“I’ll get the morning’s baking done,” I say, “and then we’ll have a chat, okay? Witchcraft 101.”
“I look forward to it.” She looks genuinely thrilled as we leave the room.
I collect Arthur, explain where our tool bag is kept, and show him the few jobs that need doing. One of the tables has a wobbly leg. The hinge on the door to the kitchen is squeaky. In the breakroom, we could really do with a couple of shelves above the sink.
“This room could do with a splash of paint,” Arthur says, glancing around.
“That would be wonderful,” I say with enthusiasm. “I’ve thought it for a while, but I never have the time to do it.”
“Leave it with me,” he says, and goes off to get the tool bag.
I go into the kitchen and take down the big ceramic mixing bowl that was my grandmother’s, and smile as I begin the process of making the day’s muffins.
Chapter Eighteen
I bake all morning, until the shelves are stocked with muffins, sausage rolls, and fresh cakes, most of which contain specially prepared herbs and a touch of magic. While I work, I see Arthur occasionally, walking about with screwdrivers and hammers, and soon the squeaky door and the wobbly table are fixed, and then I hear the sound of the drill in the break room, so I know he’s putting up the shelves.
Then I do as I promised and sit with Delia in the corner of the café while we talk.
As it’s only our first conversation, I keep it light and go through the principles of blessing herbs and spices. I explain how the rhymes a witch says as she does her spells are less important than the intention behind them. To illustrate, I use my recipe for my savoury energy muffins, and illustrate how I bless the chilli flakes and other spices with a short spell while I imagine the consumer being filled with energy and light.
“A lot of the recipes come from my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother,” I say. “But I’ve made a lot more of my own. The recipe book in the kitchen is really a family Book of Shadows.”
“Your mum was very careful with her witchcraft,” Delia says. “I walked into the kitchen once when she was halfway through reciting a spell. She got very embarrassed and just walked out. I never felt as able to talk to her as I do to you.”
“Mum was a very private person,” I concede. “I don’t know whether that was connected to her illness, or if she’d always been that way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we were very close, and she taught me almost everything I know about witchcraft. But her lessons were always very… structured, I suppose. Grandma was much more open.”
“I wish I’d met Lizzie,” Delia says. “I think I would’ve liked her from what people have told me about her.”
“Oh everyone did. She was very warm and friendly.” I sip the coffee that Cooper made me and sigh. “I think Mum might have been very different if Dad hadn’t died when I was young. She had so many years on her own. I think she was lonely.” I study the cup in my hands. “I was worried I might end up like her. Is that a terrible thing to say?”
“I think it would be a very normal worry,” Delia replies gently. “But I can’t see you ending up alone, Gwen. Especially now a certain young man has turned up.” Her eyes twinkle.
I chuckle. “I think he would be thrilled to hear himself described as a young man, especially by you. You’re only in your forties!”
“I know. I feel older.” She grins. “He did seem very taken with you. How long have you known him?”
“Oh, most of my life.” Arthur and I have prepared the background story. “He’s a distant cousin I knew as a child. We kept in touch after he moved to New Zealand, and when he said he was coming back for a visit, I said he was welcome to stay with me.”
“Well he certainly couldn’t take his eyes off you when you were together.” She smiles. “I’m pleased for you. You work so hard, and you deserve to have some fun.”
“Talking of which,” I say, finishing off my coffee, “I think I’ll take a few hours off, if you’re okay here.”
“Of course. You’ve done amazing this morning. Melissa’s here, and Cooper’s not going into college today. We’ll cover the shop.”
I give her a hug, collect my jacket and handbag, and go and see Arthur, who’s in the process of finishing off the final shelf.
“They look great,” I say enthusiastically. “You mastered the drill, then?”
“What an amazing piece of machinery.” He steps back and admires his handiwork. “We could have done with one of those when we were putting up our houses.”
I smile. “Do you fancy a break?”
