‘Ah, I see.’ Tony wiped the sweat from his top lip and smiled. ‘Only if they’ve come from a graveyard.’
A quick spark of anger lit up her face but she said nothing. She looked nervously at the vicar, who presumably didn’t like the graves being denuded of dying bouquets, even by the pagans.
‘Perhaps Lady Black would like flowers from an adoring man instead.’ He held them towards Marsha, who looked equally unimpressed.
‘I don’t take flowers from any man except my husband.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ Mrs Bradshaw muttered into her glass of wine.
‘Harriet, dear.’ Gerald looked worried. ‘That’s not like you. Don’t descend to their level.’
‘I’m only thinking of Scarlett,’ she whispered before she caught me looking at them. She squeezed out a smile and they both turned away.
‘I’ll take them.’ Aunt Charlotte grabbed the bouquet quickly in a tight fist, a little too swiftly for Tony Voyeur to be able to unhook the long piece of fishing wire that seemed to attach the flowers to somewhere in his T-shirt.
‘Wait, wait! For goodness sake.’ Tony Voyeur’s head bent down lower as he was pulled to the side. ‘Wait, I’ve got to—’
She tugged again and the neck of the T-shirt pulled down to reveal pallid rolls of flesh and the other end of the wire snaking across his chest.
As she pulled harder, a look of pain came over the magician, and the T-shirt pulled further down to reveal that the end of the wire was very clearly fastened to a nipple ring. He saw my shock. ‘It’s an extremely useful part of a modern magician’s secrets,’ he winced.
‘And we all know how good you are at keeping secrets!’ Lord Elzevir slurred.
A flush of anger rose through Tony Voyeur’s cheeks. ‘Some people just have to trample on other people’s success. I know it was you who told the Magic Circle.’
The room paused.
Aunt Charlotte looked stunned, still holding the flowers attached by the wire to Tony’s nipple ring, which was being stretched to what must have been a very painful length. She stared intently at his chest and frowned, then gave it another tug. He gasped.
Aunt Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘Seems I’ve been caught peeking behind the curtain again.’ She dropped the flowers.
No one cared to examine this statement.
Carefully, and what seemed to be painfully, Tony managed to unhook the wire from himself. He wiped the thin wisps of hair back across his head and cleared his throat as if to shake off the embarrassment.
‘One more trick, I think!’ he announced to an underwhelmed room. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and, with some difficulty and wriggling, proceeded to pull out a coin and place it on the smeary glass coffee table, covering it with his hand. He then put his other hand awkwardly underneath the table and looked round the room with a disturbing smile. As he stood up, he held out the hand that had been beneath the table, which now had the coin in it. All his flourishes gave it the flavour of a cheap little trick that had lost its shine many years ago.
He gave a lacklustre sigh. ‘I can feel a lot of negative energy in the room tonight.’ His eyes widened as if something had just occurred to him. He stared around us all with the disturbing look of a man who was about to do something we might not all find appropriate. His voice descended to a worrying whisper. ‘I fear we must commune with those greater than us.’ He paused and gave a sudden jolt before throwing his head back and attempting to roll his eyes up into his head. He looked like he might be about to lose consciousness. ‘I can sense that the pull of the cosmic afterlife is very strong tonight.’
Lord Elzevir let out a laugh. ‘All right, Ali Bongo, why don’t you make me disappear in a puff of smoke?’
Tony lowered his eyes and stared at him as if he might actually be attempting to do just that. ‘The spirits are with us!’
I glanced over at Dad’s shadow lingering in a cluttered corner. I frowned and nodded questioningly over towards the magician. Dad shook his head slowly. No. This man couldn’t see him.
‘I am the Seer of Greystone! Speak to me, oh ghosts of the dead.’
I raised my eyebrows at Dad and folded my arms.
‘By the power of Greystone—’
‘Doesn’t he mean Greyskull?’ Aunt Charlotte murmured.
Tony continued to shake and twitch in a similar fashion to Mother when her eBay bid is in the last few minutes.
‘Sorry, Aunt Charlotte?’ I whispered.
‘Greyskull.’ She took another bite of a sausage roll she’d found. It didn’t seem to have come from the sparse buffet table though. ‘It’s in He-Man.’
