A Hive of Secrets and Spells

by Ellen Jane

  “It’s been a nice break in the sunshine,” Mr Williams said diplomatically, still frowning. “But I’d best be going now. Good luck with your investigation.”

  Mr Williams nodded to them and left.

  “Investigation?” Mr Carey asked, lifting his brows in polite curiosity. “Forgive me, but you don’t look like the police.”

  “I should hope not,” Cian retorted, tugging down the sleeves of his jumper, which possessed the logo of a punk band Heather didn’t recognise.

  “We’re private investigators,” Heather said, the words sending a warm, pleasant buzz through her body. “And we have a few questions regarding the Dunnes, if you have a minute?”

  “Ah, yes,” Mr Carey frowned. “Terrible news. I do hope they’re all right.”

  He opened the gate and came onto the street. Behind him, a tall blonde woman emerged and greeted them.

  “I thought we’d have to pretend there was a fire or something to get rid of Mrs Fletcher,” she confessed with a smile.

  Mr Carey snorted. “I’ll remember that for next time. Did you know I once caught her snooping behind our rubbish bins? She said she was inspecting to make sure we weren’t throwing away any code four rubbish. Utterly mad.” He turned back to Heather. “I’m sorry, you were asking me something just before?”

  “Yes,” Heather said, putting the strange Mrs Fletcher from her mind. “Can you tell us a little about your most recent engagement with the Dunnes? We’re trying to build a picture of the last few weeks.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell,” Mr Carey said solemnly, while his wife nodded behind him. “Though most of it is terribly embarrassing. I can’t say I like letting my emotions get the best of me, but what is one to do with such plain circumstances? We engaged with them regarding my cousin Agatha, may she rest in peace, but something must have gone wrong. I suspect the Dunnes have lost their touch, because the bees were most certainly not put into mourning correctly.”

  Mrs Carey shook her head vigorously. Heather wondered if she might be about to speak, but she remained quiet, supporting her husband silently.

  “How do you mean?” Sinéad asked.

  “Well,” he said, chewing on his lip thoughtfully, “it started small—our window in our bedroom broke. Nothing thrown at it, no sign of tampering; it just shattered. And then after that someone stole Debbie’s purse.”

  “Don’t forget the ice, John,” Mrs Carey interrupted.

  “Oh yes, the ice came first. No matter what we did to prevent it or how warm the temperature, the driveway kept icing over in the morning. Terribly dangerous. And then someone stole the purse. That was when we realised this was no ordinary run of the mill bad luck.” He shrugged. “I phoned Theodore, but he refused to admit to a mistake. We got into a mild disagreement, I’m ashamed to admit. I refuse to pay for shoddy work, you see, though there are better ways to handle it than yelling. And that was it.”

  “Right,” Cian said, pulling out his notebook and making a note. Heather followed suit and set up her notebook and pen, holding the book so the pen could scratch away on its own. “Bad luck because of the bees, right?”

  “Of course,” Mr Carey said, eyebrows lifted. “What else?”

  “Indeed,” Sinéad muttered.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about them?” Heather asked. “Did they say or do anything strange? Or is there anyone out there who might bear a grudge against them?”

  “You mean apart from myself?” Mr Carey laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Consider the score settled on my behalf. I didn’t pay for the work, and Theodore accepted the consequence of providing poor service. Apart from that, I don’t believe the Dunnes have ever put a foot wrong in their life. Wonderful people. We holidayed with them only last summer at St Ives.”

  “You didn’t notice anything unusual about them during your stay?” Heather asked, clutching at straws. “Anything to suggest there might have been some trouble behind closed doors?”

  “Not at all.” Mr Carey shook his head. “We had champagne breakfasts on the beach every morning, and they couldn’t have been in higher spirits. Rose Smith won her fencing competition and we all celebrated a little too much, if I’m honest,” he finished with a smile.

  “Fencing competition?” Cian glanced at Heather.

  “Yes, she’s quite the star.” Mr Carey sounded fond. “Her strikes were so fast it was almost impossible to see where the blows landed.”

