each other, until you could barely make out a slither of the sky at all, and shadows lay everywhere.

  I didn’t have an address, just a name. Dr John Quicker. Perdita had suggested I look at the brass plaques that hung beside the doors of the houses down here. That was easier said than done. The plaques had been hanging for so long, centuries in some cases, that they were either encrusted with grime or had worn thin. I slowed my walk so that I could peer more closely at the legends posted here; Witch at Arms, boasted one sign, Royal Potioner said another, Conjurer of Black Demons claimed a third. I hurried by one that read Cosmetic Alchemist, squeezing myself close to the walls to allow other witches and wizard to pass me, their hats or cloak hoods pulled low, their faces turned discreetly away.

  Nobody here wanted you to know their business and in return they paid no attention to yours.

  Supposedly.

  In reality, I now understood that any stranger’s visit could be reported and gossiped about in the numerous inns and alehouses that littered Tumble Town. Some of the residents here patently couldn’t help themselves because they were rogues through and through.

  This was where Silvan originated from after all…

  I stopped and lifted a gloved finger to wipe away the muck from a plaque of a particularly run-down house. The house could only have been a dozen feet across but stood at least four storeys. The wooden frames of the windows needed replacing, and the once white plaster on the front was grey with age and covered in green lichen where the rain had run down the side of the walls.

  Dr Jonathan Quikke.

  Jonathan Quikke? I pondered on the dubious spelling. I hadn’t asked Perdita to spell the name and had assumed I had it correct; however, this was too close to ignore. I banged on the door with my knuckles. The sound was deadened by my thick wool gloves, so I pulled off the one on my right hand and tried again, rapping extra loud this time for good measure.

  “Alright. Alright. I heard ya the first time,” yelled an old woman’s voice. On the other side of the door a series of locks were drawn back and I listened to a scraping noise as the handle was turned. It seemed to take an age, but at last the door opened, by all of about two inches. A pair of dark eyes above a sharp nose peered out at me.

  “Yes?” Her voice creaked like a rusty gate.

  I smiled my best smile, willing my numb cheeks to operate in spite of the cold. “Hi,” I replied brightly. “I’m looking for… erm… John Quikke.”

  “John Quikke or his son Jonathan Quikke?” she barked at me.

  That would explain some of the confusion about the name I supposed. “John Quikke.”

  “I dunno why I bothered askin’ actually. It makes no blind bit o’ difference which of ‘em you want. They’ve both been dead for centuries.” She started to close the door and I hastily jammed my hand against it.

  “Oi! What ya playin’ at?”

  I removed my hand and tried to smile again. “I know he—John—is dead. He was recommended to me by Perdita Pugh.”

  “I don’t know any Perdita from Adam.” The woman scowled at me, decidedly unimpressed.

  You don’t know how lucky you are.

  I took a deep breath. “And neither should you, Mrs ah—”

  The woman shouldered the door open a little wider, then folded her arms and pressed her lips together. Why had I thought coming to Tumble Town would be a good idea?

  “The thing is, look, I happen to know John Quikke is a ghost, and I’m in need of a ghost doctor.”

  The woman didn’t say anything, just glared at me.

  “I’ve come a long way,” I tried. I wasn’t above a bit of begging if it would get me what I needed. “I’m a ghost whisperer. I know he’s here.”

  I wasn’t above a bit of lying either.

  The woman shook her head and was about to close the door again when a gruff voice from somewhere behind her called out to me. “It’ll cost ya.”

  “I have money,” I said. There was a long silence and then the woman stepped back, her place taken by an old male ghost, slightly hunched of back, hair long and grey and curly. He wore an old grandfather shirt and pair of long johns. Both might have been white or cream at some stage but now they were filthy. His skin, slightly translucent was sallow. His eyes, fortunately, burned with a canny intelligence.

  Or cunning, I couldn’t be entirely sure.

  “My name is Alfhild Daemonne,” I told him. “I am the proprietor of an inn in Devon.”

  “Not Whittle Inn?” John asked.

  I nodded in surprise. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “I think I even went there once. Used to venture down to Honiton for the Hot Pennies event. I remember the Daemonnes that ran it.”

  “Wow.” I hadn’t been expecting that. “Good memories, I hope.”

  “Oh yes. Yes.” He nodded rapidly. “For the most part.”

  I decided to gloss over what part that might or might not be. I didn’t want to open a can of worms. “I take it you were alive the last time you visited?”

  “Yes. That’s right. Would have been about 1838. Thereabouts. Nice place.”

  “I’m glad you liked it, because I need your help.”

