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

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Instead Linda had set it up as her home office with a desk, an office chair and a bookcase. She’d clearly had a laptop or computer of some kind because the printer and a pair of speakers remained in place, but the police had taken the main device away. The drawers of the desk contained an assortment of stationery but nothing else of interest. The corkboard above her desk had a couple of motivational quotes but no photos of any humans. A bookcase contained some fiction, and perhaps half a dozen books on marketing. I wondered if that’s what she’d pursued as a career. Had she enjoyed it?

  Nothing, with the exception of the plants, and there were a few of those in this room too, gave me much of an insight into who she was or what she had been doing at Whittle Inn. I plopped myself into her chair, and spun it this way and that, thinking.

  Given the restrictive size of the room, in order to spin right the way around I had to push the door closed. Hanging from a hook on the back of the door was a cotton shopping bag. It had a green design on the front along with the words ‘Sunny Vale Garden Centre.’ I jumped up and unhooked it, intending to take a cursory peek inside. I found a clutch of letters addressed to Linda, all using the same bland brand of commonplace stationery.

  The police had surely found these, how could they have failed to? Had they dismissed them as unimportant? I poured them out onto the desk and sifted through them. There must have been a dozen, all written in the same hand. The postmarks told me the letters had been written over a ten-month period. Once I’d arranged them in date order, I could see the contents became fatter as time went on.

  I opened the most recent one and drew out six pages, seeking the signature first. This was a letter from a man named Roy. I turned back to the front page and the address.

  Bishop’s Cottage

  Rectory Lane

  Whittlecombe

  East Devon

  Had Linda been visiting this Roy in Whittlecombe? Had she been fostering a love affair?

  I plonked myself back down in the swivel chair and began to read.

  I didn’t need to enter the inn; I could hear the chaos that awaited me.

  A cacophony of sneezes, coughs, moans and groans, throat clearing and sniffing. From every corner of the inn, from between the walls and floors, in the shadows, and the cupboards, the pantry and the storerooms. It sounded as though every ghost who shared the residence with me had succumbed to the flu.

  I stood in the vestibule, inhaling the familiar scent of the inn and listening to the levels of noise. I winced to hear it. In the bar area, several of my guests were sporting noise cancelling headphones and I have to say that I had every sympathy with them.

  I found Charity behind the bar, pouring free drinks for our guests in a concerted attempt to keep them cheerful, but the strain was beginning to tell on her face too.

  “Hey boss,” she said when she spotted me. “Thank heavens you’re back.”

  “Where’s Ned?” I dropped my bag under the counter out of the way.

  She handed me a glass of the brandy she’d just poured and then decanted another for herself. “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Ned is sick too?” I couldn’t help but feel glum at the news. What would I do without Ned? He was the backbone of the inn, always available when I needed an extra pair of hands, forever level-headed and willing to undertake any task no matter how menial. Always even-tempered and quiet.

  And a mean dancer to boot.

  “They’re all sick!” Charity drained her glass. “Even Monsieur Emietter. Do you know who cooked dinner tonight?”

  I looked around, scared of what the answer might be.

  Charity pointed at herself. “I did. Little old me.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook. Wow.” I tried to enthuse but it sounded more like a cry of dismay.

  Charity snorted and poured another brandy, a larger version of the one she’d just consumed. “That’s because I can’t.”

  I regarded her for a moment. “How was that then? The cooking experience?”

  “Best you don’t ask.”

  I nodded and raised my glass to her. We chinked them together and I drank my brandy down in one. “I’ll sort something out for breakfast.”

  “Just as long as it isn’t you cooking either, that will be fine.”

  I frowned. “Come on. I’m not that bad. Anyone can fry an egg.”

  Charity guffawed with genuine mirth. “You think? I’ve had one of your omelettes before if you recall.” She shuddered. “Never again.” She spotted Frau Krauss waving and winking at me, before making her way over to see what the German witch required.

