Magic, Murder & Mistletoe

by Ellen Jane

  “Chief Inspector,” Chief Cooper mumbled. He was ignored.

  “Surely someone witnessed something that can be used to identify our killer,” she continued without pause, even as she eyed Heather and Sinéad up and down before turning back to Chief Cooper. “There was a knife. There was blood. There was screaming. Do I need to call the superintendent? Clearly this matter is above your abilities.”

  “Madam, it is a delicate case. It has already been determined that at least one spell was involved, and magic always complicates matters. Not to mention a crowded room often means fewer accurate witnesses, on account of there being a number of distractions.”

  A bead of sweat formed on Chief Cooper’s forehead. Heather’s chest twinged with sympathy, until she remembered why they were there, and the feeling morphed into irritation. She was mostly offended that she hadn’t been asked to help. She had managed to discover the spell’s purpose within seconds, and while she didn’t want to get caught up helping the police as well as running her own investigation with Sinéad, it hurt that he thought her so insignificant that it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask.

  The woman glared at the chief, her beady eyes thoughtful as she continued to tap on the desk. “Magic,” she said finally. “I thought there were laws against that sort of thing.”

  Sinéad snorted, and before Heather could stop her, she spoke up. “There are laws against murder, too.”

  She strode forward into the room and addressed the chief, dropping her purse onto the desk, forcing the woman to retract her hand with a jolt.

  “Can we make this quick? I have things to do, and I don’t appreciate being dragged back in here because of some shopkeeper’s incompetence.”

  The woman gave a little smirk and a nod, and then she paused. “I know you,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You were in the paper. You were arrested, and you, too.” She turned to Heather.

  “I was cleared,” Sinéad said. “As was my friend.”

  “Yes,” the chief said, looking startled. “Ms Watley, if you’ll excuse me. Right this way, Miss Byrne; it will only take a moment.”

  Sinéad followed the chief into an office behind the desk, and Heather was left with Ms Watley. The two of them regarded each other, and Heather was certain that she was now qualified to know how a bunny felt when it stared down a lion.

  “I’m going to wait outside,” she said, spinning around on her heel.

  “No, you’re not,” Ms Watley said sharply.

  Heather’s jaw dropped, but Ms Watley had already crossed the room and come to stand in front of her, arms crossed.

  “Tell me, are these buffoons capable of solving my nephew’s murder, or do I need to take this higher?”

  Heather blinked at her, waiting for the punch line, but she seemed to be entirely serious. “No, I—” she began, but then she remembered how long it had taken the police to work out something she and Sinéad had discovered in a matter of hours. “We’re looking into it,” she said before she could think.

  Ms Watley’s eyes widened in surprise, and she stared at the door Sinéad had gone through, an assessing gleam to her eye. “A private investigation?”

  Heather nodded. Comprehension dawned on Ms Watley’s face, and she gave Heather a shrewd glance.

  “You’re witches.”

  “I’m a witch; Sinéad is a sorcerer,” she corrected.

  Ms Watley pursed her lips. “Magic killed my sister’s boy?”

  “No.” Heather shook her head, quick to crush that idea before it could take off. It wasn’t so long ago that magic had still been outlawed. “But whoever wanted him dead purchased a spell to help make it happen. We’re just not quite sure how it all fits together yet.”

  Ms Watley made a humming noise and fell silent. After a moment, Sinéad emerged, an irritated expression on her face.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sinéad said, her voice waspish as she tucked her purse under her arm and joined Heather by the door. “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay for anything further? I wouldn’t want you to miss something obvious.”

  Ms Watley gave another little smirk, which Heather now took to indicate she was impressed. She wondered how often anyone impressed the woman.

  “Not at all, Miss Byrne. Everything is under control. Ms Watley,” the chief said in the tone of one announcing their own funeral. “If you’d like to come this way, we can continue our—”

  “No need,” she said crisply. “These ladies are going to escort me to the inn I saw on the way through, and we will reconvene tomorrow. I trust you’ll know where to find me.”