He washes his hands in the sink. “What did you have in mind?”
“I thought we’d do some more investigating, starting with Fenella’s place.”
“Sounds fun,” he says, drying his hands, then picking up his jacket.
“Come on, then.”
We wave goodbye to everyone in the café. Then, collecting Merlin from out the front of the café on the way, we head over to the car.
“Merlin wants to know where we’re going,” Arthur says as we get in. He grins. He knows Merlin didn’t like it there.
“We’re going to Dogs All Day,” I say as I take the road south toward The Roman Way. I glance in my rear-view mirror. Somehow, the dog manages to look alarmed. “I’m not leaving you there,” I tell him, amused.
“I understand his reticence,” Arthur says. “They weren’t a particularly likeable family.”
“I know. But I’ve been thinking about what Imogen told us yesterday, about Valerie being poisoned by the substance that comes from foxgloves. I’m going to pay her three friends a visit and see if any of them have foxgloves in their gardens.”
“Maybe that’s what poisoned the Spaniel,” Arthur suggests.
“It’s very possible—it’s toxic to both humans and animals. We’ll have a hunt around and see if we can find any.”
It’s not long before I’m taking the turn-off onto the drive for the kennels. I pass through the line of beech trees, and park in the same place as last time, in front of the manor house.
I turn the engine off and we both look over our shoulders. The dog looks back at us, distinctly unimpressed.
“Come on,” I tell him, trying not to laugh. “I promise not to let you out of my sight.”
We get out, I clip the leash on his collar, and we start walking toward the kennels. As we approach, Fenella comes out.
“Good morning!” She strides up to us. “Nice to see you here again.”
Arthur and I shake her hand. “I hope you don’t mind me calling in,” I say.
“Not at all. How can I help?”
“I wanted to check your calendar and see if I can book Merlin in for next month,” I tell her. “And then I wondered whether I could be cheeky enough to have a little walk around the kennels and gardens with him, to try to get him used to the place?”
“He does look rather nervous,” she says.
“He’s a rescue dog,” Arthur says, which is partly the truth. “He appeared on Gwen’s doorstep six months ago, so we’re not sure what kind of socializing he’s had growing up.”
“Aw,” she says, “poor thing. Yes, have a look around the kennels and the garden. Take your time. When you’re done, knock on the back door of the house and I’ll double check the calendar.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, “I really appreciate it. I just want him to be happy.”
“Yes, of course,” she replies, in a voice that suggests she’s thinking He’s only a dog.
“Okay. Come on then, boy.” We take the path around the kennels, Merlin trotting beside us.
We walk slowly around the buildings, taking our time in the beautiful spring afternoon. “Do you know why foxgloves are so called?” I ask Arthur. “They were first mentioned in 1542 by a man called Leonhard Fuchs, which is German for fox. It’s also where fuchsia comes from. Anyway, the genus is called digitalis from the Latin for finger, probably because the flowers are a finger’s length when they’
re fully grown.”
“How interesting.”
“I knew you’d appreciate it,” I tell him. “At long last, someone who likes useless facts as much as I do.”
He chuckles as we leave the kennels behind us and head around the edge of the large lawn. Part of it is fenced off, and six dogs are out playing in the pen, chasing balls and sniffing around the base of the apple tree inside it. There are no flowers inside the pen, though, and no borders around the edge of the lawn.
As I near the left-hand side of the garden, however, on the other side of the house, I see there’s a gate in a high fence dividing the main lawn from a smaller, more private garden. Arthur sees it too, and, making sure we’re not being watched, he holds open the gate, and we go through.
I would have said it was an attempt to cultivate an English country garden, but I think that actually it’s just been left to go wild. There are weeds in the borders and the lawn is knee-high. It’s beautiful, though, full of butterflies, from white Brimstones to Red Admirals to a beautiful Painted Lady.
