by Ellen Jane
The apothecary smelled musty and comforting, the silence washing over her and evoking memories of home and weekends spent browsing the stock of blessed wood her dad would occasionally use in his most special carpentry projects. Heather soon had everything she needed for her tracking spell, but she paused in front of a display of energetically charged beech.
Her voicemail was lost, but didn’t she specialise in retrieving lost things? This PI business didn’t suit her, not really, but she still had her own talents. Maybe if she used blessed wood in a spell, like her parents had used in their carpentry magic, she could recreate her memory of their voices into something permanent—something that couldn’t be erased.
Impulsively, she slipped a block of beech into her basket and took her purchases to the front. After this case was solved, she would create a potion for lost memories. She didn’t know how yet, but she’d find a way and then she’d soak the wood in the potion and her parents’ voices would be returned to her.
And then this ridiculous overreaction of grief would finally end, and she’d be able to relegate her feelings to where they belonged: the past.
The walk back was quicker than she remembered, and when she returned it came as no shock to find all three of her dogs sitting obediently at Ms Watley’s feet.
“Have they been any trouble?” she asked with a grin.
“Absolute angels, the three of them,” Ms Watley confirmed.
Teddy had never been called an angel in his life. From the look on his face—tongue lolling and eyes fixed adoringly on Ms Watley—he was just as pleased as Heather.
Heather retrieved her leashes and wrapped them around her hand, balancing her shopping bag on her other arm. At last she felt she had achieved something important. Perhaps her magic wouldn’t prove useful to the investigation, but she would at least succeed at what she did best and regain the lost voicemail.
“It was lovely to see you again,” she said, shifting her paper bag onto her hip.
“A pleasure,” Ms Watley agreed. “And you’re still solving crime, I trust? I’ve been keeping you in mind should I need your services.”
“Oh,” Heather stuttered. “Well, a bit, I guess, but only incidentally. That’s not really what my business is about.”
Ms Watley lifted one eyebrow. “It appeared that way when I saw you last. You were quite good at it if I recall.”
“It’s not really my skill,” Heather protested.
“No such thing,” Ms Watley dismissed her with a sniff. “You were perfectly capable, and skills are cultivated not gifted.”
“But my life is fine. I don’t need anything new in it,” Heather said without thinking.
Ms Watley stood and brushed down her trousers before levelling Heather with a stare. “You can’t stay the same forever.”
Heather didn’t have anything to say to that.
Ms Watley’s words stayed with her the entire walk home, maintaining hold on part of her mind even when Lucifer broke free of the leash and led them all around the park in his fervent attempts to round up two small white dogs he no doubt saw as sheep. They were not impressed, and neither was their owner, and neither would Heather have been if she’d had space to think of anything else other than Ms Watley’s stern disapproval that Heather would do anything less than… what?
Anything less than trying, Heather supposed.
Her phone buzzed as she unlocked the front door. It took some skill, but she somehow extracted it while successfully fumbling her way through the door and around the three dogs diving for the water bowl. She didn’t recognise the caller ID, and Heather steeled herself for another fight about bureaucratic legislation as she answered.
“Hello?”
“Heather Millington?”
The feminine voice sounded familiar, but Heather couldn’t place it. At least it didn’t sound accusatory or smug, which made a nice change from her most recent conversations, so Heather chose not to hang up and instead confessed that yes, the caller had the right number.
The woman sighed in relief. “I wasn’t sure the number was accurate; your business is only listed in the directory, but you were the closest so I had to try. My name is Rose Smith, and I hoped you’d have time to help me locate my missing fencing rapier.”
Heather choked on air for several seconds before regaining her composure. Heart beating fast, she made a politely interested noise and cleared her throat.
“A missing rapier? Normally I help find things a lot smaller than that.”
After the shock of hearing Rose Smith’s voice on the other end of the line had passed, Heather’s suspicious mind sparked up to take over. With some effort, she forced it to simmer down. A missing sword might have the requisite intrigue to look like a clue, but the case she was investigating didn’t involve murder. The only recent murder was Rose’s father, and even though the murder weapon was still missing, the police had noted the wounds were caused by a dagger—nothing like the long needle of a rapier. Besides, the housekeeper had confessed.
Rose laughed, and Heather was stunned by how normal and gentle she sounded—not at all like a woman who had just lost her father or even like the person Heather had seen earlier rummaging through the bins in the alley.
“Yes, I can imagine. It’s a bit of a funny story, but I had the rapier stored in my old luggage from my last fencing tournament, and of course my mother then went and instructed the housekeeper to throw out my tatty suitcases. I’m distraught, honestly. I must have it back.”
That explained the search in the alley, although why Rose had needed to adopt such secrecy to hunt for it was beyond Heather. Nonetheless, since Rose was unaware they had seen her yesterday, it lent an element of credibility to her story, however bizarre.
“How awful,” she agreed, mind whirring as she tried to poke holes in Rose’s story. “The housekeeper didn’t think to check the suitcase before throwing it?”