  “Which is very common practice,” Mrs Carey interjected. Heather blinked in surprise at the change in tone; Mrs Carey had gone from genial and welcoming to icy. “Most rapier combat participants are lightning fast.”

  “It’s not that common,” Mr Carey argued, his smile frosting a little around the edges.

  “Exceedingly common, John.”

  “It’s—”

  “They have playback spells on all the swords,” she snapped. “Obviously it comes up once or twice.”

  “Hey, look at the time,” Cian said loudly. “Thanks for all your help. We’ll just be on our way, then.”

  The Careys barely even noticed them leave.

  “Well, that’s that,” Sinéad said, twisting her mouth into a wry expression. “What do we make of it all?”

  “Marriage counselling might be in order?” Cian suggested.

  “Apart from that.”

  “Albert said the Dunnes were the best,” Heather said quietly, retrieving her pen from its furious scribblings. “Why would they make a mistake on the Careys?”

  “They probably didn’t,” Cian said with a shrug. “They’re just bees. It’s a tradition more than anything else. I doubt the events were even connected.”

  “Every time you say that, I keep waiting for someone to yell at us,” Heather said with a shudder.

  “Would you like me to pair it with a reprimand?” Cian asked with a grin. “I give a mighty good shriek, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Pity.”

  Sinéad’s frown deepened. “What did Mrs Fletcher mean when she said the Dunnes were protecting someone untrustworthy? Was she talking about Mr Amberville or Mr Carey?”

  “It looked more like she was talking about him, didn’t it?” Cian said, jerking his chin toward the Carey’s house. “What with how she ran off straight after and all.”

  “It did,” Sinéad agreed, “but what on earth did it mean?”

  Cian made a note. “We can call her and find out. She’s expecting us, remember?” He pulled out his phone and began to dial the number Mrs Fletcher had left them. “But despite what everyone says about the Dunnes being filled with nought but sunshine and rainbows, I dare say we’re on the right track with the jewellery lead and old Mr Amberville isn’t too thrilled with them.”

  “It sounds like revenge now, doesn’t it?” Heather asked, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “They dobbed him into the police and then stole his jewels. It just seems so strange, not like them at all.”

  “Don’t forget, we don’t actually know these people.” Sinéad’s voice lost its agitation, all warmth fading away in place of something cool and emotionless.

  For a moment, Heather saw a sliver of ice float past her on the wind, but that sort of magic shouldn’t be impossible, not from Sinéad.

  Cian’s dial tone trilled through the air as he switched the phone onto speaker, and they fell silent. It rang precisely three times before Mrs Fletcher picked up.

  “Fletcher residence.”

  “Mrs Fletcher,” Cian said cheerfully. “It’s Cian Savage. We met just a moment ago.”

  “Cian who?”

  “Savage. Like a beast, you know?”

  He made a sound at the back of his throat that came out as twenty percent roar, eighty percent flirting, and Heather had to shove her fist into her mouth to stop from laughing. Even Sinéad’s lips twitched.

  Mrs Fletcher sniffed audibly down the line. “Are you alone?”

  “Just me and my t
wo best girls.”

  “Mr Williams has left?”

  Cian raised his eyebrows at Heather and Sinéad. “He has.”

  Heather leaned closer to the phone, ignoring the fluttering of excitement in her chest and trying to focus so she didn’t miss anything. In the short time they’d known her, Mrs Fletcher had clearly loved an audience. The fact she didn’t want one now made all three of them sit up and take notice.

  Mrs Fletcher’s voice lowered. “Mr Williams had a row with the Dunnes last month. Quite violent. Suspiciously violent, if you ask me.”

  “What did they argue about?” Cian asked.

  “I couldn’t make it out,” Mrs Fletcher said indignantly. “But Mr Williams was cross that the Dunnes were going to tell everyone something. I don’t see how anyone but a guilty person would be afraid of something like that. Naturally, I’ve informed the police, but they were quite dismissive.”