I looked at Aunt Charlotte. Now didn’t seem like the time to start asking how she knew all about He-Man but had no idea who anybody else was.
Tony continued to jitter like a cornered shoplifter. ‘I command ye spirits . . .’
‘Are there spirits on offer?’ Mother asked sourly. ‘Because this wine is battery acid.’
Tony dropped his hands and his eyes met Mother’s. ‘Madam, I am attempting to enter a state of mesmeric trance so that I might communicate with the spirit world. This is natural magic in all its infinite power.’ He sighed. ‘There’s beer.’ He pointed to a large bucket full of cans, next to which were a pile of mismatched paper cups with pictures of Spider-Man and Frozen characters on them. One said, ‘Happy 5th birthday.’ He shrugged. ‘I used to do kids’ parties.’
‘Do you have children, Tony?’ Harriet Bradshaw said, looking more closely at a wall with an array of disturbing drawings on A4 lined paper. There were a series of crayon and felt tip scribbles.
‘No.’ He looked at the wall of drawings. ‘I did these.’
‘Oh.’
Another silence descended.
Lord Elzevir ended it by falling into the sideboard, where a multitude of small animal skulls, china dolls and a miniature guillotine fell to the floor.
‘What the bloody hell is this?’ he mumbled. ‘It’s like Jonathan Creek’s car boot sale.’
‘Do not insult the gods!’ Tony said wide-eyed.
‘Bloody charlatan,’ Lord Elzevir muttered. He picked up a doll and the head instantly rolled off. ‘I don’t know why we have to suffer this fraud. Deserves everything he gets.’
Verity leaned heavily on her walking stick and placed a hand on Lord Elzevir’s arm. ‘Please, Elzevir, let’s have a good evening.’ She smiled softly as if it might smooth out his abrasive edge.
‘Is that right, Lord Elzevir? I’m the fraud, am I?’ Tony shook his head and began to turn away. ‘At least I didn’t have to buy my title.’
‘What title’s that then, “Disgraced Magician”?’ Lord Elzevir seethed. ‘Not beyond selling yourself were you, you cheap little trick? Why don’t you tell them what the Magic Circle said when they expelled you? “A complete betrayal of the—”’
‘Zavvy,’ Marsha scowled.
Tony paused before murmuring through clenched teeth, ‘I know what you did, you vicious bastard.’
Aunt Charlotte cast me an anxious look and then glanced at Mother, who was still pulling distasteful faces at the wine.
Lord Elzevir looked evasive. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘For God’s sake, Zavvy.’ Marsha closed her eyes. She glanced to the side. ‘Sorry, Vicar.’
‘It’s quite all right, Marsha. I’m used to profanity and the taking of the Lord’s name in vain in this village.’ He glanced across at the pagans before his eyes came to rest on a large upside-down crucifix and a pentagram that someone had made out of lollipop sticks, some of which still had little pieces of Chupa Chups wrappers attached.
Lord Elzevir threw the doll’s head down on the floor. ‘Not above a bit of sin yourself though, eh, Reverend?’
The vicar looked at him with cold, polished eyes.
‘I’ll say one thing for the church, though,’ Lord Elzevir slurred. ‘They’ve got better props than this shambles.’
‘L
ord Elzevir!’ Tony cast his coat back defiantly. ‘They are not props. They are sacred objects.’ He picked up the doll’s head and began smoothing down its hair. ‘These drawings may look inconsequential—’
‘Or shit.’ Mother sipped on the wine before looking derisively at Mirabelle.
‘—But they are trance drawings done while I was possessed of the spirit.’
Bridget picked up Dingerling, who was clawing at the old cat I’d initially mistaken for a cushion. ‘We don’t need to know about that sort of thing, do we, Dingerling? And you need to get your cat treated for fleas.’
She thrust Dingerling at Mirabelle, who looked appalled but said nothing. Mirabelle’s acceptance of this treatment was becoming increasingly annoying. It had so many levels of frustration, not just that she wasn’t biting back but that it was the sort of treatment Mirabelle had always metered out to me, and she was making me almost yearn for those golden days. She’d been neutered.