  The talk of food had my stomach grumbling. I hadn’t managed anything more than a hasty and tired sandwich while waiting for my train home from Paddington. I wondered what Charity had ended up cooking in Monsieur Emietter’s absence and whether any of it had been left. I figured I could concoct that old standard, cheese on toast, for myself if there was nothing else doing. I drifted down the back passage to the kitchen and stared in horror at the sight that awaited me.

  I hadn’t quite realised how much I relied on the Ghostly Inn Clean Up Crew until this precise moment.

  Dishes, pans, baking sheets, mixing bowls, cutlery and utensils were piled high in the sink and along every inch of available work surface. There were pans of dried out food on top of the cooker. The huge oven had been left on and inside I could just about make out a couple of cremated fowls. Chopping boards and sharp knives lay on Monsieur Emietter’s workstation, along with entrails and vegetable peelings. If the French chef could have seen this, he would have packed his bags and left Whittle Inn without so much as a by-your-leave—or whatever the French equivalent of that happened to be.

  My mouth open in dismay, I moved across the floor to switch off the oven; my feet slithered on spilled food.

  I’d never seen anything quite like it, not even on the day that I’d interviewed for the chef position over eighteen months previously. Had Charity really managed to create this much disorder on her own?

  Impressive.

  With only a few days to Yule and a few more to Christmas, the kitchen should have been smelling of cinnamon and orange, candied peel, sage stuffing, chocolate log and brandy snaps. Instead, I could imagine that the inside of an abattoir would be more fragrant than Whittle Inn’s kitchen right now.

  Just suppose the Food Standards Agency had decided to pay me a sneak visit today? I shuddered.

  I couldn’t deal with this chaos by myself, but without a Ghostly Inn Clean Up Crew, what was a witch to do? I’d be here until the wee hours cleaning up the mess even if I found an extra pair of hands.

  I plucked my mobile from my pocket and lit up the screen. My heart skipped a little beat of happiness, a missed call from Silvan. I wanted to call him back instantly but knowing he wouldn’t be able to come to my rescue, I decided to put that off. I couldn’t imagine him getting all domestic in the kitchen anyhow. Instead I thumbed through my contacts until I found Millicent.

  “Do you know any spells to restore a kitchen to a clean state?” I asked when she picked up.

  I finished cleaning some time after two in the morning. After finally placing the mop and bucket back in the boiler room where it resided, I slunk along the hallway, every part of me weary, to join Charity in the bar. There were still a few guests up, playing cards or snoozing in their chairs by the fire.

  “Do me a favour,” I said as I dumped myself down on a bar stool. “The next time Monsieur Emietter is indisposed, just send out for pizza for the whole inn, okay?”

  “Deal,” Charity smirked, and offered to pour me a drink. I shook my head. We needed to be up at six to start the breakfast service.

  “Millicent is going to come and help me do breakfast,” I told her, “so you concentrate on the waiting side.”

  “Will do, boss,” Charity said. “I think I can manage that.”

  I glanced around the room, taking in the few witches gathered around tables, still drinking. “You know what? I kno
w it’s unprecedented, but I think we’re going to close the bar tonight, otherwise neither of us are going to get any sleep at all.” I nodded at my green-haired manager. “You go on up, I’ll sort this.”

  I was prepared for protests from my guests, but they understood the situation. Clearing the bar actually took me less time than I’d imagined. I surveyed the collection of glasses and decided I’d had my fill of washing up for the night. I strolled around, switching the lights off everywhere, leaving only the ones in the vestibule and the one on the stairs illuminated, in order that my more nocturnally minded guests could find their way around when they came in from their overnight rambles.

  I made a beeline for the back stairs when something occurred to me. The fire had almost died out. This would never happen on Florence’s watch. She was fastidious about such things. The inn didn’t have the same vibe without her presence. I smiled to think how she would have loved the opportunity to cook a whole dinner in Monsieur Emietter’s absence.