  “Can you elaborate on the police response?” Cian’s eyes narrowed, his pen pausing above his notebook.

  “Well, it’s hardly relevant, but they insisted they found no evidence of foul play and Mr Williams had been forthcoming in assisting their investigation. I spoke to Mr Williams about it, but he gave me a frankly ridiculous story about the Dunnes missing his payment. He claims he confronted them and insisted he would tell the community if they didn’t resolve the issue.”

  Cian paused, a hint of amusement in the quirk of his lips. “Think I might make a note of it anyway. So, the police are suggesting you misheard? May I ask, just briefly, if you can remember an exact quote from the argument? And if you can confirm for me your previous assessment that the Dunnes share too little with the community, rather than too much.”

  Mrs Fletcher fell silent before finally saying, “There is nothing wrong with my hearing nor my memory. I can see I’m wasting my time here.”

  Before Cian had the chance to protest, she hung up.

  “Helpful,” Sinéad said, one eyebrow quirked.

  “Probably shouldn’t have antagonised her,” Cian admitted. “But come on. What a waste of time.”

  “So we’re back on the jewellery lead,” Sinéad said with a sigh.

  Heather ignored the twinge in her gut that protested and said nothing.

  *

  When they arrived back at Sinéad’s house, the sun had almost dipped below the horizon, sending orange rays and long shadows across the rooftops. Heather’s stomach grumbled, reminding her she’d hardly eaten. She followed eagerly behind the others as they walked along the path, already daydreaming of sandwiches, and stopped only to check the mail.

  The letterbox was empty, but as Heather turned away, the familiar flash of vines and yellowed paper caught her attention, and she froze. With everything else that had happened, she had forgotten about the mysterious envelope, convinced it had only been her imagination.

  She leaned closer to the mailbox, but all sign of greenery and aged envelopes had already disappeared, leaving only the painted bottom of the tray. She could write something off if it only happened twice, but three times? Shoving down the growing sense of unease, she followed the others into the house.

  “Can I see your notes, Heather?” Sinéad asked before she could speak. “The automatic ones?”

  Heather nodded and flicked through to the last two pages of notes her pen had made, recording Mr Carey’s words as he spoke. She froze when her eyes landed on the final sentences.

  “Sinéad, do you remember him saying this?” she asked quietly.

  Why did you have to mention St Ives?

  What’s wrong with mentioning St Ives? It’s not like they’re going to—

  The words cut off midway. Sinéad shook her head, brow furrowed.

  “That’s two people talking,” she said, running her finger down the margin where the pen indicated speaker via a small symbol. “And if you run back up the conversation, that first person is Mrs Carey. She didn’t speak at all after the bit about the spells on the swords. Is your charm malfunctioning?”

  Heather shook her head. “No, it’s working correctly. It must be…” she paused, remembering how they had stayed by the gate for several minutes after the Careys left. “They must have whispered it just beyond the gate, reprimanding each other. But I hadn’t stopped the pen recording, so it heard them.”

  “‘S probably nothing,” Cian said thoughtfully. “Could be any reason they didn’t want the holiday mentioned. Too much booze. You know how it goes on these things; one thing leads to another and suddenly you’re in France with someone else’s luggage.” Sinéad and Heather stared at him while he blinked innocently. “No? That one just me?”

  “It might be something, though,” Heather insisted, turning back to the notebook.

  “It might be,” Cian agreed. “Let’s make a note and we’ll come back to it. How does that sound?”

  Heather thought it sounded like they were making too many notes and not enough conclusions, but she didn’t say that out loud.

  The sun began to sink below the line of trees outside Sinéad’s kitchen window, casting long shadows across all of them. Cian checked his watch and grimaced.

  “I really should be going.” He fumbled around inside his coat, checking several inner pockets before producing an envelope with a flourish and a triumphant smile. “Knew I hadn’t forgotten it.”

  He handed the envelope to Sinéad, who opened it cautiously. Her eyes widened when she saw the contents.

  “What’s this?” she asked, staring from the slim piece of note card to Cian and back again.