Heather noted the eye-roll in Rose’s voice. “My mother has an exceptionally firm hand with the maids. They do what she tells them to, no questions asked. Honestly, for all the magical talents she might have had, bossing around the staff is such a pathetic waste.”
Rose sounded so teenage, even though Heather was sure she was in her late twenties, that Heather accidentally snorted with laughter. “You’ve got a point.”
“Right? Her generation, honestly. And they tell us we’re the ones who need to learn the value of hard work.”
“Speaking of hard work,” Heather said, her voice warm even as she steered the conversation back to business. “I’ve never located a rapier before, but I can certainly try. Only, I’ll need a few days to prepare some spells. I’m staying with my girlfriend in Starford and I didn’t bring anything with me.”
“Oh really?” Rose’s voice dropped in disappointment. “That’s all right, I suppose. But what luck—you’re even closer to me than Old Wetchhaven. I live in Kew.”
Heather wondered if the clamouring of her heart sounded as audible as it felt. She forced herself to laugh. “That is a coincidence.”
Something told her not to play her hand just yet. Rose was more forthcoming than expected over the phone, nothing like the sullen and emotional girl Heather had witnessed yesterday, and something about her story didn’t add up. Heather didn’t want to spook her by letting on that they had met in person already.
“Well I’ll give you my number anyway, and you can call me when the spells are ready. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.”
“Oh! And one more thing: do you sell any of your spells on their own?”
“I do,” Heather said carefully, wondering where this was going.
“I noticed your directory listing specifically mentioned tracking spells… could you spare a jar?”
“Of course.” Heather blinked, forcing her tone into something close to normal. “I’ll pop an extra one into my kit when everything is ready.”
“Excellent! Thank you so much.”
Rose read out her numbe
r for Heather to write down, even though it was already in her call log, and they said goodbye. In the sudden silence of the room, she stared at the blank phone for a long time.
Why did Rose need a tracking spell if she wanted to employ Heather to find her missing rapier? It all seemed slightly off centre, and Heather’s suspicions grew. She filed it away to tell Sinéad and Cian.
But if nothing else, the strange conversation had given her a purpose for the afternoon, and one that tied in nicely to Ms Watley’s stinging reprimand. Which, now that she considered it again, flooded her once more with uncomfortable emotion. Spurred onward by a mixture of agitation, shame, and an unexpected sense of newfound capability, Heather divided out the herbs for the tracking spell and a couple of other small charms she used to locate lost items. Then, she studied what was left over.
Being a witch—as opposed to a sorcerer—Heather’s magic was limited to manipulating the physical world. She could alter the physical appearance or properties of inanimate objects, and she could even occasionally alter parts of the human experience if it were restricted to the physical, such as hair colour and simple glamours. But she couldn’t charm the deeper complexities of humanity. Emotions, thoughts, and abilities were all the realm of a sorcerer. When considered in terms of mind, body, and spirit—of all things, animate and inanimate alike—sorcerers held dominion over the mind and spirit while witches were masters of the body.
If she wanted to match the emotional charms Sinéad had cast on her jewellery to ease their way with their investigations, Heather would have to get creative.
“I’ll make a notation charm,” she said after staring at the herbs for so long she grew cross-eyed.
She could grind the bearberry and calendula down and combine them with a few droplets of blessed water to make a paste, and if she thinned it enough to fit into a fountain pen, the pen would hover and take notes on its own. At least that way they could focus on the interview instead of recording it themselves and missing valuable body language.
Ordinarily, the charm would mix with the icing in a piping bag, leaving it to decorate cakes under the efficient instruction of the cooking witch, but the theory should translate well enough. Since the charm was strong enough to take accurate dictation over the sounds of blenders whirring and distracted cooks talking over their shoulder while doing three other things at once, Heather saw no reason it wouldn’t be effective in a quiet living room.
She fetched Sinéad’s mortar and pestle from the top cupboard where it gathered dust and gave it a thorough wipe down with a dry cloth. A wet one would mean waiting until she was absolutely certain the mortar was dry enough that the herbs didn’t become sticky while grinding, and she had a hunch if she didn’t finish this charm soon, the memory of Ms Watley’s judgement would fade from her mind, and she would lose her nerve.
The three dogs slunk in by her feet beneath the kitchen table while she worked, apparently relaxed after their walk through the gardens. Heather had taken the long way home, keen to drain as much of the dogs’ energy as possible, and the payoff came now as all three of them curled up beside her without demanding a thing.
Heather ground up the last of the herbs and tipped them into a small jar before uncorking the stopper from the vial of blessed water. She counted out three drops, screwed the lid back on the jar, and shook it vigorously for a minute.
“Fingers crossed sugar isn’t crucial to the spell-work,” Heather muttered as she unscrewed the jar and took a tentative smell, picturing how perfectly her icing sugar responded to the touch of seasoning.
The scent wafted free of the glass. It had become something more than two simple herbs doused with water; now, it was rich, light, and aromatic. The paste had formed into a perfect ball that, when combined with the ink in the fountain pen, would melt down into a lower, smoother viscosity that brought magic into the simple writing tool and animated it for her purpose. Heather was sure it had worked.