  “As I said, it’ll cost ya.”

  “No problem,” I repeated.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “And going all that way, well that’s going to add to the cost.”

  Of course. “That’s to be expected. We can factor that in by all means.”

  “Splendid.” He flicked up a finger. “There’s a charge for my cart too. And for Dobbin.”

  What did he mean by �
�a charge for his cart’? “Dobbin?”

  “My horse. He pulls the cart.”

  “Ah.” That made sense. Or did it? “Dobbin is also… erm—”

  “Deceased? Yes. And I’d like to say that I’m eternally grateful that he elected to remain in my service, but a more stubborn horse you never met. And what’s more he eats his bodyweight in food every day, and his stabling costs me an arm and a leg. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to contribute to that too, and to the stress involved in me actually hitching him to the cart.”

  “That’s alright.”

  “Only, I have to hire a boy to help me with that, so it all adds to the outgoings, you know?”

  “Yes.” I could feel my bank account lightening rapidly as I stood in front of the miserable hovel. If I hadn’t been so desperate for his help perhaps I might have spun on my heel and gone in search of Marissa for a chinwag instead and forgotten the whole sorry idea.

  “He’s an ornery so-and-so, but he does the job.” Dr Quikke stopped talking for a moment and regarded me with what can only be described as calculated curiosity. His eyes shone, and his mouth pursed as he probably calculated how much he could sting me for.

  I concealed my sarcasm as best I could. “Have we missed anything?”

  “Supplies.” Dr Quikke nodded.

  “For Dobbin? I thought we’d taken care of those.”

  “No, for my own needs. To see me through the journey and during my tenure at Whittle Inn.”

  Tenure? “It will only be for a short time. I’m sure you would like to be home for Christmas.”

  Dr Quikke stroked his chin. “Ah. So you were wanting me to come down afore the festive season? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

  “Yes. As soon as possible.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew what was coming.

  He gave an exaggerated nod. “Well, see, that makes things a touch trickier. Coming afore Christmas makes it a rush job, so it does.”

  I kerbed my frustration. “Yes, but my ghosts are poorly now, and I’d like you to make them better as soon as possible.”

  “So, we’ll ‘factor’ that in too, shall we?”

  “Yes. No problem.” I have no doubt a note of hysteria had edged into my voice. Just how much was all this going to cost me? I’d be bankrupt.

  As if sensing my rising panic, Dr Quikke disappeared behind the door. I stood alone and shivered, glancing up and down the alley, sensing the eyes that scrutinised me from behind nearby windows, even if I couldn’t actually see anyone.

  When the old ghost returned he’d produced a notepad and a stubby pencil. He licked the end of the pencil and began to write down a list of things in odd curly handwriting. Beside each item he wrote a few numbers. Finally he totted the whole number column up and flipped the pad around to show me.

  I screwed my forehead up and attempted to decipher his writing. “What is that? Twelve pounds, six what?” I gave up. “That doesn’t sound like very much.”

  “Twelve guineas, six shillings and thruppence. The thruppence will be to pay for my tobacco.”

  “I have to pay for your tobacco?” I queried.

  “It’s medicinal.”

  I laughed. “It’s very bad for you. You’re a doctor, you should know that.”

  “I beg to differ, young lady. I recommend it for all manner of ailments and afflictions.”

  I groaned inwardly, wondering whether Perdita Pugh had purposefully sent me to the worst doctor she had knowledge of. Snow had settled on my shoulders and now the cold had seeped through the soles of my boots and travelled up my legs. I couldn’t feel my thighs. Given that Dr Quikke was not going to invite me in, I decided it was time to take my leave and warm up somewhere, perhaps with the aid of a pie.

  “So I can expect you… imminently?” I could only cross my fingers and wish Dobbin and the cart a swift journey.

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you need the address? Just head for Whittlecombe, South of Exeter. You’ll find me.”

  “I’m sure I will. Never you fear.” He doffed an imaginary cap and with that he disappeared. I stared into the vacuum he’d left until the old woman came to the door.

  “A’right then?” I could see her resemblance to the old man in her face. What would she be? His great, great, great, great granddaughter?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The woman handed over a sheet of paper. An invoice for Dr Quikke’s services. Evidently she’d written out a physical copy I could take away with me. Her writing was slightly more legible than his. I noticed he’d added in a consultation fee for the time we’d been standing on the doorstep.

  “Private enterprise, eh?” I grumbled.

  The woman nodded. “Mind how you go,” she said and closed the door.

  “I will,” I replied to the block of wood that now separated us. “Thank you.”

