A Spell of Murder

by Kennedy Kerr

  Tilda nodded at her sister and Temerity stepped into the circle so that Tilda – who usually took the lead in these things – could raise the energy circle around them.

  ‘Going Egyptian tonight?’ Temerity asked. Western witches often worked with a variety of deities from different cultures, depending on their needs. Egyptian gods were very popular, as were Viking ones, gods and goddesses from Mesopotamia, Greece and of course, Celtic ones, too.

  ‘Thoth and Ma’at.’ Tilda pointed to the statues.

  ‘Yes, I know who they are,’ Temerity said, testily. Sometimes Tilda seemed to think she didn’t know anything at all about ancient cultures, when in fact her whole career was based on them. ‘They were husband and wife and both were intimately connected to the land of the dead and the notions of truth and justice. Ma’at was said to weigh the hearts of the dead before their journey to the underworld. Thoth is the god of magic. And books.’

  ‘No need to be like that,’ Tilda snapped back. ‘I just thought they were appropriate, given the murder. Justice for the dead and all that.’

  ‘Yes. Very appropriate.’ Temerity smiled, softening. ‘Can we get on? I’m freezing.’

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t wear more clothes when we do this. I’ve got five layers on,’ Tilda tutted.

  ‘I like to feel diaphanous. Like a witch of old.’ Temerity flapped her arms dramatically.

  ‘Hmmph. If you want to feel like a witch of old, you should probably get a few unsightly disfigurements and a disease that’s going to kill you by the time you’re thirty-five. Times weren’t exactly easy for anyone “of old”,’ Tilda corrected her. ‘You’d wash a lot less.’

  ‘Yes, well, you know what I mean. Come on, let’s get on with it.’ Temerity stamped her feet to spread the warmth up her body.

  ‘Wear your slippers next time.’

  ‘Tilda!’

  ‘Fine, fine. You call the quarters, I always do it.’

  ‘Fine.’ Temerity echoed her sister. Going to each flaming torch, she called out to the guardians of each cardinal point: North, east, south and west.

  ‘Great Spirits of the North, of the mountains, of the trees, of the earth, I invite thee to our circle. I command your power and protection on this night. So mote it be!’ she called out at the black candle, then turned to the yellow one and repeated the call to the element of air in the east.

  When she had finished all four, Tilda outlined the circle by pacing it clockwise, carrying the wine and pouring it carefully around the edge of the circle, intoning, I consecrate this circle with water. She repeated the process with the censer for air, with the lamp for fire and finished with sprinkling a handful of earth around the circle’s perimeter.

  Together, then, they joined hands and closed their eyes. Temerity imagined a golden light emanating up from the edge of the circle and shaping into a dome above their heads.

  ‘It is done,’ Tilda said in a low voice and they both knelt before the altar.

  ‘Great Thoth and Ma’at, many blessings upon you. We call you here to our space between the worlds to aid us with your wisdom. One among us has been taken into the land of the dead before her time. We appeal to both of you for help in finding her killer. Can you give us any vision, any clue, as to who this person is? If the dead – Molly Bayliss – has walked in your halls, do you have a message from her for us? Ma’at, if you have weighed her heart, did it contain knowledge of the justice that must befall her murderer? We await your wisdom,’ Tilda called out solemnly.

  Temerity closed her eyes and made herself as open as she could to any message that might arise. Of the two of them, Temerity was more the mystic, who had intuitions and visions and Tilda was more the occultist, like their parents. To Tilda, wisdom and enlightenment was found in learning, in nature and books. For Temerity, insight came from her visions, her instincts and her heart.

  It was silent in the garden, but Temerity could feel the power buzzing inside the circle. Suddenly, both cats, under the table, sat bolt upright and started purring. At the same time, a form started to appear hazily in Temerity’s mind’s eye. Behind the altar, Temerity saw the figure of the same Egyptian goddess figure as stood on the table. She was much taller than a human, black-skinned and dressed in gold. On top of her head, a black feather sat like a crown; the feather that she used to weigh human hearts. Black and golden wings spread from her arms, surrounding the circle.

  Temerity felt a wash of thrilled awe cover her and she bowed her head to the goddess’s regal presence.