‘Has Dingerling got fleas?’ Bridget demanded of her.
I laughed. ‘It’s hairless!’
Bridget eyed me suspiciously. ‘Aren’t you the little perceptive one today?’
Tony stepped further into the room and spread his arms. ‘Let peace descend.’
I edged my way into the corner next to a small, cluttered bookcase. Titles such as Hypnotism for Dummies sat alongside A Manual of Sorcery and Teach Yourself Voodoo. At the bottom was a battered shoebox with the words ‘Ghost Hunting Kit’ scrawled on it in Sharpie. I resisted the temptation to open it.
Marsha was beginning to look very unsettled. ‘Look, Tony can we just get to the cold soup and move on.’
‘It’s gazpacho.’
‘Tony, I don’t care if it’s llama milk, get it served. We’re on a schedule.’
He paused to stare at Marsha and then at Lord Elzevir. It didn’t seem like the cold soup was the only problem here. As he passed Lord Elzevir, he muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like ‘snitches get stitches’. But I could have misheard.
It was very clear by this point that everyone was eager to escape, even if it did mean venturing back out into the flailing wind and rain. Somehow it seemed more welcoming.
The dirty, cold air breathed out at us as soon as the door opened as if it was a warning, pushing us back inside. Just who it was aimed at was unclear, but really we should have worked it out already.
CHAPTER 14: INACCURATE HISTORIES
The road was a black river of dirt. Mud and leaves gathered in the darkness at its edges, and a film of oil had formed on its surface, catching in the house lights. The water slipped along, carrying the slurry down in a quick rushing sound that merged with the noise of the frantic rain. My hair was dragged back and I gasped with the shock of another swell of icy rain.
I looked across at Mother, burying herself further into her scarf. She glanced back, wary this time. Anxiety was kindling fast among us now as we stared out into that bitter night. Aunt Charlotte held my elbow. She quickly shot a look at the rest of the party standing ahead. But she said nothing. No one did. There was no need. This was clearly a village that harboured a lot of ill will, and none of us wanted any part of that.
Bridget was the first to follow the disparate group of villagers, dragging Mirabelle by the hand as if she was on a leash as well as the cat. The pagans’ cloaks lifted like rooks’ wings as they stepped into the blast of rain. For a moment, I half expected them to lift up into the black night and fly off. They did vanish quickly, dissolving into the darkness.
Marsha negotiated Verity through the stream running down the road, her cane tapping warily through the river of leaves and rain. Lord Elzevir was no help at all as he stumbled and turned just before losing his footing. He half fell into a large bush at the end of the path.
‘Bloody silly idea,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh, Elzevir.’ Verity smiled. ‘Come on. It’s fun. Remember when we were little and used to run in the rain down at the stables?’
He glanced down at her stick and a sadness crossed his face. He forced a smile and nodded.
We walked dutifully and quietly through the darkness and onto the next house. This was becoming a very sombre pilgrimage, but we’d passed the point of questioning any of it.
The Bradshaws lived in the Cottage, next door to the pagans in the Lodge. It was impossible to see anything beyond the small pool of light coming from Marsha’s torch. I couldn’t even tell who was with us anymore. But it seemed like there were fewer of us.
We could only just make out the thin path leading up from the gate. The house was suspended in the dark as if it wasn’t even anchored to the ground.
There was a single lantern by the side of the door, casting an acid light on the grey stones. On first inspection, this was no typical cottage. Two crossed swords hung above the oak door in warning and the small window to the side had thick, black bars across it. It had the appearance of a house ready for an impending attack.
‘Home, sweet home.’ Gerald Bradshaw’s voice had an ironic edge to it. He opened the door with an expectant face, as if he’d primed something to go off as it swung back.
Inside, there was nothing but a morbid hallway. Black wrought-iron sconces dripped pools of candlewax on the floor below, and candlelight flickered across the dark stone. Chains were strung above doorways. They seemed to have taken great pains to cultivate a sort of Victorian prison mood board.
As I stepped into the long, shadowed hallway the air was steeped in dust. It seemed strange that someone would leave so many candles burning with no one in the house. Then I remembered they’d mentioned a daughter. Scarlett?