She took her fountain pen out of her pocket, mixed the ink with a small piece of the paste, and screwed it back together ready for tomorrow.
At least now she had helped.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, by the time they had dressed and were ready to leave, Cian was already waiting by the front gate with three new ceramic coffee mugs balanced on Sinéad’s fence. Heather’s tracking herbs were drying out in a dehydrator they’d borrowed from Sinéad’s hipster neighbours, and Ms Watley’s words kept spinning around in her head. She couldn’t shake the feeling that choosing not to use her magic after that conversation would let Ms Watley down—a frightening thought.
Before going to bed, she had tried using the block of beech as a chopping board for her cooking magic, hoping that she could combine a few spells together to create a permanent rendition of one of her memories. But it ended in her herbs turning rancid and the beech singeing around the edges. Heather was going about it wrong somehow; she just couldn’t work out how.
“How many of those do you have?” Sinéad asked, accepting hers with a wry smile.
“I don’t think I’ve ever drunk so much coffee,” Heather murmured.
“And you’ll never go back,” Cian said with a firm nod, handing her the second mug.
Heather preferred tea, but she wasn’t about to argue.
“Now, I come bearing gifts,” Cian said with a beaming smile. “Who wants to guess what tidbit of news I’ve been privy to this morning?”
“What is it?” Sinéad asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Go on, guess.”
Heather groaned. “Come on. Out with it.”
“Spoil sport. Fine. The police found something, shall we say, a wee bit cheeky in the Dunnes’ safe.”
Heather and Sinéad shared a confused glance.
“Jewels!” Cian exclaimed. “Missing jewels from the Amberville case! I don’t think the police meant it to be common knowledge yet, but some nosy neighbour caught wind and is telling everyone who’ll listen down at the corner store. Looks like the Dunnes were in cahoots with poor old Mr Amberville. Can you believe it?”
“Can you say ‘poor old’ if he was a renowned jewel thief?” Sinéad wondered out loud.
Heather was too busy staring at Cian in shock to question him.
“Sounds like semantics to me,” Cian answered cheerily. “You know what’s strange, though? They’d already found those same jewels in Mr Amberville’s flat, but the jewels went missing somewhere between photographing the crime scene and bagging the evidence. So it seems the Dunnes stole them from the thief himself.”
“Not quite cahoots, then,” Heather pointed out.
“Not quite.” Cian grinned. “Which leaves us with a neat little motive for kidnapping.” He spread his arms wide, glancing enthusiastically between the two of them. “Surely this is our prime suspect! ‘Return what you stole’? Come on, it writes itself. Mr Amberville is right ticked off and looking to get back what’s his. Well. Sort of his.”
“I suppose,” Heather said slowly. “But Mr Amberville is locked away.”
Cian shrugged. “The old codger must have an accomplice. It’s the only solution. What do you think, ladies?”
Sinéad’s eyes twinkled with renewed vigour. “I think you’re onto something, here.”
“We still have to check out the Careys though,” Heather insisted. “They argued with the Dunnes just before they disappeared.”
Sinéad groaned. “Really? But we have a new lead, a better lead. Shouldn’t we shelve the Careys for now and come back to them if the jewellery lead proves fruitless?”
“We keep changing direction.” Heather’s voice was sharper than she intended, even when she tried to backtrack and tone it down. “It’s no use investigating a dozen clues halfway. We need to cross things off properly. Besides, what about Rose’s phone call?”
“What phone call?” Cian asked, holding up a hand to halt what was rapidly becoming an argument.
Heather filled Cian in quickly, having already told Sinéa
d last night. When she had finished, he chewed his lip and stared into the distance.
“It is a bit odd,” he said after a pause. “But you don’t think she was lying?”
“She didn’t see us watching her when she hunted through the suitcase,” Heather agreed. “So the story matches up with what we’d seen. It’s just so strange.”
“Lots of people are strange,” Sinéad said with a pointed glance at Cian’s bare feet. “But it doesn’t make them kidnappers. The jewellery lead is a solid motive with evidence to back it up.”
Heather couldn’t argue with that. Before she could try anyway, Cian interrupted.
“Dimples is right, though. Let’s tie off this loose end with the Careys first. It can’t take more than an afternoon once we have their address from the Beekeeping Society, and then we’ll track down Mr Amberville’s mysterious accomplice.”
Sinéad didn’t seem convinced, but she reluctantly agreed and the twins fell immediately back into discussion about the jewels. They looked so excited, Heather didn’t want to reject their ideas. But the more time she spent analysing what they had witnessed yesterday, when Rose Smith had led them on a mysterious path down an alley, the more she thought St Ives must be a link worth investigating.
“The other person we should keep in mind is Mr Williams,” Cian said, pulling out his notebook and scanning some scribbled notes.
“As a suspect?” Heather asked, confused at the sudden turn in conversation.
“Absolutely. He’s been acting dead strange this whole time. First, he cares way too much about bees. Second, he was the only one we know to visit the house between the time we left and the time the police came, and somewhere in there it got ransacked. It’s all just a bit odd.”
Sinéad’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure you finished that course?”