  ‘Goddess, I am your servant,’ she breathed; she could swear she felt the brush of Ma’at’s feathery wings on her cheek. For some reason it was the goddess that had answered and not the god, but Temerity had a sudden flash of knowledge that the god, Thoth, would speak to Tilda in his own way.

  ‘Blessed one.’ Ma’at’s voice sounded in her head, echoey and distant. ‘Your lost one has passed through here. She is at rest.’

  ‘Thank you, gracious goddess, for answering our call. Many blessings upon thee.’ Temerity heard herself speak, but she didn’t open her eyes. ‘Is there any clarity you can give me about the one that ended Molly Bayliss’s life?’

  There was a silence, as if the goddess was on a long-distance line.

  ‘There is nothing. The justice you seek is one that I will pass when the human walks in my hall,’ the goddess replied. ‘Judgement in life is not my task.’

  ‘But you must know?’ Temerity replied. ‘You know everything.’

  ‘I know what is in the heart when I weigh it,’ she said. ‘More than that, I cannot say. Your world is made to be full of challenges. I am here when it is over.’

  Temerity sighed.

  ‘Is there anything more that you can tell me?’ she asked. Talking to the gods could be maddening. They were so vague.

  ‘Just that I am and will always be,’ the goddess intoned. ‘Judgement is a heavy responsibility. The one that takes life in your world carries it on his own shoulders as surely as I will weigh his heart, one day.’ There was another pause. ‘It may be that you see my feather on the shoulder of those whose judgement is coming.’

  The image of the winged goddess started to fade. Temerity reached out with her mind, trying to maintain the contact, but it was dwindling. At the last minute, she saw the image of the stag again; a great, antlered stag standing on a Scottish moor. Then it was gone.

  Temerity opened her eyes. Her legs were cold and stiff from kneeling.

  ‘How long has it been?’ she whispered to Tilda, who was standing up next to her. Speaking with the gods could take you into a strange other time zone where minutes were hours or vice versa.

  ‘Not too long. It’s past ten.’ Tilda looked at her watch. ‘Seems the Egyptians aren’t as loquacious as some of the others.’ She held out her hand and helped Temerity up. ‘Come on, let’s close the circle and then we can get inside and swap notes.’

  Scylla purred around Temerity’s frozen feet, as if she was trying to warm them.

  ‘Good idea.’ Temerity’s teeth chattered.

  ‘So what did you get?’ Tilda was busying herself in the kitchen, boiling milk in a saucepan to make hot chocolate, but not before she poured two generous glasses of ginger wine and drained one, setting the other one in front of Temerity on the kitchen table. Both cats had jumped on Temerity in an effort to become a cat blanket; that, with the liquor-like wine, was taking effect. Temerity felt as though she was defrosting a little.

  ‘I had a vision of Ma’at. She didn’t tell me much, really. Only that Molly’s soul had passed, which we knew.’ Temerity gratefully took the hot mug of chocolate from her sister and warmed her hands on it. ‘But she did say that I might see her judgement feather on the shoulders of those whose judgement was… imminent, I guess.’

  Tilda frowned.

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean the murderer. More likely it means people close to death,’ she commented.

  ‘Hmmm…’ Temerity sipped her chocolate. ‘I guess so. A
nd does she mean real feathers or, I dunno, I just see them on people? Spiritually?’

  ‘Hard to say. In a sense, it could be both. Soothsayers read divine meaning from entrails, feathers… real items imbued with magical power,’ Tilda replied, joining Temerity at the table. ‘Interesting. Thoth appeared to me.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Tilda had also made toast: thick slices of seeded bread from the village bakery, buttered and topped with crumbling white cheese. Temerity took a slice and bit into it gratefully.

  ‘Reminded me to read. Books are important.’ Tilda shrugged. ‘Also that appearances can be deceptive. He should know, I suppose.’

  ‘God of magic, words, transformation. Similarities to Hermes, the Greek messenger god, and Loki, the Viking trickster deity.’ Temerity contemplated her toast. ‘What’s this cheese? It’s different.’

  ‘It’s a Wensleydale. Yes, I know. Again, kind of something we already know, but maybe it suggests that whoever the prime suspect is, maybe it’s not that straightforward.’ Tilda got up, went to the fridge and brought back a jar of plum chutney. ‘Here. This’ll go well with it.’