  Sinéad gave Heather a bewildered look, but Heather just shook her head.

  The chief nodded with poorly disguised relief. “Absolutely, Madam. Please let us know if you need anything further.”

  She acknowledged him with a wave and swept out the door, leaving Sinéad and Heather to follow.

  It was blistering cold outside, but Ms Watley didn’t seem to notice, merely adjusting her scarf around the line of her coat and trudging down the path. Heather shivered and broke into a little run to follow, and even Sinéad seemed thrown off balance by the sudden turn in what had been a relatively mild morning.

  “I hear you ladies are investigating my nephew’s murder,” Ms Watley said to Sinéad as they both fell into step beside her. “I’ll be sure to keep you informed of anything I find suspicious.”

  Sinéad raised an eyebrow, but went along with it. “Certainly. I’m staying at the inn, as well, so it should be quite convenient to trade information.”

  Ms Watley nodded curtly. “My poor sister, she’s quite distraught. I’m afraid she’s not much good when it comes to matters of the heart, or—” she gestured vaguely, “emotion. I was always the practical one. Poor thing won’t leave the sofa. Just keeps hugging Jacob’s fiancé and crying. Though I suppose his fiancé is his widow now, or as good as.” She shook her head in disgust. “She’s just as bad as my sister. Useless, the pair of them.”

  “The Earl was engaged?” Heather asked, remembering his introduction at the party. She was certain he had been presented as a bachelor.

  “Oh, yes. They were announcing it this coming week, in fact. But don’t think the poor girl was involved in any of this business; she’s been staying with his mother and I. She was with us the whole night of the party.”

  Sinéad frowned. “I never thought he was the marrying type.”

  Ms Watley eyed her shrewdly. “You and me both. The boy had more girlfriends than I have shoes.” She turned away. “But never matter; people do surprise you like that.”

  Then, Ms Watley changed the subject and launched into an anecdote about the poor leadership she had witnessed that morning, and Heather and Sinéad fell quiet and listened. It lasted the whole way to the inn, and Heather was relieved when they opened the door and the bustle of the dining area finally rendered the woman silent.

  Heather fell back as the other two women made their way to the counter to procure Ms Watley a room. The back of her neck tingled with a growing sense of unease that had been building ever since the burglary last night and had burst into full-blown discomfort as soon as Ms Watley had accused them of involvement based on their magic alone.

  It wasn’t the first time she had felt alone or isolated because of her magic. Mostly, people found it harmless and exciting. Village spells were sold everywhere, and magic had become a fascinating commodity that entranced and delighted. It was nothing like the long-ago time where witches and sorcerers were condemned on sight. Nowadays, there was strict legislation in place to make magic both accountable and traceable, so it had no more power when it came to illegal activities than any other skill. Protective amulets were sold on street corners, so the chances of being affected without your consent were slim, and regulations on the provision of spells and charms were bound by law. But the fear still lingered.

  So it seemed that if they weren’t being chased down by faceless killers, they were being suspected of murder thanks
to the simple fact of their magic. It all added up to leave Heather with an uncomfortable sickness in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t shake the thought that the investigation was getting too dangerous. Someone had ransacked her house, knowing that she was hunting down the murderer. They had even tried to steal her notebook and all her thoughts on the case, which meant she was either getting close to discovering the killer or someone thought she was.

  She knew Sinéad didn’t trust the police to catch whoever had killed the Earl and wronged her in the process, but Heather couldn’t help but feel that they should just hand over what they knew to the police and leave the rest alone. Someone was coming after them now, and in the cold light of day, she realised she was scared.

  Sinéad came to stand beside her, watching her curiously.

  “Everything all right?” she asked, her eyes roaming Heather’s face.

  “Fine,” Heather said, nodding towards a free table. “Let’s sit down.”