  “A formal invitation to dinner tomorrow night,” Cian said with a grin and a wink at Heather. “You’re both on there. It’s nothing fancy. I just felt like making up a nice invite since it’ll be your first dinner with us.”

  “Us?” Sinéad still had the same expression of frozen confusion on her face.

  “My family,” Cian answered. “So, we’ll see you there at eight?”

  “We’ll be there,” Heather said firmly.

  “Brilliant. Now, I’ve really got to go.” He waved at the two of them, insisting on letting himself out, and left.

  “That was unexpected,” Heather said with a laugh. “I wonder what his family is like.”

  “Yeah.” Sinéad sounded like she had barely even heard Heather at all. “Listen, I don’t feel too well. I’ll go lie down.”

  “Sure.” Heather watched her climb the stairs, concern creeping its way into her chest, but Sinéad didn’t turn back.

  Chapter Ten

  The moon had risen high above the trees, bathing the house in gentle silver light, by the time Heather finally gave up trying to sleep. Her mind wouldn’t settle, and a creeping restlessness begged her to do something, anything, beyond lying here in the dark. She slipped out of bed, moving carefully so as not to disturb Sinéad, although the stretching shadows from the tree outside the window made it so Heather couldn’t even see her. The landing creaked as she crept downstairs, unsure where her instinct was leading her until she ended up in the kitchen, and then a wave of relief flooded her.

  Ever since she discovered cooking, Heather had baked her emotions away. Salves, elixirs, and potions were more natural to her when it came to magic, but she loved to bake and she had worked on strengthening her baking magic for years—during the last year, particularly—until it was almost as strong as her potions.

  The magical community still debated why particular magical talents called to some and not others. Could a witch or sorcerer choose which talent their magic showed itself through? Or were they drawn to a talent because it held their magic? Either way, whether Heather had chosen cooking or it had chosen her, it had always been the thing she turned to when stress and emotion overwhelmed her.

  For a moment, she considered trying to use the block of beech again, but the thought of spending all night trying futilely to recover her parents’ voices made her stomach twist. She didn’t want to think about any of that—not the lost voicemail she was trying so hard to ignore, no
t the fact she couldn’t make her magic work the beech the way it needed to, not the case. Heather needed a break from all of it.

  She cleared the bench and began to set out ingredients, not paying particular attention to what she selected, just picking based on what felt good. The night air, surprisingly warm for November, filtered through the open sliver of window. She moved barefoot across the tiles, mixing flour and cocoa and this and that until a biscuit dough began to emerge.

  Humming to herself, she lined the biscuits onto a tray and slid them into the oven. The precise spell she had baked into them remained a mystery, but whatever it turned out to be, it had already suffused the kitchen with a gentle, inviting thrum of energy.

  She turned around and nearly jumped a foot in the air when she saw Sinéad leaning in the doorway, lips curved into a gentle smile.

  “Can’t sleep?” Sinéad asked.

  Heather grinned and shook her head.

  “Funny that.” Sinéad pushed away from the doorframe and came to sit at the breakfast counter. “Neither can I.”

  Heather noticed then that Sinéad’s hands were covered in small spots of paint. That explained why she hadn’t disturbed Sinéad getting out of the bed; Sinéad hadn’t even been in it.

  “Does painting help?” Heather asked.

  Sinéad nodded. “It always has.”

  “Come up with any answers, then?”

  “Absolutely none.” Sinéad gave her a wry smile. “Find anything useful hiding in the sugar tin?”

  “Rudely empty of everything but sugar.”

  “Rats.”

  They smiled at each other, eyes soft in the dim light of the lamp. Heather held up the bag of icing sugar.

  “Want to help decorate?”

  Sinéad’s eyes brightened, and she came to stand next to Heather. “I don’t think I’ve ever baked biscuits before.”

  Heather nearly dropped the bag of icing sugar. “Never?”

  “What? Don’t look at me like that. Why would I have?”

  “Because they’re biscuits?” Heather grabbed Sinéad by the shoulders and positioned her in front of the bench.