  ‘Oh. I forgot. The last thing – I saw that stag again, like I did at the crime scene.’ Temerity spooned out some chutney onto her plate. ‘Just a stag, with antlers, on the moor. No other details.’

  ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the place of death?’ Tilda mused.

  ‘But she died in the staff room. It’s not a case of a body being moved.’ Temerity shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s that. But it’s something. That’s the second time I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Mull it over. Sleep on it. It’ll come clear.’ Tilda finished her toast and drained her hot chocolate. ‘I’m pooped. Connecting with the gods really takes it out of you, eh? I’m going to bed.’

  ‘All right. Thanks for the midnight feast.’

  Scylla jumped off Temerity’s lap and followed Tilda; she usually slept on Tilda’s bed. Charybdis occasionally cuddled up next to Temerity at night, but she was more likely to choose Tilda, too. Hebrides was forbidden from flying upstairs; if he got up there, he tended to flutter around, confused, looking for a way out. Temerity had once found him, in great distress, halfway up the fireplace chimney in her bedroom.

  Temerity pulled her feet up onto the chair, her knees under her chin and pondered. Try as she might, she couldn’t work out what the stag represented. What was it?

  The cat jumped up onto the windowsill and miaowed loudly. Temerity looked up; Charybdis was staring out at the loch through the window. In the darkness, the lights of the village glimmered like stars.

  ‘What is it?’ Temerity frowned. ‘You can’t go out that way, baby.’

  The cat miaowed again and butted her head on the glass.

  ‘Carrie!’ Temerity got up, lifted the cat down from the windowsill and stood up again. The view there was a good one; you could see far out over the loch to Dalcairney Manor on the other side. Maybe the cat wanted to go out again; she got up and opened the back door, but Charybdis just purred and looked up at her.

  ‘No? What do you want, then?’ she asked. The cat jumped on the windowsill once more and Temerity decided that she’d go to bed. The cat was obviously just playing.

  She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, looking forward to the soft warmth of her bed. But all she could think of was Patrick, again, and whether she had seen a feather on his shoulder before he had died. And, for the millionth time, she wondered whether she could have saved him. Her life would have been so different if she had.

  5

  The next morning, Tilda and Temerity were listening to the local radio station, Lost Maidens FM. Inspector Hyland was outlining the details of the case so far and added that Alf Hersey had examined Molly’s body and found that she had ingested atropine, a poison.

  ‘In layman’s terms, what’s atropine?’ Temerity asked Tilda across the table. They were eating breakfast: porridge with honey and blueberries and strong black coffee. Tilda always bought the strongest coffee beans she could from a specialist gourmet shop down south; it was delivered in a big wooden crate every month. It reminded Temerity of a little coffin – when it arrived, she’d shout, Tilda! Mini Dracula’s here! up to Tilda’s book-filled garret. Not that Tilda thought it was in the least bit amusing: she threw books down the stairs if her sensibilities were particularly offended, though only the ones that weren’t valuable.

  ‘It’s used in medicine for a variety of conditions. Myopia, slow heartbeat… soldiers carry it in the event of nerve gas poisoning.’ Tilda poured herself some more coffee. The cats were curled up in the corner on a blanket and Hebrides was eating a bowl of chopped-up fruit on the counter, a treat he loved.

  ‘So… it’s not a poison?’ Temerity frowned.

  ‘Oh, it’s poisonous if you take enough of it. A lot of helpful medicines are synthesised from poisonous plants. The wonder of nature.’ Tilda stroked Hebrides’ bright blue head feathers. ‘Two plus two, Hebrides?’

  ‘Four!’ the bird squawked.

  ‘Good boy, Hebrides!’ Tilda tickled him under his chin. ‘Three plus four?’

  ‘Seven!’ the bird answered.

  ‘He’s getting better at maths every day,’ Tilda said, proudly. ‘He’ll be doing our accounts next year.’

  ‘So you’d have to be a doctor to get hold of it?’ Temerity’s spoon hovered above her bowl; she hadn’t really heard Hebrides’ maths accomplishments and was deep in thought about the murder. The doctor in Lost Maidens Loch was Alf Hersey, their neighbour, but Alf had been ill recently and a locum was standing in for him; however, the locum, a Dr Theakstone, was a GP and didn’t have experience with forensics, so Alf had helped out in examining the body.

