“Steady as you go,” came a concerned voice and I looked up into the nerdy but not entirely unpleasant face of Mr Bramble’s son.
“Oh thank you!” I exhaled in surprise. “Erm…”
“Alex,” he reminded me helpfully, obviously realising I’d totally forgotten his name.
“That’s right,” I laughed self-consciously.
“And you’re Alfhild. My parent’s landlord.”
“Yes,” I replied. It seemed odd to hear such things said out loud. I still, even after twelve months, struggled to get used to the idea that I’d become a landlord, responsible for over a dozen properties and their tenants.
“Listen. Er…” Alex’s face flushed the colour of late season beetroot. “Forgive me if this is out of order. I don’t really know anyone around here anymore. All my friends have moved away up country. I wondered if you would… ah… care to join me for a drink this evening?”
Taken aback, I found myself blushing along with him. Was Alex asking me on a date? Or was this purely because he didn’t know anyone else our age. “That’s a little difficult—” I started to say.
Alex widened his eyes, instantly mortified. “Because you’re our landlord? Oh! I didn’t think of that.”
“No, no.” I held my hands out to stop him. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It was very forward of me.” Poor Alex, he grimaced.
I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. “No, it’s just that—”
“You have a boyfriend?” Alex clasped a hand to his head.
“Alex! If you’ll just let me finish.”
“Sorry. I—”
“I have to stay close to the inn because we have some filming going on up there at the moment, and it would be unfair to take time away when the rest of my team are working incredibly hard—”
Alex shook his head. “Oh I understand, I promise I do. I only meant The Hay Loft, but if that’s not convenient, perhaps some other time.”
The Hay Loft? I glanced over at the modern inn across the road where Patty was staying. I wracked my brains, trying to remember whether Lyle Cavendish had barred me from the hostelry itself, or whether that ban had only extended to the fields where the Psychic Fayre had been held. I chewed the corner of my lip, thinking.
“That’s feasible,” I said. “I must warn you though, I’m persona non grata over there, so we might have to do a runner.”
Alex laughed and his face lit up. “How intriguing, Alf. Shall we say around eight-ish?”
“Sounds good to me.”
I waited for George in the café. He’d obviously been held up somewhere, perhaps at roadworks. Gloria offered me a menu, but I decided to wait for my ex-fiancé to arrive. I took a seat at a table in the window so I could watch the world go by, my thoughts drawn to the reason George needed to speak to me.
Who had killed Janice Tork-Mimosa?
I pulled a serviette from the rack, dragged a pen from the pocket of my robes and started writing down names.
Rob Parker? I couldn’t see Rob being a bad’un myself. All he cared about were his sausages. I’d been pleased to see that the production crew of The Great Witchy Cake Off had taken him to their hearts and stomachs, much as George and I had done.
I drew large question marks next to Faery Kerry and Mindi Blockweg. Neither of them seemed suspect to me but it wouldn’t hurt to do a little more digging, would it?
Raoul Scurrysnood. I underlined his name. If what Bertha had told me was true, Raoul had to be on our radar. A potential love affair with Janice. What had gone wrong? I’d passed that information onto George already and I wondered whether he’d been able to find anything out.
And what about Patty? Patty was hard work and Janice had been working with her for years. The rumours—and there were many—suggested that they didn’t see eye to eye on a large number of work-related matters. But they say keep your enemies close, but your friends closer, don’t they? Perhaps Patty had been the one that stuck the knife in Janice’s chest.
I drew a picture of a cake knife on the serviette. Did the choice of weapon mean anything? Or had it merely been the closest thing to hand. The whole marquee had been full of items waiting to be put away in their proper places ready for filming.
“You’re missing somebody important.” George had arrived and stood alongside me, peering down at my scribblings.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Delores Everyoung.” He took a seat next to me and pulled the serviette in front of himself. “The contestant who found Janice.”
“Do you think she’s a suspect?” I’d forgotten all about her.
George shook his head. “Not really. She’s been incredibly traumatised by the whole thing. One of my team travelled up to Gloucester where she lives. She’s under the doctor and taking tranquilizers, the poor woman.” He motioned Gloria over. “We haven’t been able to establish any prior link between her and Janice.”
George looked the menu over. “I’ll have a bacon and egg sandwich, please, Gloria, and a large strong filter coffee, no milk thanks.” He looked at me expectantly. “Have you eaten?”
Had I eaten? I’d been awake so long I couldn’t remember. It would probably pay to make sure. “I’ll have the same please. But tea instead of coffee.”
“So? No solid leads?” I asked when Gloria had waddled back to the kitchen. She was an elderly lady with swollen ankles. I think she must have worked here at The Whittlecombe Café since she’d been a girl.
“Nothing,” George frowned. “My team have checked and double checked everyone’s alibis. We have investigated every relationship we can think of between Janice and everyone involved in the production. I’ve spoken to all the staff—well the human ones—at Whittle Inn. Assuming none of your ghosts committed the murder, which I’m guessing is a possibility I can’t completely discount, then I’m now at a loss.”
I pointed at the serviette. “What about Mindi and Faery Kerry?”