  I regarded my great-grandmother’s portrait hanging in pride of place above the fire. Her eyes glowed brightly. I really ought to go up and let her know I’d returned home safe and sound. I could check to see whether her ministrations were making a difference too, but I found I didn’t have any energy left. Instead I climbed up the stairs only as far as the next floor and slipped into my own bedroom. Mr Hoo, perched on the windowsill, turned his head around and hooted softly at me.

  “I told you I wouldn’t be gone long,” I said. “Are you going out hunting tonight?”

  “Hoooo.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It is brass monkeys’ weather. Mind how you go, or your wing tips will freeze up.”

  My mobile rang as I started to pull my robes off.

  Silvan. I’d meant to return his call of course but hadn’t yet had the chance.

  “Hello.” I smiled through my exhaustion. “Why are you calling now? I could have been asleep.”

  “I sensed you weren’t. You’ve had a long day.”

  “Aren’t they all?” I settled back on my bed. “But truth to tell, I’ve been in Tumble Town.”

  “What were you doing there?” I heard the surprise in his voice.

  “It’s a long story. I was looking for a doctor. One that Perdita Pugh recommended. We have stupid levels of sickness here. A complete contagious outbreak of ghost flu.”

  “A ghost doctor? That’s a novelty. Did you find one?”

  “I did.”

  “That’s great. You can find anything you need in Tumble Town. You do have to be careful though.”

  “I was.” I yawned. I couldn’t help myself.

  “You’re tired.” He sounded sympathetic. He also sounded wide awake. I wondered where in the world he could be. Somewhere safe, I hoped. “I should leave you to it.”

  “I could do with forty winks,” I admitted.

  “I’ll go then.”

  “Silvan?” I jumped in before he could put the phone down. “Will you make it here? For Christmas?”

  “Aww, Alfie.” His voice was a purr in my ear. “I doubt I can. I’m so tied up here. I’m sorry.”

  I thought of Linda, and how her neighbour had said she liked to escape for Christmas. A conscious choice she made, rather than spend it alone. “It’s okay,” I said.

  But it really wasn’t.

  “I wanted to ask you if I could take a few days and go home to visit my family.” Finbarr’s filthy fingers fondly scratched the reindeer’s neck. I’d brought him out a cup of tea and a fried egg sandwich—cooked by my own fair hands I might add. It looked alright.

  Slightly taken aback I almost withdrew the hand containing the sandwich. “You’re free to do what you want, you know that. I have no designs on keeping you here longer than you want to stay.”

  “Ah it’s not like that, to be sure. I’d like to go home and see my old ma, that’s all. But I can see how short staffed we are at the moment.” Finbarr hurriedly took the plate and mug from me before I could change my mind about offering him breakfast.

  I shoved my hands in my coat, to protect them against the icy bite in the air. I’d found him in the shed with the reindeer, but it wasn’t much warmer in here than it was outside. At some stage yesterday Finbarr had built a temporary fence all the way around the shed which helped to keep the reindeer safe without locking him away.

  I performed a mental head check of the inn’s ghosts. The only ghosts I knew of that were still of sound mind and body were my great-grandmother, and a little boy I knew only as Pee Pee. Pee Pee liked to run around the house and the grounds shouting Pee Pee at the top of his voice. I had no idea what his story was because I’d never managed to get close enough to find out. Gwyn didn’t know either. I’d sent word out via Vance in Speckled Wood, and Wizard Shadowmender via the orb, that if my father Erik Daemonne was anywhere in the vicinity I’d appreciate his assistance. But like Silvan, he was off doing his own wizarding thing—in my father’s case fighting The Mori—and I could only expect him when I saw him.

  I could hardly stop Finbarr from taking a couple of days’ well-earned leave, could I? “You definitely should go.” I told him. “We’ll manage.”

  Somehow.

  “I could ask Mr Kephisto to come out here and check on you. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.” I acquiesced graciously, after all, I didn’t consider myself to be in any position to act all heroically and turn down offers of help.