  Sinéad nodded slowly but didn’t protest as Heather led them over by the fire. They were close to the painting now, and Heather deliberately didn’t look at it.

  “Did the police find out that the spell was linked to the poison?” she asked, checking to make sure Ms Watley wasn’t nearby.

  “The sorcerer was analysing the charm as I left. They wouldn’t let me stay long enough to hear the results.”

  Heather nodded, staring blankly at the wall. “I was just thinking,” she began.

  Sinéad pursed her lips. “You want to call off the search.”

  Heather looked up, meeting Sinéad’s eyes for the first time. They were blank.

  “I just think it’s getting dangerous,” Heather said, trying to find the words. “And I know you don’t think the police are very smart, but honestly, I think we need to talk to them. You said yourself: last night wasn’t safe. Who knows what they’ll try next? They could try to take us out, too, whereas if we tell the police what we know, we might be able to get protection.”

  Sinéad nodded, deep in thought. After a long pause, she said, “I think you should.”

  “What?”

  “You’re right. This is getting dangerous, and I don’t think you should keep investigating.”

  “But you’re going to stop too, right?”

  Sinéad frowned. “Why would I stop?”

  Heather stared at her. “Because you’re not being framed anymore? Because whatever they tried to do to you failed, and if we give the police what we know, they might actually be able to solve this before the person tries again? Because by keeping on with the investigation, you’ll be in danger? Take your pick.”

  Sinéad’s expression grew even tighter, more closed off. “You don’t understand.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to understand! It’s ridiculous!” Heather fought to keep her voice low. “Someone wanted the Earl dead so badly that they tried to poison him and stab him. The police are only just finding out how the poison was administered now, assuming the sorcerer who made the compulsion charm even analyses it correctly. They could be looking in all the wrong places. We’re withholding evidence!”

  “No,” Sinéad said firmly. “We’re conducting a private investigation. Do you have any idea what it’s like, to be framed for something like this? They took away my power, Heather.”

  Heather wrinkled her nose in confusion, and Sinéad shook her head.

  “Not my magic; my power. They took something that was mine, something I created, and they warped it and used it against me. I can’t allow that.”

  They stared at each other. Sinéad’s eyes were alight with fire, but the fog in Heather’s mind only grew thicker. She didn’t understand. What was so awful about being framed? It wasn’t as though they had succeeded.

  After a moment, Sinéad clucked her tongue in irritation and turned away. “Besides, five minutes ago, you told Ms Watley we were working on this. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “Because the closer we are to this case, the sooner someone is going to accuse us simply because we’re magic,” Heather said, slumping forward. “We should just walk away now before someone decides we look guilty.”

  Sinéad stared at her, brows twisted into a faintly incredulous expression. “They already have,” she said. “Why do you think our photos were on the front page? You can’t escape this by hiding away and acting like it isn’t happening. You can’t just pretend to be the perfect little villager, only doing what the townsfolk want you to do.” She leaned back in her chair, eyes hard. “You’re a witch. You told me yourself that’s something to be proud of—act like it.”

  At that moment, Ms Watley emerged from the guest quarters and made a beeline for their table. She stopped just beside them and stared up at the painting, eyes narrowed.

  “Yours, I presume?” she asked, turning to Sinéad. “I can feel an unprecedented longing for Christmas pudding, like my mother used to make.”

  Sinéad nodded, seeming to push aside all thoughts of the argument they had just had as her face returned to its calm composure.

  “It’s a homesickness spell,” she explained. “I specialise in art and emotion.”

  “How very traditional.” Ms Watley sounded as though she approved. “Does it extend to the practical?”

  Sinéad frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Could you produce something that cleared the mind and refreshed the senses?” Ms Watley sat down, eyes still on the painting. “I find that the old grey matter just isn’t what it used to be.”

  Sinéad nodded in understanding. “I have a couple of memory enhancing samples in my sketchbook. I could show them to you, and we could discuss a commission, if you’d like?”