They flutter around the wide array of flowers, and I hum the words from the old song English Country Garden as I spot pansies, grape hyacinths, crocuses, late daffodils, azaleas, and hellebores. It’s too early for foxgloves to flower, so I’m not expecting to see the purple-pink spikes anywhere.
And then, by a wall, I spot a patch of tall green stems with distinctive leaves.
“Look,” I say, pointing. “They’re foxgloves.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Arthur warns Merlin. Obediently, he sits on the path, letting me approach the patch of light-green stalks.
“They’re definitely foxgloves. And it doesn’t matter that they haven’t flowered, as the stalks and leaves are also poisonous.”
“Could they have caused the death of the Spaniel?” Arthur asks.
I frown. “I don’t know. The gate was securely fastened, and it doesn’t look as if the dogs are allowed out of the pen anyway. He would need to have crossed the lawn, got through the gate and into the garden, found the foxgloves, and then eaten them, which seems like a stretch.”
“But they could have caused Valerie’s death,” Arthur says.
“Yes, definitely.”
“Do you want to take a sample?”
“No, I don’t want to touch them. Let’s leave. I want to get Merlin out.”
“All right.” Arthur leads the way out of the garden, and I make sure I wait until Merlin’s followed him. He might have the soul of a man, but he’s still a dog at heart, and the last thing I’d want is for him to accidentally eat some.
When we’re out, we exit the garden at the front of the house and cross to the car. We’ve just reached it when Fenella comes running out, waving a hand. “Don’t you want to go through the calendar?” she calls.
“Sorry,” I yell back, “I’ve just had an important phone call, and there’s an emergency at the café. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” I open the back door to let Merlin in, and then we get in and drive off.
“My heart’s racing,” I announce, blowing out a breath.
“So Fenella’s definitely on our list of suspects, then?” Arthur says.
“I would say so, wouldn’t you?” My mind churns furiously as I drive. “Maybe she did kill the Spaniel. Perhaps she ground up the foxglove and put it in his food. And she could have done the same to Valerie.”
“Are we still going to check out the others?”
“Oh yes. The foxglove is relatively common around here. We need to see whether the other two have it in their gardens.”
I turn left at the roundabout. “So we need to work out where Nancy Armstrong lives. Can you Google the BT phone book? You should be able to look her up.”
He pulls out his phone and types the website with one finger. King Arthur using a mobile phone. It makes me smile.
“She’s not on here,” he says. “Maybe you could ask James Mackenzie at the jewellery shop?”
“How can I do that without Nancy being there?”
“Didn’t she say she worked at the abbey on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons with the Living History group?”
“She did! Well remembered.” I drive past the Avalon Café, turn right into the high street, and park near to the jewellery shop. “You can stay here if you like,” I tell Merlin, and he flops down on the seat and immediately begins snoring.
Chuckling, we get out and walk down to Mackenzie’s. Inside, it’s relatively quiet, with just one woman buying a pair of earrings. James finishes serving her, and then turns to us with a smile.
“Gwen! Arthur! How are you?”
“Good, thank you,” I reply. “I won’t keep you long. I was just wondering whether you would be able to tell me where Nancy lived. I found a book on medieval costumes in the loft, and I thought she might like it for inspiration for her Living History. You know, to cheer her up.”
“How thoughtful of you. Yes, of course, she’s out at South Wick Hollow. Number twenty-one. You’ll recognize the house from all the beehives.”
I stare at him in surprise. “I presume you’re not referring to the hairdo.”
He laughs. “No, she keeps bees. Mind you don’t get stung!”
“I will, thanks, James. How are you…” My voice trails off. Next to him, on the wall, is a large clock. The centre of it is a mirror, and in the reflection, standing behind me is a woman in white.
I spin around, but of course she’s not there, and when I look back at the clock, she’s gone.
“Gwen?” James looks concerned. “Are you all right?”
Arthur looks at the clock, then frowns at me.