We all entered warily. The house was damp in an ingrained way that suggested it had never known warmth. This was a starved house, and although there were carefully placed historical artefacts everywhere, a scant air of neglect resonated through it all.
It was so musty it reminded me of all those grim school trips to run-down museums.
Bridget pulled insistently on Mirabelle’s arm again and she immediately responded like a mistreated dog.
‘Scarlett?’ Harriet Bradshaw took off her long coat and hung it over the arm of a suit of armour in the hallway. She peered up the stairs as if she expected to see a face. We all did, but there was no response. ‘That’s odd, Gerald. Didn’t she say she had some studying to do?’
He shrugged as if her disappearance was not unusual.
‘Probably with that plum.’ Lord Elzevir laughed bitterly. ‘He slunk off early, didn’t he?’
He was right. Joseph Greengage wasn’t there anymore.
Gerald sighed heavily. ‘Let’s go to the parlour.’ He led us on through the dank hallway, past antique soldiers’ helmets and muskets.
Mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Expecting a war?’
‘Always,’ Gerald nodded and marched through the door.
Harriet gave a thin smile. ‘He’s not serious. We’re just local historians, that’s all.’
‘Trouble-makers,’ Lord Elzevir grunted and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as if he was trying to get rid of the taste of the words.
‘Come on you, let’s remember to have that fun, eh?’ Verity took his arm and smiled at him. He paused but couldn’t help smiling back. Her cane clipped on the cold stone with a natural, easy rhythm that somehow seemed to restore the balance.
Lord Elzevir glanced back at Marsha, his rat-black eyes shining in the half-light. ‘Bloody silly idea this, Marsha.’
‘Not now. Not tonight, Zavvy.’ She said it like a plea.
Aunt Charlotte gave me a sideways glance and shrugged.
We entered the room tentatively. The evening had been primed for something, and whatever it was felt very close to firing now. We were being manoeuvred around on this strange trail. There was an irritable air, something itching at the edges of every conversation and look. And Lord Elzevir was not intending to let any peace invade any time soon.
He fell against the door frame and grabbed for one of
the thick mugs of ale on the side. Verity steadied herself on her cane. Lord Elzevir carried on grumbling. ‘Sticking their noses in people’s business.’
‘It’s not business, Lord Elzevir.’ Gerald looked over the rim of his mug. ‘It’s history — the history of this village that we will fight to the death to preserve, as centuries of Bradshaws have done. You’re not the first to try to destroy it, and you’ll not be the last. But none of you will ever succeed. Not until I’m six feet under.’
‘I know people who can arrange that.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Gerald pulled back his head. ‘Did everyone hear that?’
Harriet was in-between them now, holding out both arms, looking like a middle-aged woman who’d been crucified in an M&S twin set. ‘Let’s keep the peace, tonight.’ She stared at Gerald meaningfully. ‘Just tonight, that’s all you’ve got to manage. Then it’ll be over. It’ll be done.’
It seemed like a strange set of words to use. They couldn’t possibly be talking about moving away from the village, given the vehement display of loyalty they’d exhibited.
Gerald paused for a moment to consider her words. He downed his mug of ale and opened the door to another room, which from the steam and vegetable smell clouding out from it, must have been the kitchen.
‘You’ll all have pie, I take it?’ he mumbled. ‘It’s a medieval recipe.’
‘Some peasant food. Wouldn’t be surprised if four and twenty black birds were baked in it.’
‘Sooner bake you in it, Elzevir, you bastard,’ Gerald muttered with a final look of disdain.
The evening had begun to unspool very quickly now.
An embarrassed quiet spread through the room. We were all clustered in the centre as if something dangerous might be lurking at the edges.
Marsha helped Verity with her coat and found her a chair that she fell into gratefully. Her legs were splashed all the way to the knee with mud. No one had taken their shoes off, but the stone floor looked well-used and both Harriet and Gerald had kept their thick boots on. Perhaps it was somehow more authentic. I looked around. It wasn’t a welcoming room that greeted us.
THE SUPPER CLUB MURDERS a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 3) Page 10