  “What about old Rudie here?” I asked. “I’ve had no luck so far tracking down anyone that’s lost a reindeer. Nothing on social media or in the papers.”

  “I was thinking to leave the pixie—”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure the pixies—”

  “Under no circumstances,” I said firmly and fixed Finbarr with an evil eye. He lapsed into chuckles.

  “Had you there for a moment, Alf.”

  “Ha ha,” I pretend-sniggered, decidedly unamused.

  Finbarr straightened his face and coughed. “Well what about your little faery pal?”

  “Is that another jape?” I growled.

  “Not at all. He was a great help yesterday. He has a way with animals. Especially this one.”

  Of course. I’d been meaning to have a chat with Grizzle about the cave and the reindeer. All those sweet wrappers and the sugar in the cave? Who could have been hanging out there but my sweet-toothed faery visitor? If the reindeer had also made the cave his temporary shelter then it stood to reason they knew each other already.

  “And he was good with the children too.” Finbarr took a bite of the sandwich I’d given him, and I watched as yellow yolk oozed out of the bread and onto his fingers.

  “What children?”

  Finbarr finished the first half of his sandwich in four bites and licked his fingers clean. “They came up from the village. Word has got around that we have a reindeer up here and he’s proving to be a star attraction.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, no-one can keep anything secret in Whittlecombe.”

  “I’m sure there’s no harm done. This close to Christmas all the kiddies want to see Father Christmas, but meeting his special reindeer is a treat in itself, I reckon.”

  Now that could be a money-spinning idea. “If you weren’t heading back to Ireland we could dress you up as the great man himself.”

  Finbarr smiled. “I think Mr Kephisto would make a great lookalike for old Santy Claus and he wouldn’t even need a fake beard.”

  “Very true.”

  “I expect we’ll have some more kids up here today, so if the faery is happy to help me out again, I’d certainly appreciate it.”

  “Alright. I’ll have a word,” I agreed.

  As I turned to go, Finbarr called me back. “What shall I do with these?” He held up a couple of letters addressed to Father Christmas at the North Pole.

  “Did the children give you these?” I asked, and Finbarr grinned.

  “Yes. They borrowed some pa
per and envelopes from Charity. A few of the other kids who saw them do it said they would be back today with their own letters.”

  “How sweet.” I took the letters from him. “I’ll drop them down at the post office later. I think Royal Mail send them on somewhere. I might have to write one myself.”

  “What would you ask for?” Finbarr asked.

  I screwed my face up. Company, I wanted to say, but what I actually said was, “Warmer gloves”.

  “I hear you have a reindeer on your land.”

  It being close to the last posting day before Christmas, the queues in the post office had grown to epic proportions. When I’d joined the back of the line I’d actually still been on Whittle Lane, that’s how long it was. Once I was inside the small post office I could see why. There was only one person serving. I tutted and settled in for the long haul.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned on the company I’d be keeping. Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd had followed me into the post office and cut in line so that he could verbally assault me.

  I glared up at him, struggling to hide my revulsion when he asked me about the reindeer. “Temporarily,” I said, hoping he’d hear the insinuation that I knew exactly where the creature belonged, and he should keep his hands off.

  “Is it our Beast do you think?”

  I shook my head. How predictable of him. “I’d say definitely not. This reindeer is an absolute sweetheart and he would never attack anyone.”

  “Not even if it was cornered?” Talbot-Lloyd asked. “Wild creatures can be unpredictable, especially when they feel threatened.”

  I took a deep breath and met his sneering look with a cold one of my own. “Not this one. Firstly, he’s tame and not wild, and secondly, Whittle Inn is the last place he’d feel threatened. We’re treating him well.”

  “It’s just I have to prioritize the safety of the residents of Whittlecombe, and if I thought the animal was a threat—”

  “It isn’t,” I repeated, my voice firm.