  ‘Maybe the doctor had atropine as a medicine in his clinic and someone stole it and used it to kill.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It originates in plants – you’d just need to know which ones and how much to make someone consume.’ Tilda smiled beatifically as she swallowed the thick black brew.

  ‘Four!’ Hebrides shouted again; Tilda shushed him.

  ‘Which plants?’ Temerity expected Tilda to have to go and get one of her herbals – books detailing the use of plants: as medicine, as poison, for making food and producing oils, essences, draughts and simples. Tilda’s collection included some fantastically ancient tomes, handwritten in some cases; even the odd illuminated manuscript, but she seemed to know this without having to consult anything.

  ‘The usual suspects. Henbane, mandrake, belladonna. All poisonous. Fun fact: it’s called belladonna, beautiful woman, in Italian, because the atropine in belladonna makes your pupils dilate. Cleopatra used henbane to make her eyes look wide and beautiful – atropine again. So did fashionable French ladies in late nineteenth-century Paris.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Temerity thought of Molly Bayliss’s wide, staring eyes. Not so beautiful. But then, Molly hadn’t poisoned herself. ‘And these plants grow where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Lots out in the wild out here if you know what to look for.’ Tilda made a ta-dah gesture with her fingers on both sides of the blue ceramic, extra-large coffee cup she was drinking from. ‘So that doesn’t narrow it down at all. Anyone could find or grow one of those plants. You only need to eat one belladonna leaf and it can kill you. Easier again if you make a tincture. Could easily be deadly, dropped in food or drink.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Temerity twisted her black hair up into a bun under her headscarf, which was black with pink polka dots today. She was still in her bathrobe, which was a powder pink 1950s-style terry towelling robe with a high collar; she also wore oversized black-and-red Minnie Mouse slippers. By contrast, Tilda was already fully dressed in mustard corduroy slacks and a purple sweater with a pin at the neck that had been their grandmother’s.

  ‘D’you know, I think I need some of Muriel’s famous fruitcake.’ Temerity got up, determined to find out what the teachers had said in their interviews. It wasn’t something that would be released to the public, but the Inspe
ctor might tell her if she caught him at The Singing Kettle, without the new constable.

  ‘You haven’t eaten your porridge,’ Tilda scolded, so Temerity spooned the rest into her mouth on the walk to the sink and gulped it down uncomfortably.

  ‘I have now,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of gloop and left Tilda scowling in the kitchen to run a bath.

  Sure enough, Temerity found Kim Hyland at the counter in The Singing Kettle. In front of him was a plate of crumbs of what looked suspiciously like fruitcake.

  ‘Ah, you beat me to it.’ Temerity perched on one of the high stools next to the Inspector. ‘I had a hankering for some of Muriel’s cake.’

  ‘Slow day at the shop?’ Hyland enquired, smiling back. Today’s newspaper was folded in front of him to show the headline: LOCAL TEACHER MURDERED.

  ‘Dead. If you’ll pardon the expression.’ Temerity waved at Muriel who left the huge, old-fashioned copper boiler behind the counter and came to see what she wanted. ‘Muriel, can I have a fruitcake and tea?’ She was stuffed from speed-eating the porridge earlier, but she needed an excuse to be at the tea shop. And there was always room for cake.

  ‘Mug?’

  ‘Please.’ Temerity looked back at the newspaper, reading the short columns next to a picture of Molly. She had been a beauty, but in the picture her expression was serious and unsmiling.

  ‘Not the most imaginative headline,’ she commented, reading. Hyland shrugged. ‘And I’m surprised they couldn’t find a better photo.’

  ‘Aye, well. That was her official teacher photo, by all accounts.’

  ‘They might have said something like how much everyone loved her or how she’ll be missed. There’s none of that here.’ Temerity turned the page, but the story wasn’t continued on the next page. ‘Really? Is that it? There’s hardly anything here about her.’

  ‘Just the facts.’ Hyland sighed. ‘Thing is, turns out that she wasnae that well liked. Bairns say she was on the strict side, not that that’s anythin’ bad in a teacher. Only one of the teachers had anythin’ nice tae say aboot her. Some of the others told us that she was a bit too flirtatious with some of the dads, an’ the ladies weren’t keen on her.’