“According to Charity they were coming down to breakfast. They were seen by several people and they can vouch for each other. And Charity which is useful.”
“As if Charity would lift a finger to hurt anyone,” I scoffed. “She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body.”
“I know, I know!” George pacified me. “But I have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, you know that.”
I did.
Gloria arrived with our breakfast and I poured milk into my cup and stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. I needed the energy. I let the tea in its little teapot steep for a while longer.
George sliced into his sandwich and I watched the egg yolk ooze everywhere. I was going to need a bib, but given the current mucky state of my robes, maybe it didn’t matter.
“Mmm” George took a bit bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “Do you know if there was anyone new in the village at the time of the murder?”
“Anyone new?” I tried to cut my sandwich into dainty quarters without making too much mess. This proved impossible. It seemed apparent that it had been an ostrich that had laid the egg now residing between the two thick slices of fresh bread on my plate. “Besides the two dozen or so who arrived for the filming of the programme you mean?”
“No need for the sarcasm, Alf. It’s most unbecoming.”
I offered George my most scathing look and decided to attack the sandwich with a knife and fork. I definitely wouldn’t be requiring lunch, that much was obvious.
“Well you’re talking about an enormous influx of people all at once,” I pointed out.
“But nobody else?” George pressed.
I thought for a moment, staring out of the window, my fork poised in mid-air. A green MG shot past the window. “Lyle Cavendish’s brother,” I said.
“From The Hay Loft?”
“Yes, he’s staying there. He’s called Caspian. No. Crispin. That’s his name.”
George nodded and licked his fingers clean before pulling his notebook out of his po
cket and making a note of that. “Crispin Cavendish. Anyone else?”
I hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, but George picked up on it instantly. “Alf?”
“Mr Bramble’s son. You remember Mr Bramble? You resuscitated him at the Psychic Fayre.”
“I do remember Mr Bramble. How’s he doing?”
“Very well. Right as rain.”
George nodded, pleased. “Great. So tell me about his son.”
I licked my lips, a little nervous, a little bashful, a little guilty. “He’s called Alex. He’s staying with his parents for a little while.”
George studied my face. “Uh huh.” He waited for more, but I crammed a massive mouthful of sandwich into my gob and chewed viciously while avoiding his gaze. Unfortunately, Silvan and Marissa chose that moment to walk past the window. Silvan caught sight of me, stopped, and doubled over with laughter. When he stood up again, he made a passable impression of a hamster stuffing its cheeks.
I hastily swallowed my food and choked down a few mouthfuls of tea, cursing Silvan’s timing. The next thing I knew, Silvan was leading Marissa into the café and heading towards us.
“By all that’s green—” I grumbled, and then he was standing in front of us, Marissa smiling at the other customers and trailing in his wake. I abandoned my bacon and egg sandwich as a challenge too far.
“Fancy seeing you here, Alfie,” Silvan smirked at me. “I was just saying to Marissa how sad I was that I’d missed you at breakfast and that I was feeling peckish, and look, here you are!”
“It’s Alf, or Alfhild,” I growled at him, but he ignored me and continued blithely on.
“And DS Gilchrist. I’m happy to see you again too!” He held his hand out and George shook it.
“Join us.” George indicated the spare seats at our table then rapidly jumped to his feet as Marissa sidled up behind Silvan. I badly wanted to stab George through the hand with my fork, but nice witches don’t do mean things. Instead, I smiled at Marissa.
“Yes, join us,” I echoed. “Marissa this is George Gilchrist. He’s investigating a rather unfortunate murder. You might have heard about it.” I wasn’t sure whether the goings on had made the news or not, but I rather assumed given the media frenzy a few days ago, it probably had.
“You’re a detective?” Marissa asked as George shook her hand.
“He’s the detective,” Silvan said in a nudge-nudge wink-wink kind of way and I knew that he’d told Marissa all about George and I. I set my jaw and glared at Silvan with overt hostility.
He smiled and touched the side of his chin. “You have a little something—” he said to me, and cursing under my breath, I reached for a fresh serviette and wiped my face. Egg yolk.
“I really ought to be getting back to the inn,” I told George pointedly, but he was goggling at Marissa and hardly heard me speaking.
“You know what would be really lovely is if we all went out to dinner this evening,” said Silvan as Gloria ambled up to the table to offer the newcomers her menus.
“Oh that would be lovely,” said Marissa. “Although I feel like I’ve done nothing but eat, drink and sleep since we arrived at Whittlecombe.”
“That’s all there is to do here,” George chipped in.
Really? I thought. Is that what you think?
“Oh that’s a shame. I have a date already,” I announced, trying to keep the triumph out of my voice. That would show them. Show them all.
“You do?” Now George was interested.
“Who’s that?” Silvan asked, casually enough. “A new beau?”
Too late I realised I’d backed myself into a corner. “Nothing like that. Someone new to the area.”
George appraised me with his clear blue eyes and understood straight away. Glancing down at his notebook, he asked me, “Alex Bramble by any chance?”
“He’s just a friend. Not even a friend. I hardly know him.” My protest sounded weak. “We’re just going to The Hay Loft for a drink.” George’s face was a picture. He stared at me with a look of total incredulity. He knew how much I hated Lyle and The Hay Loft.