  Ms Watley nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind. At least something good might come out of this whole mess.” She shuddered.

  Sinéad rose and left to retrieve her sketchbook. Ms Watley waved down Jeremy and ordered a glass of stout.

  Heather raised her eyebrows and nodded at Jeremy’s offer of a glass of water.

  “I spoke with the proprietors,” Ms Watley said as she watched Jeremy leave. “And they allowed me access to my nephew’s room. Told them I’d been asked to manage his possessions.” She made a noise that on anyone else would have been a snort, but on the graceful, eccentric Ms Watley was surely a delicate sniff.

  “Old Wetchhaven isn’t used to dishonesty,” Heather said lightly.

  “Nothing dishonest about it, my girl,” Ms Watley insisted. “I have a right to manage my nephew’s estate. The fact that no one presumed I could be working without their chief’s express approval cannot be blamed on me.”

  Heather ran several responses through her mind and decided just to leave it.

  “You might be interested to know what I found,” Ms Watley finished, giving her a look that said she knew exactly what Heather had been thinking and didn’t care in the slightest.

  “Oh?” Heather asked, her interest piquing despite everything.

  “It would seem my nephew was not planning a short stay,” Ms Watley informed her, eyeing her beadily. “His bags were full of money—enough to buy a small island, I’d wager—and, I’m telling you, I’ve known that boy since he was in nappies, and he never packs that much clothing for a weekend away. You’d be hard-pressed to get him to bring a change of socks, let alone the fine wardrobe he’d carted down with him.”

  Heather’s eyes widened.

  “You think he knew someone was after him?”

  Ms Watley lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug, but Heather was prevented from asking further questions by the arrival of their drinks, followed by Sinéad’s return.

  “This one is probably most like what you’re after,” Sinéad said, flipping open the sketchbook—much smaller than the one her homesickness painting had been kept in—and sliding a still life of a vase of flowers onto the table. “It prompts the mind to strengthen connections that are already there.”

  It was beautiful. Heather could almost feel a fog clearing from her br
ain the longer she looked at it, and even Ms Watley’s eyebrows shot up in approval.

  “It’s quite good,” she said, leaning closer to study the lines of the vase. “How long have you been painting?”

  Their conversation faded into the background as Heather stared at the vase. There was something there, something she wasn’t quite able to grasp ahold of. She thought of the painting in Patricia’s ballroom and the tiny spell stitched into the wine glass.

  Why had the killer bothered to stab the Earl when they had already managed to poison him? Heather frowned. The key lay in separating those two actions apart—working out why the killer had used both poison and a weapon.

  It occurred to Heather that very few people knew about the compulsion charm at all. Sinéad’s arrest had been reported, but the details left out. Perhaps they could use that fact to flush out anyone who did know about the painting and the spell. The police had only just managed to link the two together, so if they moved quickly they could be certain that no information had leaked.

  Realisation hit her like a freight train, and Heather’s eyes snapped to Sinéad’s. Her ex—Tracy—had mentioned the spell on the painting, but that detail had never been published. How did she know?

  She made a strangled sound at the back of her throat, and Sinéad looked up in confusion. All thoughts of abandoning the case fled Heather’s mind. Sinéad had been right: this was personal. And if it was personal, the longer they waited, the more danger Sinéad was in.

  After a moment, Sinéad caught onto to Heather’s frantic miming and excused them both from the table.

  “Your ex knew about the painting,” Heather hissed the second they were out of earshot. “It wasn’t published; she shouldn’t have known.”

  Sinéad’s eyes widened. For a moment, true fury shone in them.

  “She knew what your notebook looked like,” she muttered, her face growing dark. “She’s been calling non-stop the last twenty-four hours; I had to block her number. I’m going to speak to Patricia. I’ll find out if Tracy was invited or if she could possibly have been there at the party. Then, I guess I’ll call her.”