  Linda Creary lived in a surprisingly well-to do area of South London. I’d known it years ago as a bit of a dump really, a rundown neighbourhood full of large Victorian houses divided into flats where the occupants had tended to be down on their luck or low paid wage slaves. Now whole streets had been gentrified and some houses returned to single owner occupier, with neat outdoor areas and huge shiny cars parked on the road.

  Lynda had a small flat in a shared house. I double checked the address and gazed up at her window on the first floor; the key I’d found in her bag clutched in my hand. The blinds had been drawn. There was nothing to see. I stared at the front door, wondering if I would need another key to open this one. Why were all her keys were not on the same fob?

  I pushed the door and it opened into a narrow hallway, one interior front door to my left, the stairs ahead. My stomach rippled with nerves. I shouldn’t be poking my nose in Linda’s business, but I felt I wanted to know more about her. I owed her that much. She’d been a guest at my inn.

  Without looking around, and trying not to act suspiciously, even though what I was doing was by no means legal, I quickly climbed up the stairs. Only one front door here too. Evidently the house had one flat per floor. Number two. This was Linda’s.

  I fumbled with the key and finally managed to get it into the lock when, just my luck, one of the neighbours started to descend the staircase from the floor above. A small dark-haired woman, probably my own age, stared at me with an element of curiosity. She spotted the key in my hand and smiled.

  “You’re police?” she asked.

  I tried to feign an officious looking façade and probably failed. “Kind of,” I said, hopelessly.

  “You have Linda’s spare.” She nodded at the key fob. Keep Calm Linda. “I used to look after her flat when she was away. She didn’t ask me this time.”

  That would explain why there was only one key on the ring.

  “You knew her well?” I asked.

  The woman shook her head. “No. Not really. Just to exchange pleasantries, you know how it is? I collected her mail if she went away. Watered the plants. That kind of thing.”

  “But she didn’t ask you this time?” But I figured if she had, she would have handed over the spare key.

  The woman shook her head. “If she was only going somewhere for a weekend, she wouldn’t bother. It was only when she was going abroad.”

  “Did she do that a lot?” I couldn’t recall Linda having a tan.

  “She’d take a nice holiday somewhere twice a year. She told me she had a bucket list, you know? Used to go all around the world. By herself. I was quite envious, but I don’t think I could go alone.”

  Linda had no partner then.

  “I suppose her family are going to sort out her estate soon,” I said. “I’m just taking a quick inventory. For probate.” I crossed my fingers and hoped my lie wouldn’t rebound on me.

  The woman shrugged. “Like I told your colleagues, I’m not aware of any family, and I never saw her with any friends. She went away to Thailand last Christmas and I asked her whether her family would mind not seeing her and she told me she’d been fostered
as a kid, so had no-one to worry about.”

  I nodded as though I knew this.

  “It’s a sad business,” I said.

  The woman sighed. “Yes. She worked hard and she took her holidays and that was her life.” She offered a wry smile. “Anyway, I’d best get on. Errands to run.”

  I watched her trot down the stairs, and once I’d heard the front door close, turned the key in the lock and let myself into Linda’s flat.

  If a flat can smell cold, this one did. The building was old, and the heating had evidently been off since before Linda had headed down to Devon. I could also pick out the faint scent of decaying vegetables, but other than that and a slight mustiness, the flat seemed in good order. I knew the police had been here, but they hadn’t left much mess, mainly because Linda had very few belongings. In the kitchen the work surfaces were clear. A small pile of towels had been stacked on top of the washer and dryer, and a single mug had been left upside down on the drainer. A cursory perusal of the cupboards showed me that Linda was organised but didn’t cook a great deal.

  The next room along the corridor was the bathroom. Again it had been left neat and tidy. The suite and tiles could have done with updating but apart from that nothing jumped out at me.

  At the top of the hallway was the lounge. Fairly compact it housed a corner suite in light blue, with complementing cream and beige cushions. A glass table with a single coaster stood on a beige rug. A flat screen television adorned the wall and a few nondescript prints had been placed either side of it. However, Linda obviously loved the outdoors enough to want to bring some of it inside. There were numerous potted plants, a couple of Aloe Veras, a large rubber plant, some ferns and even a spider plant or two. Very seventies.

  The master bedroom seemed immaculate although the police had evidently been in here and done their thing. I suppose I could have riffled through her clothes, but I decided that wouldn’t tell me much, so instead I tried the final room. Little more than a box room, I could imagine that an estate agent would describe it as a second bedroom but to be fair, short of a crib, you were never going to get a bed in there.