“All the better!” Silvan clapped his hands. “Let’s all go. We’ll make an evening of it. George, why don’t you bring Daisy—”
“Stacey,” George and I both said at once.
“Stacey. Bring Stacey. Marissa and I will come along, and we’ll all meet Alf’s new friend. It’ll be fun.”
I jumped to my feet. “I really have to go!” I repeated. Right there and then, if I’d been a witch in less control of my faculties I’d probably have tried to turn Silvan into a cockroach. The problem was, he was more than a match for me, and he knew it.
Fury bubbled under my skin like a pan of sugar on the verge of caramelising.
Surprising then that when I glared at Silvan one last time before exiting the café, leaving George to pick up the bill, Silvan looked neither triumphant nor smarmy, only intrigued. His expression cooled the violence of my anger.
I knew exactly what he was thinking, I could hear his voice as clear as a bell in my head. Oh, those green eyes of yours, Alfhild.
The contestants had started the day’s technical challenge by the time George and I arrived back at Whittle Inn. We’d travelled back in his battered silver Audi and the silence had stretched out between us. I didn’t feel the need to explain my ‘date’ with Alex, if that’s indeed what it was, to a man who had cheated on me with one of his co-workers.
But I understood that if George was going to be able to carry out his work properly, then I needed to bury the hatchet, and for now, that shouldn’t be in his skull.
Because the judges were barred from the tent while the contestants cooked, that meant that Raoul and Faery Kerry were hanging out in the bar. Charity had supplied them with some cups of tea, but they’d turned down a more substantial lunch on the grounds that within ninety minutes they would be required to blind taste the results of the contestants’ baking.
George paused at the entrance when he spotted them. “I fancy a little informal chat with our judges if we can wangle a way to do that. Guards down, that kind of thing.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “Give me a few minutes.” I disappeared into the kitchen to arrange a few of Florence’s cheesy profiteroles on a plate and then made my way back into the bar area.
“How is everything for you both?”
“Truly wonderful,” gushed Faery Kerry. She seemed such a lovely gentle woman, it was a shame that she’d been caught up in all the dastardly deeds going on.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked her, and Raoul smiled up at me with those magnetic citrus-green eyes of his.
“Not at all.” He half stood and I hurriedly sat down and placed the cheesy profiteroles in front of me.
“You have to try one of these,” I said. “In my opinion, these are amazing.” I offered the plate and both judges took one each, more out of politeness than a desire to actually eat anything I assumed.
“Who made them?” asked Raoul nibbling on the top of his.
I had to lie. If I told them Florence had made them it might have looked like I was trying to influence their decision making in her favour. “I did!”
“Well, they’re really very good.” Raoul finished his off and took another.
“I expect to see an application for Cake-Off from you next year,” Faery Kerry joked, and I laughed.
Never in a month of Sundays. There was no way this pair of judges would ever recover having sampled any cake I’d made. The horror would live with them forever.
I popped a cheesy profiterole into my own mouth and chewed ecstatically. They really were a taste sensation. If Florence didn’t win this series of The Great Witchy Cake Off I’d be very surprised.
“I think if I were judging these, I’d recommend using Roquefort cheese, for a hint of added tanginess. And maybe a little chervil…” Raoul Scurrysnood picked up another profiterole and turned it this way and that to get a better look at it from all angles.
“Mmm?” I swallowed. I didn’t agree but I thought better of challenging him. I filed his comment as one more reason to be suspicious of the man, while George picked that moment to walk over.
“I’m just about done here, Ms Daemonne,” he told me and nodded politely at Raoul and Faery Kerry.
“Excellent,” I said, and quickly held the plate with the remaining cheesy profiteroles out to him. “Why not take a seat and help us eat a few of these?”
“I really shouldn’t.” George played his part to perfection, pulling a chair out and sitting down before anyone could encourage him to leave. “There’s a pile of work waiting for me at the station.”
Faery Kerry nodded in sympathy. “Such wonderful work you all do. I have great admiration for the police.”
“Thank you,” said George and I thrust the plate closer to him. Yes, he’d just polished off a huge sandwich in the village but, right now, he needed to be acting the authentically hungry policeman, which he could do by eating even more. I sensed his reluctance as he took one of the pastry balls from the pile. “Yum.”
Served him right. I smiled.
“Are you any closer to knowing what happened to Janice?” Raoul asked.
“I’m working on a few leads. It is difficult. She was a very private person.” George took a mouthful of his profiterole. “Oh my goodness these are good. Did Florence make them?”
I kicked him under the table. “No,” I said firmly. “I did.”
George almost choked, and I kicked him again for good measure.
“Janice was a private person, that’s true. But always kind,” Faery Kerry was saying. “I can’t believe she ever upset anybody enough for them to want to murder her. So sad. I feel sure it must have been a random occurrence. Perhaps a thief?”
George nodded as though he was giving this notion serious consideration. “What do you think a thief might have been after in the Cake-Off tent, Ms Kerry?”
“Well I really don’t know.” The old faery looked confused by the question. “What do people like to steal these days?”
The Great Witchy Cake-Off Page 8