“Sorry,” I say, aware my voice holds a little wobble. “Something buzzed by my ear. I think it was the talk of the bees.”
Arthur smiles at James. “Thanks for your help. See you later.”
Holding my hand, he takes me outside to the car.
“What happened?” he asks once we’re inside.
“I saw Valerie’s ghost again.” I start the engine, then blow out a breath. “I need to get used to seeing spirits, because I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon.” I steer the car out and head for home. “I’m going to pick up a book from home that I can take to her house. That was interesting though, wasn’t it? What do you think about Nancy keeping bees?”
“Maybe Valerie was allergic to bee stings?”
“Hmm. Maybe. I guess the coroner would have picked that up, but it’s worth keeping in mind.”
Chapter Nineteen
We call home and pick up the book, then drive a little way out of town, along the route we took when we went to find Arthur’s coins, and soon come to twenty-one South Wick Hollow. I park out the front, hoping Nancy isn’t in, although that’s why I brought the book, just in case. This time, we make Merlin stay in the car.
The house is small but nicely kept, the wooden window frames freshly painted white, the borders weeded, and the lawn free of leaves from the surrounding hedges. We go through the wrought-iron gate and up to the front door, and I knock, crossing my fingers that she’s not in. Luckily, there’s no reply.
“Right.” I turn and lead the way across the lawn, examining the borders as I go. There are sunshine-yellow crocuses, forget-me-nots, columbine, sweet alyssum, and candelabra primroses. Nancy also has borders along the pathway on the side of the house that receives the sun, filled with daffodils, violas, hyacinths, and oleanders just coming into flower. The spread gives an Easter egg effect, all yellows and greens and purples, very pleasing to the eye.
There’s no sign of foxgloves, though.
“Bees,” Arthur says. “Careful.” He’s right; as we walk around the house to the back, we start to see honeybees feeding from the flowers. When we reach the lawn, the hives are easily visible at the bottom of the garden, and the air is filled with the light hum of bees at work.
“We’ll just take a quick look around the borders,” I tell Arthur, leading the way and doing my best not to get flustered as the bees
move between the crocuses, calendula, lavender, and wild lilac.
“Fun fact,” I tell Arthur. “Bees can’t see red.”
“Really?”
“I’m not sure how we know that,” I admit, “but apparently it’s true.”
“Can you see any foxgloves?”
“No.” I frown as we cut across the lawn to avoid the hives. “No sign yet.”
Arthur lifts an arm as a bee lands on his sleeve, and he studies it with interest. “I wonder how many animals and insects that are alive today are different from ones in the sixth century?”
“Not many. The lynx, the wolf, and the brown bear are three that supposedly died out after the Romans left. I’m sure there are insects, but they weren’t well documented that far back.”
We finish traversing the lawn and arrive at the house. “No foxgloves,” I say. “It doesn’t clear Nancy, but if it was her, she didn’t get the poison from her own garden.” I feel a touch of frustration. “Is this pointless? It doesn’t really prove anything.”
“No, but it’s important information,” Arthur says. “You can pass it onto Immi, and maybe something you discover will help her decipher the bigger picture.”
“I suppose.” I smile at him as we return to the front garden. “Well, only one more garden to visit—Leah’s.”
“I was thinking,” Arthur replies, “should we take a look at Valerie’s place, too?” He holds open the gate for me.
“You think her husband is a suspect?” I go through.
He closes the gate behind us. “I seem to recall from watching detective shows on the TV in the café that most murders are committed by someone you know.”
“That’s true. In that case, yes, we should take a look. Oh!” I come to a halt at the sight of Nancy Armstrong walking toward us from where she’s obviously just parked her car.
“Hello,” she says. “Well this is a surprise. What are you two doing here?” She smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. Or am I reading too much, and is she just surprised by our presence?
“I was passing, and thought I’d drop this off.” I show her the book in my hand. “I thought you might be able to use it as inspiration for costumes for your Living History group.”
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